“Darling, you know why I’m asking you to do this over everybody else.” Nightshade’s tone softened. “You have a gift. Use it, I say. What are you frightened of?”
“It is not a gift,” Emma muttered. “It might seem like that to you, but I think it’s a curse.” She lifted her chin. “And I'm not frightened. It's just . . . overwhelming.”
Besides, what Emma feared was spiralling out of control. She avoided triggers as much as possible, and here they were, standing in a room with the biggest one of all: Sophie’s dead body.
Nightshade moved toward Emma, hands outstretched. “Let me help you, darling. We’ll help each other. I’ll be right by your side, and we will learn to manage your ability together. Your skills, coupled with my cold hard reasoning, will make us unstoppable.” She smiled. “It is a superpower. You know that, right?”
Emma shook her head.
“I’m not here to force you, only encourage.” Although, a hint of disappointment crept into Nightshade’s voice. “You’re in control of your own destiny.” She circled the table. “Not to put any undue pressure on you, but no one else will spot all those minute details that could easily be overlooked and would lead to the swift resolution of this mystery.” She glanced up at Emma. “It’s another reason why Maria asked you to come here. Not to mention that you promised your father I’d find the killer. I can’t do that without you.”
She had Emma there.
Damn it.
And with her promise came the added pressure of Emma’s mother’s vow to let her go to America.
Nightshade waved a hand in the air. “May I add one more thing?”
Emma’s eyebrows pulled together. “What?”
“With practise will come the ability to control,” Nightshade said. “We can work on that, too.”
“I’ll never forget though,” Emma murmured.
“Sure you will.” Nightshade winked. “Now get on with it.”
Emma glared at her, then took a deep breath, lowered her hood, and removed her sunglasses. She squinted as pain stabbed at her retinas. “Can we turn the lights down, please? They’re too bright.”
Nightshade looked at the switches next to the door. “Sorry, darling. No can do. Off and on only.”
Body tensed, shoulders stiff, every muscle reluctant to move, Emma faced Sophie’s body.
Nightshade walked over to her. “What do you see?”
Emma gabbled as images poured into her mind, hoping to get it all out before it overwhelmed her. “Stiletto shoes with cream soles, Jimmy Choo London, made in Italy, gloss red, splash of mud on the right toe. Reflections of the room: shelves, overhead lights, fluorescent strips, bright, white, electricity. No.” She bit her lip, pushing the focus away from the reflections and back to Sophie. “Nude tights snagged near left ankle, probably done as she climbed out of the car. Maroon ball gown, damp along the hem from the snow, chiffon and lace, hand-stitched gold embroidery, phoenix with spread wings, flowers, quarter-of-an-inch spot of darker red on the waistband: dried blood.”
Emma took a quick breath, trying not to think too much about that last part. “Greco family tattoo on the inside of her right wrist—a gladiator’s helmet. It’s inked over the top of a faded tribal sun.” Emma’s brow furrowed. “Sophie’s tattoo has an X on it, though.” She leaned in. “Not sure what that means. The ink is blue, not black. Looks fresh.”
“We’ll ask someone later,” Nightshade said. “You’re doing great.”
Emma took another breath. “Gold necklace with a dragon pendant, diamonds for eyes: a birthday present from my father.” A snapshot from two years ago sprang forward—the party, Sophie opening the velvet box surrounded by friends and family. Smiling. Happy. Emma shoved that memory aside and continued. “Cluster of three moles near Sophie’s left collarbone, another spot of dried blood below them.” Emma squeezed her eyes closed, pulled in lungfuls of air, and fought the urge to vomit.
Sophie was dead. She couldn’t get over it.
“You are doing marvellously, darling,” Nightshade breathed. “Keep going.”
Emma ground her teeth. She didn’t want to keep going. She wanted to run from the room.
“Smell?” Nightshade asked.
Oh no.
“Please. It’s important.”
Emma winced at the first tingle of a migraine. “It hurts.”
“I know. And for that I am truly sorry. It’s overwhelming and uncomfortable. I understand . . . What do you smell?”
With her eyes closed, Emma gave the room a tentative sniff, but all she got was the overpowering scent of cleaning supplies. She shook her head. “Nothing.”
“Get closer.”
“No.”
“Please.”
Back ramrod straight, Emma peered through narrow-slitted eyes. The brightness of the harsh lights hurt. She shut her eyes again.
“Please keep trying, darling.”
Emma grumbled under her breath, lifted one eyelid a fraction of an inch, took a reluctant step, and another, and leaned down until her face was next to Sophie’s. Now she inhaled other scents. “Perfume, not sure which. Floral, rose, I don’t know. Geranium?”
“Anything else?”
Emma sniffed again. “Something metallic. Iron?” Her stomach tightened to a ball. “Blood.”
“Any hints of a man’s aftershave?” Nightshade pressed. “That’s what we’re after. Do you detect anyone else?”
Emma inhaled one more time. “No.” She straightened up and stared at the blank wall to try and cleanse her memory, but it didn’t work. A minute went by as Emma fought to push the cold, rotting body out of her mind.
Still wanting to get the ordeal over with, she then looked at Sophie’s face. “Oh.” Emma clapped a hand over her mouth and her legs trembled. “Sophie . . .” Being this close to her made the loss a million times worse. Emma couldn’t accept that someone so vibrant and full of life could be dead.
“What do you see?” Nightshade asked in a voice that remained soft, but with a distinct undertone of impatience.
Emma shook herself. “Makeup: foundation, eyeliner, green eyeshadow, concealed mole next to her right nostril, covered spot on her chin. Brown eyes: glazed, lifeless, bloodshot.” She swallowed. “Bullet hole in her forehead. Dark.” She cursed herself for agreeing to this horrendous task, and moved upward. “Long black hair held in place with a gold comb.” Emma remembered Sophie once saying it was her great-great-grandmother’s, passed down through generations of her family. Bile rose into Emma’s throat and she looked away.
“You’re doing great,” Nightshade said. “I’m so proud of you. Do you see anything unusual?”
Emma glared at her. “You mean apart from the bullet hole in the middle of Sophie’s forehead?”
“Yes. Apart from that.”
“No. Can we go now?”
“Not until you’ve examined the body thoroughly. We mustn’t miss any clues.”
The door opened and Maria walked in. “The lorry is almost here.”
Emma stepped back. “I need a break.” She pulled up her hood, slipped on her sunglasses, and an instant wave of relief washed over her as the world dialed down a notch or two. She turned to leave when Maria stopped her.
“It’s the crate,” Maria murmured. “Well, what’s in it, to be precise. I need to warn you.” She took Emma’s arm and led her away from the door. “It’s something I stole from your father.”
Emma pulled herself free. “Are you crazy?”
Maria gave her a hard stare. “It’s complicated, Emma.”
Nightshade folded her arms. “This should be interesting.”
9
Emma glared at her mother. “What do you mean, you stole something from Dad? What did you take?”
Maria shrugged. “Not exactly from him. Or not directly. I acquired it from one of his tenants.”
Emma’s eyebrows rose above her sunglasses.
“Your father’s renters pay him for protection,” Maria continued. “That inclu
des their belongings.” She glanced at the door and kept her voice low. “It’s an insurance policy. All the items in Richard’s buildings are his responsibility; it’s part of the tenants’ unofficial lease agreement.”
Emma grimaced, not wanting to ask any more questions than necessary, and she gave Nightshade a hard look, warning her not to ask either.
Nightshade had an amused expression on her face. “Please go on. This is good stuff.”
Emma rolled her eyes.
Maria gazed at Sophie’s body for a few seconds, then looked away. “A couple of months ago, Richard asked us to appraise some Egyptian antiquities for his most important tenant, Mr Chen. We agreed, and I went along with Ruby to oversee the valuations.” She clasped her hands together. “While we were there, we peeked inside Mr Chen’s office without him knowing. That’s when Ruby and I spotted an impossible artifact.”
“Ruby’s your resident appraiser?” Nightshade asked.
“Warehouse manager,” Maria said.
Emma frowned at her mother. “What do you mean, an impossible artifact?”
“To have an item of such importance in his private collection.” Maria shook her head. “And in London, no less. I have no idea how Mr Chen smuggled it out of China. Martin was impressed too.”
Emma huffed. “Mum, can you please get to the point?”
“We learned that Mr Chen was about to move his entire collection to one of Richard’s new penthouses a few streets away. That was an opportunity we couldn’t pass up.”
Emma pinched the bridge of her nose as she guessed what was coming.
Nightshade grinned.
“Our team raided one of the removal vans and arranged a buyer for the contents of the crate straight away.” Maria glanced at the door again. “The artifact was to be here less than a day before leaving for Scotland.” She sighed. “It was a perfect heist. Snatch, grab, sell: a clean getaway. Your father need never have known.”
Emma shook her head as she struggled to believe what she was hearing. “How would Dad not find out?” Her father had a special ability to discover this type of betrayal. Now there’d be hell to pay.
Maria gave Emma a wry smile. “The artifact is something that Mr Chen would not want to shout about, even when it was taken from him.”
Emma glanced at Nightshade, then back to her mother. “So, what is it?”
“You’re about to see for yourself.” Maria gestured to the door. “But we have a problem: Richard.”
“He’ll recognise the artifact?” Nightshade asked.
“No doubt.”
“Right. Leave it to me.” Emma stormed back into the main warehouse. Her father leaned against a workbench, arms folded, head bowed, and stared at the floor.
“Dad?”
His bloodshot eyes met hers, his face drawn and pale.
“Can you wait in your bus?” Emma asked in a relaxed tone, while still trying to sound firm. “We’re going to be investigating for a while.” She held her breath.
“I’m staying.” Richard glared at Jacob.
“And that is exactly why we need you to leave,” Nightshade said as she walked in. “You’re destroying the sanctity of our line of enquiry.”
Richard’s expression hardened. “Do you have—”
“We’ll come and get you as soon as we have any information,” Emma said. “Dad, please. You’re tired. Go and rest. Have a drink. There’s nothing you can do here.”
Richard hesitated for a few seconds, then his face softened, and he traipsed out. Dalton and a couple of his remaining men followed him.
A series of loud bangs on the outside of the roller door made Emma spin around.
Maria marched past.
Nightshade tugged at her gloves. “It would seem that we are now going to discover what all the fuss is about, and why someone saw fit to murder our sweet Princess Sophie.”
Raul typed a code into a security panel and opened the roller door. Sure enough, a lorry had backed up to it, and a portly driver waited. With a nod from Maria, he unfastened the padlock on the lorry’s door.
“Hold up.” Nightshade hurried over to him, with Emma close behind. “Have you opened this truck since you left here earlier today?”
“Nope.”
“And you didn’t stop anywhere? Not even for a coffee or a pee?”
The driver shook his head.
“The door remained padlocked this whole time?” Nightshade persisted. “It’s important. No fibbing. You’re certain about that?”
The driver glowered at her. “Positive.”
Nightshade turned to Francesca Rossi, who now stood closest to them, and said in a stage whisper, “Do you have a gun?”
Francesca scowled. “I’m an accountant.”
Emma murmured to Nightshade, “Do you think the killer is in the back of the truck?”
“I do hope so.” Nightshade flexed her fingers, and the glove leather creaked. “That would solve our mystery nicely.”
Mac pulled a Glock from under his jacket. “I’ve got it covered. Keep back.”
Neil did the same.
Emma and Nightshade stepped aside, and Mac gestured for the driver to continue.
Emma braced herself, ready for someone to leap out as he opened the back of the lorry, but nothing happened. She sighed, relieved but also disappointed.
With Mac covering him, Neil climbed into the truck, gun raised, and crept between the boxes and crates. A minute later he holstered his gun and jumped down. “All clear.”
Emma’s shoulders sagged. Where is Sophie’s murderer, if not in the lorry? How did they escape? A shiver ran down her spine. Is Nightshade right? Is the killer among us: a family member?
“Bring the crate inside.” Nightshade waved everyone out of the way.
Under Mac’s watchful gaze, the driver used a pallet truck to edge the wooden crate onto the tail lift, and once it had reached the ground, he wheeled the crate into the warehouse loading bay.
“Go and sit in there,” Maria told him, pointing at the lorry cab. “Do not leave unless I say so. Take a nap or something.”
Once the driver had gone, Raul closed the roller door. “I don’t see what this crate has to do with Sophie’s murder.”
“At the moment, I believe it has everything to do with it.” Nightshade’s attention moved to the corner of the room. “Oh Ja-cob,” she called.
He jerked upright.
Nightshade nodded at an electric screwdriver on the nearest workbench. “Would you be so kind? You’re the perfect man for the job.” She inclined her head. “Seeing as you’ve already had experience opening this particular crate.”
He trudged over to them, head bowed, not making eye contact.
Emma chewed her lip, eager to know what artifact had been so important that Sophie had risked her, and the baby’s, life to see it. And how had she known about the artifact in the first place? Had someone in the Hernandez family leaked information? Who? Jacob? After all, he’d let Sophie into the building. There was no other obvious explanation. But why? Clearly, all this must have crossed Emma’s parents’ minds too—Jacob was lucky to be alive.
Under everyone’s glare, he fumbled with the screws, and once done with them, Jacob lifted the front of the crate out of the way.
Emma’s jaw dropped. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Nightshade’s eyes widened. “Huh. Now that’s something.”
10
A terracotta warrior, one of the most recognisable pieces of funerary art in the world, stood inside the crate.
The sculpture was a little over six feet tall, with armour fashioned from clay. One hand remained open by his side, the other at a right-angle, grasping something long since gone: probably a staff or a spear.
Emma continued to stare over her sunglasses. How the hell has someone stolen one of these? If the Chinese government finds out, the scandal will reverberate around the globe.
Terracotta warriors toured from time to time, loaned to various museums in differe
nt parts of the world. Is this one of those? Emma hadn’t heard of anybody stealing one, which would have been international news.
She frowned at it. “Wait.”
“It’s incredible,” Nightshade breathed.
“It’s fake.” Emma stepped toward the warrior and dropped to one knee.
All eyes moved to her.
“It is not a fake,” Maria said. “Ruby examined it in Mr Chen’s office.”
“Then why is it like this?” Before anyone could stop her, Emma took hold of the base with both hands.
“What the hell are you doing?” Maria rushed forward.
Emma waved her off. “Check out his feet. I doubt real terracotta warriors have join lines down each side. It’s a cast of the original. And watch this.” With some effort, Emma swung the front of the statue outward, dividing it down the middle and revealing a full-height cavity within.
Everyone stared.
“Now we know how our perpetrator gained access to the warehouse.” Nightshade examined the interior. “They smuggled themselves in this.”
“And now we also know why Sophie was here.” Emma stood up and brushed clay dust from her hands. “Her grandfather was Chinese. She was fascinated with the culture.” Emma breathed a sigh of relief. The statue being a fake meant less heat when her father found out. She glanced at her mother and expected a similar reaction.
The colour drained from Maria’s face. Her legs wobbled, and Raul caught her under the arms.
“Mum.” Emma hurried over to her. “What is it? What’s wrong?” She’d never seen her mother so distraught.
Maria swallowed. “Trouble. Big trouble. We didn’t think to check the crate. We were in a rush.” She swore under her breath, then called for Carlos.
He hurried to her side.
“Keep trying to get hold of Martin and Ruby,” Maria said.
Carlos pulled his phone from his pocket and walked away.
Emma tried again to ask her mother what had made her so upset, and what she meant by big trouble, but once Maria had composed herself, she marched across the warehouse without a backward glance.
Death in London: A Nightshade Crime Thriller (Emma & Nightshade Mystery Series Book 1) Page 6
