“They? Who else is in there?”
The PA smiled politely then turned her attention to her computer screen. Her pulse racing, Emily hurried past the woman’s desk and down a short corridor, until she reached the Vice Chancellor’s door. She knocked once. A deep, rumbling voice told her to come in.
Vice Chancellor Eriksson was sitting behind a great oak desk. He was a large, imposing man who was in good shape, with thick blond hair and an expression that chilled Emily to the bone. Sitting in an armchair by the window was her lecturer, Bill Creed. If his presence wasn’t enough to convince Emily that she was in trouble, the man standing next to him hammered in the nails.
It was the man from Beaumont House.
He glared at Emily, who stopped still, her heart hammering in her chest.
“Please take a seat, Ms Swanson,” Vice Chancellor Eriksson said. He watched her silently move to the empty chair at the desk and sit down. “I don't believe we've had the pleasure of meeting before. Bill tells me good things about you. He says you'll make an excellent teacher.”
Across the room, Bill avoided Emily’s gaze.
“Unfortunately, we're not here to talk about your talents as a teacher.” Vice Chancellor Eriksson paused. It felt intentional, to make Emily feel more uncomfortable than she already did. “Do you know the gentleman by the window?”
Emily shot a glance at the man, who stared right back. She shook her head.
“This is Councillor Timothy Beaumont. He is quite a prominent figure both in local and national politics. He also happens to be a very generous philanthropist. He and Mrs Beaumont are heavily involved in several charities and fundraising events. Councillor Beaumont also makes a generous annual donation to this university.”
In the window, Councillor Beaumont remained motionless and stern.
Emily fixed her gaze on the desk. She could feel the men’s eyes boring into her innermost thoughts.
Vice Chancellor Eriksson continued. “Perhaps you could explain to us why you were trespassing at Councillor Beaumont’s home yesterday.”
Emily was silent, nausea churning her stomach. She was a twenty-two year old woman trapped in a room with three angry men, which surely was against university policy. But this meeting had been set up for a reason. And that reason could only be to silence her. The question was: why?
She stared at Vice Chancellor Eriksson and their eyes locked across the desk. Emily fought the urge to look away.
“I'm assuming the reason we’re here is because you’ve talked to PC Andrews,” she said, finding her voice at last, although it was no more than a whisper. “So you’ll already know the answer to your question.”
A smile teased the corner of Vice Chancellor Eriksson's mouth.
Across the room, Bill Creed cleared his throat. “Emily, I need to explain something. I feel I haven’t been entirely honest with you.”
Emily crossed her arms over her chest, which did little to help her constricted breathing.
“As you recently learned,” Bill continued, shifting in his seat, “Becky had stopped attending her teaching placement. I was concerned, so I asked her to come see me. Which she did.”
Emily stared at him. “You told me you couldn’t get hold of her.”
“I did and I’m sorry. But that was before I’d learned she was missing.” The young lecturer pulled at his tie. “I spoke to Becky, voicing my concerns. She admitted she was experiencing financial difficulties. She told me she receives no support from her family, and with the soaring rate of university fees the stress was taking its toll. She was falling further and further behind with her studies, to the point she was questioning if she should continue.
“We talked about finding work, but with the amount of catching up she had to do, there was little time to fit in a part-time job that would inevitably pay a minimum wage. That's when I suggested working for Tim – for Councillor Beaumont and his wife.”
Emily’s mouth fell open. If Bill was telling the truth, she had just learned more about Becky in two minutes than in an entire year of living with her. But was it true? For someone who had been suffering financial hardship, Becky certainly seemed able to afford a busy social life. Lately, she'd barely spent an evening at home. And what about the drugs? Emily assumed they didn’t come free.
“Councillor Beaumont's wife is a good friend of my mother's,” Bill continued. “I knew the Beaumonts were looking for help with their daughter, Delia, and so I put Becky in touch with them. Delia is autistic. I thought with Becky’s teaching skills she would be a suitable candidate. I also knew she would be paid very well. At the time, it seemed like the perfect match.” Bill pulled at his tie again. “The reason I couldn’t tell you this before is because Councillor Beaumont is an important man with access to classified government information. Becky was required to sign a non-disclosure agreement, forbidding her to tell people who she was working for.”
Emily’s gaze switched from Bill to Councillor Beaumont. She recalled the way he had handled his daughter, which seemed even more abhorrent now that she had learned about Delia's needs.
“Things started well,” Bill said. “Delia and Becky had a good rapport. Sara – Mrs Beaumont – was pleased with the level of support and empathy Becky offered. In turn, Becky was financially better off. I spoke to the headteacher at her teaching placement on her behalf, and given the circumstances, they were happy for her to return so long as she showed a willing commitment. Things seem to be getting back on track for Becky... Until about a month ago.”
Councillor Beaumont cleared his throat.
“Rebecca began to miss tutoring sessions,” he said, his voice filled with confidence borne from years of public speaking. “I don't know how much you are aware about autism, Ms Swanson, but routine and predictability are both crucial elements needed to keep everyone involved happy. The first time that Rebecca missed a session, Delia was upset. When Delia becomes upset it can take a long time to calm her. It's very stressful for everyone. If I had been solely responsible for Rebecca's employment, I would have terminated her contract immediately. But my wife is far more forgiving than I.
“When Rebecca called later that day, she was deeply apologetic, explaining there had been some sort of family crisis. She had been very reliable up until then, so we gave her a second chance. But it all quickly went downhill. She would show up frequently late. Then she stopped coming altogether. She wouldn’t reply to my wife's calls. Delia became increasingly difficult. We contacted Bill, who told us Rebecca had all but abandoned her studies, and so my wife began to interview prospective new tutors. We didn’t expect to hear from Rebecca again. But on Sunday evening, there she was, standing on our doorstep.”
Councillor Beaumont’s eyes darkened. “She wanted money. A temporary loan that she promised to pay back as soon as she could. My wife and I were both shocked. It had to be some sort of joke. But Rebecca didn’t look well. She’d lost weight and she was terribly pale. My wife suspected some sort of substance abuse. But Rebecca told us she was leaving and the money was to help her get home. She said she had no one else she could ask. No one else to turn to. And I suppose, knowing that we were financially comfortable and of a charitable nature, she assumed we would help.”
Emily stared at him, a frown creasing her brow. “How much money did she ask to borrow?”
“I didn’t give her a chance to say. The girl could not be relied upon to show up for paid employment, so how could I expect her to repay a loan? Besides, I'm not in the habit of funding drug addiction.”
“You don't know that Becky has a drug habit,” Emily said.
“And yet, we've learned that she travelled to our house with a known drug dealer, giving him our location. No, I wasn’t about to lend money to a dropout who frequents with known criminals.” He glanced across at Vice Chancellor Eriksson. “Perhaps I behaved rashly that night. My wife certainly thought so. She gave Rebecca fifty pounds for the train fare and called a cab to take her to the station. My wife waited with Rebecc
a until it arrived. We didn't see her again.”
Emily leaned forward. “And you didn't think to find out what kind of trouble she was in?”
Councillor Beaumont stared at her, open-mouthed.
“What about the taxi?” Emily directed the question at Bill. “Do we know where it actually took her?”
Across the desk, Vice Chancellor Eriksson narrowed his eyes. “Ms Swanson, we are not gathered here for you to conduct an interrogation. Quite the opposite, in fact. Trespass. Allegations of abuse. Insinuations that somehow Councillor Beaumont and Bill had something to do with Miss Briar’s disappearance.” He glared at Emily. She glared back. “The truth is that Rebecca developed a drug habit, leading her to abandon her studies and fall in with unscrupulous characters. Clearly, she’s been caught up in some sort of trouble and has taken the next train out of town.”
“Becky told Councillor Beaumont she was going home,” Emily insisted. “She didn’t make it.”
“She lied. A ruse to convince them to give her money.”
Emily was trembling now. But not with fear.
“You may believe that Rebecca is in some kind of peril,” Eriksson said, “but facts are facts. As PC Andrews’ report concludes, Rebecca Briar is missing by choice. As an adult, she has a legal right to disappear. And that is exactly what she’s chosen to do.”
Emily stared from man to man.
“PC Andrews’ report?” she breathed.
13
SHE HAD ALREADY passed the kitchen and the first of the three corridors, almost falling into its fathomless, hungry mouth. For ten terrifying seconds, she had lost touch with the wall and wandered blindly in the dark, left leg lurching beneath her. Only when her fingers glanced against brickwork had she come close to feeling safe again.
Now, as Becky pushed onward, panic resumed control. She was growing more and more tired. It wouldn’t be long before her body gave up completely.
Her fingers slid off the wall and swept through empty space. She stumbled forward, pain punctuating every step. Corridor number two. Reaching her hand out in front, she shortened her already minuscule stride and shuffled forward a few inches at a time. The wall came up to meet her.
The dripping she had imagined earlier was still present, growing louder with each step forward. If she didn’t hurry, she would lose her mind before she reached the ladder.
“Come on,” she gasped, her throat as dry as old parchment. “Almost ... there.”
She staggered on, barely moving faster than a child learning to crawl. Beneath her fingertips, the wall grew slick and mossy.
A few more steps. The dripping grew even louder, coming from somewhere up ahead.
Keep it together! You’re almost there.
Cold crept up from the ground. It seeped through the wall and into her fingers. Becky froze. Something brushed her legs, cold and subtle. A breeze. She brought her fingers to her nose and breathed in damp and must, like earth after rain. Then she ran her fingers along her cracked lips and tasted moisture.
You’ve lost your mind.
She shuffled forward. The pain in her ankle was beginning to numb. She didn’t know if that was good or bad.
One more step, you can do it!
Her fingers slipped through moss and slime. The wall disappeared. Becky stumbled into black, fathomless space.
She had made it.
She stood, teetering unsteadily, left arm hanging limply by her side. The sounds of splashing water were louder than ever. And there was that tingling sensation on her legs again; cold and brisk like a night-time chill.
Except it wasn’t night-time.
Becky turned ninety degrees. Halfway down the corridor, a steel ladder was illuminated in a vertical shaft of blinding light. Water dripped from rung to rung, pooling on the floor.
Becky stared at the ladder. Her eyelids drooped. She staggered forward. With each step the ladder seemed to move further away.
She inched closer.
Something was lying on the ground at the edge of the light. A shoe.
Her shoe.
Confused, she stared down at her feet. Light spilled over the toes of her bare right foot.
Had she been hobbling around this whole time with one shoe on, one shoe off? Why was her shoe here by the ladder?
Her mind swirled like a kaleidoscope.
This was where she had been thrown down. Did that mean she’d been lying unconscious by the exit the whole time? Had she imagined the last hours, or had she woken up and wandered off into the darkness before blacking out once more?
She stared at the shoe, then at her feet.
The shoe isn’t real. The water running down the ladder isn’t real.
She didn’t like how she was feeling. She didn’t like the way her thoughts no longer made sense.
The ladder.
She inched towards it. Three more steps. Two.
Becky stood before it. She stared up and was blinded by light. Water splashed on her skin, cold and wet. It felt heavenly. She didn’t know what was real and what was in her mind. And she no longer cared.
Plunging forward, she wrapped her arm around the ladder and brought her lips to the closest rung. Slurping loudly, she sucked up water, then she tipped her head back and opened her mouth, letting the water rain in.
She felt like a flower being brought back to life.
Minutes passed. Becky drank and drank. The ladder felt real. The water running down the back of her throat felt real. More than that, it felt alive. Overwhelmed, Becky felt the urge to cry, but she resisted; her body needed to keep the water inside.
When she could drink no more, she clung to the ladder and peered up into the light. About ten feet above her head there was a hatch. The hatch door hadn’t been sealed properly, letting light and water seep in.
It was daylight, Becky realised. Her way out.
She thought about crying for help. But instead, she listened. No sounds came from above. No voices. No car engines. Only the splash of water hitting metal.
Wherever she was, it was remote. But Becky couldn’t think about that right now. There was a much greater problem standing between her and freedom; one that she was increasingly unsure she could solve.
The ladder.
It’s impossible, a voice whispered in her ear. Come back to the dark. You can sleep and dream.
Becky shook her head, sending shock waves of pain through her skull. The voice stopped whispering.
“You can do this,” she whispered.
Shutting her eyes, she gripped the ladder with her good hand and lifted her bad foot onto the bottom rung. Now all she had to do was transfer her body weight onto that foot and hoist herself off the ground.
Sucking in a deep, painful breath, Becky pulled herself up. Weight crashed down on her ankle. A lightning bolt of pain shot through it and up to her jaw, making her teeth smash together. Her vision flashed yellow, then red. She hung there for a second, blinking away white spots and splashes of water. Then looked down.
Her feet were on the bottom rung. She stared up at the hatch, into the white light. This was how she was going to do it. One rung at a time.
Leaning against the ladder, she reached up with her hand.
“You can do this,” she insisted. “You can.”
Carefully lifting her injured foot, Becky clenched her jaw and hauled herself up.
This time, the pain was blinding.
14
ANGER BUBBLED IN the pit of Emily’s stomach as she exited the admin building and stalked through the network of grey buildings, making her way towards the quad. Vice Chancellor Eriksson’s words played on repeat in her mind.
“You’re lucky Councillor Beaumont isn’t pressing charges against you for trespassing on private property, even though he’s well within his rights. And what about Bill? Here he is championing you while you accuse him of being involved in Miss Briar’s disappearance. I will not have his good name or this university’s excellent reputation tarnished by rumours and fanciful
ideas based on wild accusations.”
Reaching the quad, Emily pushed her way through groups of milling students. Where was she even going? She should return home, take a hot bath and calm down. Then she should study. Her final exams were just days away.
Becky is still missing.
Something had felt wrong in the Vice Chancellor’s office. Why had the three men felt it necessary to band together like that? Wouldn’t a stern warning from the Vice Chancellor alone be enough to chastise a wayward student? The meeting felt deliberate, as if the men had discussed the most effective way to put an end to Emily’s interference. What were they so worried about?
Emily ground to a halt. Not one of those men — not even Bill Creed — had expressed concern about Becky’s whereabouts. Even if she had run away, didn’t they care about the wellbeing of a vulnerable young woman?
The more she thought about it, the more she felt something was wrong. She’d sensed it in the way the men had stood so deliberately apart, forming a wall around her; in the nervous glances Bill Creed had fired in Vice Chancellor Eriksson’s direction. In the way Eriksson’s left eye had twitched at the mention of drug dealers.
And what was all that about PC Andrews’ report? She wondered what the police officer would have to say about the little ‘meeting’ she’d just been subjected to.
Heading towards the campus gates, Emily pulled out her phone and called the police station. A moment later, Andrews came on the line.
“Emily? Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” she said through clenched teeth.
“You don’t sound fine.”
An angry tear slipped from her eye, which she swatted away. “I’ve just had a very interesting meeting with Vice Chancellor Eriksson, Bill Creed, and Councillor Beaumont. But I’m sure you already know about that.”
The line went quiet. Emily marched through the campus gates.
Wish Me Dead Page 5
