As she laced her trainers, Emma’s heart sank further. Poor Sophie. Why would anyone want to hurt her? It made no sense.
Tears welled up behind her sunglasses, but grief would have to wait; she needed to stay strong and clear-headed. The Nightshade pact between the families was there to keep the peace. Or that was what Emma hoped.
4
Emma sat in the back of a custom Rolls-Royce Phantom as it joined the line of traffic along Bloomsbury Street.
She gazed out of its darkened windows as the pedestrians bustled past, and pretended she knew where they were going—a middle-aged woman in a business suit, nose in the air, off to an important board meeting regarding a pending merger between competing shoelace manufacturers.
Next was a worker in concrete-splattered jeans and boots, a checked shirt and a high-vis jacket, with a hard hat tucked under his arm. His scowl suggested he was late for an eight-hour shift of peering into a hole in the road.
A little old lady with a blue rinse and a walking frame moved at half a mile an hour, but was actually a world-class assassin about to take out the person who invented selfie sticks.
And then there were all the other people, each absorbed with their important lives, oblivious to the underworld.
Bored with her game, Emma peered up at the grey sky and let out a slow breath. She often found London to be dirty, overcrowded, and stifling, like wearing a turtleneck sweater on a hot day. Sometimes the city, with its packed cosmopolitan streets of historical buildings interwoven with modern structures, felt familiar and cosy, but mostly she itched to leave, as though Emma would suffocate if she stayed a second longer.
No, she’d had enough of the city—not that Emma got to see much of it from the confines of her studio, and her parents’ security. Even so, Emma had vowed to leave as soon as she could, and now was her chance: her first opportunity to wriggle out from under her mother and father’s cast-iron blanket.
Emma edged forward on her seat. “Mac?”
Her ever-present bodyguard turned around. He was a Black American, six-two, athletic and lean, in his late fifties, but looked a decade younger. He wore a black shirt and a tie, with a dark pink tie clip.
Emma smiled at him. “Kennedy’s Coffee Shop, please.”
Neil, her driver, and number two on Emma’s security team, frowned into the rear-view mirror.
“We’re being followed?” Emma already knew the answer.
Mac squinted over her shoulder. “I’ll come in with you.”
“No, it’s fine.” Emma was used to being followed. She couldn’t remember a time when someone wasn’t looking at her or a member of her family through a set of binoculars. It was fine. They could watch. Emma wasn’t doing anything wrong. “I’ll be quick,” she said in response to Mac’s concerned expression. “Ten minutes at the most.” Emma wanted a hit of caffeine, plus a few moments to shake off her headache and dizziness before they left London.
Mac’s face softened. He knew how important Emma’s routine was to her. Besides, with Neil driving they’d still get to the farm in a little over an hour. Maybe less.
Neil pulled up outside Kennedy’s Coffee Shop, a faux-Victorian store with bay windows, green woodwork, and faded gold lettering.
Emma went inside, collected her order—black coffee with two sugars, along with a box of thirty donuts, then hunted for a perch.
As usual, prework rush-hour bodies packed the interior. There was no place to sit save for Kiddies Korner, a knee-height table with four plastic chairs.
A woman in her late thirties wore a long grey military coat with gold buttons and a multicoloured knitted scarf, and was already sat there, hunched over a sheet of paper with crayons scattered about her.
Emma set the box of donuts down, sat opposite the woman, and sipped her coffee. She tuned out the surrounding chatter and waited for the magic beans to kick in and clear the fog from her hungover brain. As the dizziness eased, she said, “Hey, Nightshade.”
Nightshade appraised a stick drawing of two girls with jet-black hair and aqua dresses, almost identical apart from their heights.
Emma grabbed a few crayons and began her own drawing: a sketch of the Statue of Liberty.
A man with a shaven head also sat down at the kiddie table. He looked to be in his fifties, with weather-beaten features, a crooked nose, and an ex-military vibe. He squirmed in the tiny plastic chair and then stared at Emma, which made her uncomfortable too.
She kept her hood up, sunglasses on, and continued with her drawing.
The man opened his mouth to say something, but Nightshade waved a hand at Emma. “Pass me those, would you?” She wore a pair of dark brown leather driving gloves.
Emma scooped up a jar of crayons. She leaned across the man and bumped him, almost making the guy spill his coffee. “Sorry.” Emma set the crayons in front of Nightshade.
“Thank you.”
The man held out a hand to Emma as she sat back. “I’m Gary.”
Emma didn’t react; years of experience had taught her not to shake hands with strangers. She glanced outside to see if Mac watched her from the car, but didn’t worry herself too much. She was in a crowded place where a moderately loud, well-practised scream would draw all eyes. Emma returned to her sketch.
“Try again.” Nightshade hunched over the desk and made motions as though she were scribbling across the top corner of the paper. “I said try again, mate.” Despite the use of the word mate, Nightshade had a posh accent, but a strong hint of South London still shone through.
The man kept his focus on Emma. “I don’t know what—”
“Yes, you do.” Nightshade sighed and looked up at him. She had deep-brown eyes, black tousled hair with a shock of pink running through it piled on top of her head, and a soft moon-shaped face. “You’re not Gary. You’re like a million miles from a Gary. Why did you choose that name?” Nightshade pursed her lips as she appraised him. “You could be an Eric or a Bill, but you’re definitely not a Gary.”
The man’s brow furrowed. “I am.”
“Your name is Detective Constable John Preacher.” Nightshade rested an elbow on the table and wagged a gloved finger at him. “You know full bloody well you’re trying to shake hands with Emma Greco. That’s the reason you’re here—attempting to get inside information on her family.” Her eyes narrowed and she looked him up and down. “I can see you’re a lying toerag by the way you’re sitting. Gary. Ha.”
Preacher opened his mouth to retort, but his gaze fell upon an open wallet on the other side of the table, which displayed his police badge and ID. He stared for a split second, then reached across and snatched it up. “You picked that from my coat pocket.”
Nightshade returned to her drawing of the two girls.
“We heard there’s been an incident,” the flustered Preacher said to Emma. “Do you know anything about that? What’s happened, and where?”
“Get lost, Gary,” Nightshade said in a tired voice.
Emma lifted her coffee cup to her mouth and hid a smirk.
Preacher glared at her, then got awkwardly to his feet and stormed off.
Nightshade watched him go, and then her gaze dropped to Emma’s Statue of Liberty drawing. “Sorry. Had to do it.” Across the corner of the page was a rubbing of the detective’s badge, and jotted underneath, in green crayon, were his name and warrant number. “Just in case you want to file a complaint with the Met.”
Emma grinned.
Nightshade eyed the box of donuts, smacked her lips, and winked.
As Neil drove out of Camden, Nightshade sat in the rear passenger seat, head tipped back and eyes closed, seeming not to have a care in the world. She wore an eclectic mix of items underneath her coat: a dark floral blouse, a ruffled skirt, purple leggings and hiking boots.
Between her and Emma lay the box of donuts, and the sugary smell made Emma’s stomach churn. She stared out of the window, gripped her knees, and rocked. Her anxiety built with every mile. I don’t want to go through it aga
in. Emma fought her subconscious’ twisted attempt to show her a gruesome death scene, and already regretted her decision to go.
Nightshade let out a dramatic sigh and massaged her temples. “Sophie’s dead, then.”
Emma swallowed the lump in her throat.
Nightshade opened one eye and peered at her. “Sorry, kid. That must be hard.”
Emma shrugged. But it was hard. Sophie had been more than her dad’s fiancée. They were friends. Sophie was a strong, determined, kind woman, fiercely intelligent, and someone who always made time for Emma. She’s gone. I can’t believe it.
Now both of Nightshade’s eyes focused on her. She scanned Emma from top to toe. “Are you up for this? We can figure out another way if it’s too difficult.”
“I’m fine.” A knot like a clenched fist tightened in the middle of Emma’s chest. There wasn’t any other way, and Nightshade knew it. She also knew how difficult this would be.
“Coffee woken you up yet?”
Emma glanced at the half-drained paper cup in the holder. “Almost.”
Nightshade waggled her eyebrows. “Water is wetter, but caffeine is better.”
Emma fought the urge to ask Neil to turn the car around.
Nightshade drummed her gloved fingers on her leg and nodded at the box of donuts. “Sharing is caring.”
“Mac?” Emma proffered the box.
“Dooonut?” Nightshade smacked her lips. “Sweet calorific goodness.”
“No, thanks.”
“Take one for Mr Driver,” Nightshade said. “We all know that donuts are the most important meal of the day.”
“I’m fine,” Neil said.
Emma returned the box to the seat, while Nightshade fished a metal slide-top tin from her coat pocket. Painted on the lid was a purple flower, and inside were thirty capsules—ten the same colour as the flower, ten red, and ten blue.
Nightshade held up a red one. “Wakey wakey. I must be in top form by the time we arrive at the scene.” She popped the pill into her mouth and made an exaggerated show of swallowing it.
Emma frowned at her. “Is that such a good idea?”
“Don’t worry, darling. They’re not heroin or,” she sniffed, “cocaina.” She swallowed a second pill with an equally extravagant display. “Anyway.” Nightshade nodded at the cup in Emma’s hands. “You’re drinking the world’s most widely consumed psychoactive drug.”
Emma sipped her coffee. “What are the pills for?”
“A secret combination of mind-alerting elements: chemical formulas of my invention. Nootropics. Taken me years to perfect.” Nightshade pointed at a red pill. “Sharpens my concentration. Everything comes into clear, vibrant resolution after I pop one of these beauties.” She motioned to a blue pill, crossed her eyes, and poked out her bottom lip. “These make me go bye-bye. Sleepy time. I call them my relaxatives.” Nightshade snapped the tin closed and slipped it back into her coat pocket.
“What do the purple ones do?” Emma knew full well that Nightshade had avoided mentioning them for some weird dramatic effect.
Sure enough, her companion tapped the side of her nose. “Those are for my enemies.” She tilted her head back, closed her eyes, and breathed deeply.
Emma peered at her over the top of her sunglasses and wondered if Nightshade had got the pill colours mixed up.
5
The Rolls-Royce approached the farmhouse on the brow of the hill. It looked picturesque, especially with its roof covered in snow. Its chimney sent a thin plume of bluish smoke skyward, and the house reminded Emma of an idyllic scene from a cheesy Christmas card.
Her phone rang with an incoming video call from Asher Hayes. Asher was her father’s underboss. Emma’s sister Alice had dated Asher’s son, and after their deaths, Emma and Asher’s daughter Olivia had grown close. United in darkness.
Now Sophie’s death would be hard on Asher too.
Emma took a breath, adjusted her sunglasses, and answered the phone. “Hey. How are you?”
Asher sat at Richard’s desk. He was in his fifties, with short-cropped red hair and a matching beard. “Not great.”
Emma sighed. “Yeah. I know.”
An oil painting hung on the office wall behind Asher: a Vettriano depicting a man and woman walking hand in hand along a beach, at the water’s edge. The guy had rolled his trouser legs up, while the woman lifted the hem of her dress to paddle.
Asher leaned forward. “I told your father I’d escort you into the warehouse.” His usually red cheeks were pale, his face drawn. “Where are you?”
“Almost there.”
Neil slowed the Rolls as they approached the guard hut. It stood empty, illuminated by a bare lightbulb.
Nightshade eyed the hut, then the open gate. “Don’t think much of their security.”
Parked alongside was an ex-postal van, its stickers long since removed, leaving sun-etched outlines.
On the video call, Asher stood up and grabbed his suit jacket from a coat stand.
Although Emma was aware of the farm warehouse’s existence and its true purpose, she hadn’t felt the need to visit, and had never thought she would. Emma made a point of steering clear of her parents’ businesses, which included any talk of them. The less she knew, the better.
Neil drove across the expanse of concrete and parked next to Richard’s Lamborghini Countach, also covered in a sheath of snow.
Nightshade whistled. “Sophie drove that here? In this morning’s weather?” Her eyes widened. “She was a brave girl. What the hell was so important?”
The sports car wouldn’t have been Emma’s first choice either. Not that she could drive. She’d never had the need to in London.
Asher left the office and strode along a narrow hallway flanked by doors, then across a compact lounge filled with white leather, mahogany, and polished granite, and down a short flight of steps. He eased into a woollen coat. “See you in a minute.” The display went dark.
Neil got out and opened Emma’s door.
“Thanks.” She climbed from the car and squinted through the snow flurries at the warehouse. Then her attention moved to five matching black BMWs parked nose to nose with a row of silver Mercedes. Next to them, a double-decker bus with darkened windows and matte-black bodywork stood in stark contrast to the snowy backdrop. The high-tech behemoth dominated the pale landscape.
Nightshade put her hands on her hips and stared up at it. “Are we expecting visitors? A guided tour of your mother’s warehouse?”
“Dad’s mobile office,” Emma said. “You should see the inside. Looks like an actual house.” She took a deep pull of the fresh morning air and tried to calm her churning stomach. “He likes to be in motion when he’s working.”
The door of the bus opened and Dalton, Richard’s six-foot-three security guard, pulled an umbrella from a hidden compartment.
As soon as the umbrella opened, Asher Hayes stepped from the customised double-decker bus, his polished shoes crunching ice underfoot. He was of stocky build and stood a few inches over five feet tall.
Emma hurried over to him, and they embraced. “How’s Dad?”
“Not good either. He’s in Maria’s warehouse with everyone else.”
Emma pulled back. “You know things are really bad when Mum and Dad are in the same room.”
Asher nodded. “Last time they were, all they did was scream at each other.”
At first, Emma thought Asher was referring to their divorce, but that was a long time ago. Her mother and father had reluctantly been in one another’s company several times since. Emma’s last birthday, for one. However, that’s where their obligations ended.
She frowned.
Asher glanced about and leaned in. “A while back, they did some kind of a deal. Richard didn’t tell me what, but he hit the roof when Maria backed out of it.”
Emma couldn’t imagine her parents exchanging more than a handful of words, let alone working together.
Neil lifted out a hard-shell neon-orange suit
case from the boot of the Rolls. He set it on the ground and extended the handle, then removed a black canvas holdall.
Nightshade winced, flexed her gloved fingers, and gestured Mac to the case. “Darling, would you mind?”
“I’ve got it.” Neil retrieved the box of donuts, balanced them on top, and grabbed the handle.
Nightshade tottered off toward the warehouse.
Emma lowered her sunglasses a fraction and scanned the building. She took in the deep-red brickwork, corrugated roof, and black guttering. An air vent sat high on the wall, along with a security camera on each corner of the warehouse, plus an alarm box. All was quiet save for the hum of far-off traffic.
Emma pushed her sunglasses back up her nose and followed Nightshade, Mac, Neil, and the others.
An imposing Black guy, over six feet tall, with cropped hair and an automatic weapon held across his torso, stood in front of a heavy steel door. Next to him was a nervous-looking Hispanic guard. Emma thought she recognised him, but couldn’t put a name to the face. He held up a device not much bigger than a scientific calculator, with an open loop at one end, a few buttons, and a display.
Mac waved him off. “We don’t have chips; we’re not part of either family.”
“Not true,” Nightshade said. “Emma technically belongs to both.”
The guard eyed Emma. “I know who you are, Miss Greco. I was told to expect you, but we still need at least one—”
“Here.” Asher Hayes pulled up his right-hand coat, suit jacket and shirt sleeves, revealing a stylised tattoo of a gladiator’s helmet on his forearm. The security guard ran the device over Asher’s tattoo and it beeped as it found the RFID chip embedded beneath the skin. He consulted the display and nodded.
The guard handed Emma and Asher a torch each. “Power’s out. Watch your step.” He opened the door.
“Stay behind me,” Mac said, and they went inside.
Death in London: A Nightshade Crime Thriller (Emma & Nightshade Mystery Series Book 1) Page 3
