Death in London: A Nightshade Crime Thriller (Emma & Nightshade Mystery Series Book 1)

by Peter Jay Black

  Emma dove beneath the freezing water again and cut the tape holding her father to the chair. When she returned to the surface, he grabbed her arm, but winced with pain. “Are you hurt?”

  “I’m fine,” Emma panted. Her eyes moved to his bullet wound, and she helped her father swim to the edge of the pool.

  With Maria’s help, they climbed out.

  Richard lay on the floor, breathless.

  Maria checked his wound and applied pressure.

  Richard’s eyes moved to his ex-wife’s. “We have a lot to discuss.”

  Emma glanced between them. “Is any of it true?” she asked. “What Olivia said? You had Liam killed?”

  Richard shook his head.

  “Press here,” Maria said to him, and then she stood. “I’ll call for help.” She hurried from the pool house.

  Once sure her father was going to be okay, barring hypothermia and bleeding to death, Emma rushed to Nightshade and knelt beside her. She was alive: her chest rose and fell. Emma was about to wake her when the laptop on the upended crate drew her attention. The green light in the bezel glowed, but as she stood up, it went out.

  Then Emma’s gaze moved to Olivia’s phone. On it was the email with the details about what had really happened to Alice. Emma snatched it up, but the phone was now broken: screen cracked, no power. She roared, threw it at the wall, and instantly regretted it.

  Emma ran to the phone and snatched it up again. Maybe it can be repaired. Someone might be able to crack the passcode . . . She shoved it into her pocket and was about to run and get Neil when Olivia groaned.

  Rage tore through Emma, and before she had time to think clearly, she grabbed the gun and marched over to her.

  She aimed the pistol at Olivia’s head. “These violent delights have violent ends . . .”

  46

  One Day Later

  Emma and Nightshade followed Maria along the tunnel under the warehouse and through the secret basement room.

  “I don’t understand why we’re here.” Maria opened the vault door. “We should hunt for the casket. Asher and Olivia could have hidden it anywhere.”

  “It’s not just anywhere,” Nightshade said.

  The three of them stepped inside and stood around the table with the dragons carved into the legs and apron.

  Nightshade faced Emma. “You remember your uncle’s designs of magic tricks?”

  “Of course.” Emma pictured the various blueprints sprawled across Uncle Martin’s table. “A box with a saw, a grandfather clock, plus a—” She gasped and looked down at the table. “No way.”

  “What?” Maria said.

  “It’s the same one.” Emma shook her head. “Why didn’t I realise?”

  “Did you bring it?” Nightshade asked Maria.

  “The—? Oh, yes. It was in Martin’s desk drawer, like you said.” Maria held up the white remote control with the image of a dragon stencilled onto it.

  Nightshade smiled. “Press that green button.”

  Maria did and the middle section of the table flipped over to reveal a secret compartment holding an oak casket. Her eyes widened. “You have got to be kidding me. It was here all along?”

  The casket was carved with musicians, harps, lutes and drums. Performers stood on a stage, scripts in hand, gesticulating.

  “There was no robbery,” Nightshade said. “We were wrong.” She tugged at her gloves. “We assumed that with Martin and Ruby both missing, the plan was to steal the casket, but Sophie was the sole target all along. Everything else was subterfuge and misunderstanding.”

  Emma frowned. “I don’t get it.”

  “Martin must have either suspected someone might steal the casket,” Nightshade looked at Maria, “or he was concerned about your deal with the Volinari and took an extra security measure.” She waved a hand to the basement room. “From out there, he could activate the trick table, making it appear the vault was empty.”

  “That’s why he insisted we put this table in here,” Maria said in a whisper.

  They stood in silence for a minute as that sank in.

  Finally, Emma spoke. “One thing that’s been bothering me—if it was Olivia and not Asher who hid inside the statue and waited for Sophie, then how did she escape?”

  “I suspect she was in the Lamborghini when we arrived at the warehouse,” Nightshade said. “Even without a fortuitous covering of snow, Olivia was petite enough to curl up in the footwell. Maybe she pulled a blanket over herself to ensure no one spotted her.”

  Emma smacked her forehead. “If only we’d looked in the car.”

  “And then Asher volunteered to drive her out of here,” Nightshade said. “Risky, but clever.”

  Emma stared at the casket. “What makes this thing so important?”

  Maria unfastened the side of the Droeshout casket and swung it down. She reached in and slid out an ancient leather-bound book, around nine inches by fourteen.

  Nightshade leaned in and studied it. “Shakespeare’s First Folio.” She shook her head. “Among the rarest books in the world.”

  “This one is the rarest,” Maria said. “Gifted to Martin Droeshout himself in recognition of his contribution.” She turned to a title page with a portrait. “Droeshout’s engraving. One of only two accurate posthumous likenesses of Shakespeare known to exist.”

  “Shakespeare,” Emma murmured. “Romeo and Juliet. This casket. Martin Droeshout.” She looked at Nightshade. “It can’t be a coincidence. How did Asher and Olivia know?”

  “This is an assumption with no direct evidence, but I believe the Volinari had a hand in the recent events.” Nightshade turned to Maria. “I suggest you give them back what you owe and tell them to get lost.”

  “I can’t do that,” Maria said. “I’ll need to find something else the Volinari want in exchange for information on Alice.”

  “No, Mum.” Emma held up Olivia’s broken phone. “We have this now. You must know someone who can help us crack the passcode.”

  Maria shrugged. “But the Volinar—”

  “Enough with the Volinari.” Emma sighed. “Please, Mum. Now we know for sure that Alice didn’t jump from the cruise ship, we’ll find another way to get to the truth.”

  “An excellent suggestion,” Nightshade said. “Well, if that’s all . . .” She bowed, then marched out of the vault.

  Emma ran to catch up with her. “Wait. There’s something else.”

  Nightshade turned back.

  “The laptop at the swimming pool,” Emma said. “It was open, with the webcam on. Someone was watching us.”

  Nightshade nodded. “The entire day, I would assume. The camera on the shelves in the warehouse. The CCTV cameras at the National Portrait Gallery, of course, and the Café in the Crypt, and then Olivia’s photographs.”

  Emma thought back. “Traffic cameras,” she said. “Wilton’s. A camera at the dock, on the river taxi, outside Mum’s house, at Greenwich Observatory . . .” She took a breath. “So what? There are cameras everywhere.” She huffed out a breath. “There’s no way one person could have access to all those.”

  Nightshade smiled. “Not one person.”

  Emma gasped. “The Volinari?” She frowned. “Why would they want to watch us?”

  Nightshade considered her. “I’m not sure. Maybe they were watching their new recruit, Olivia. Perhaps it was an interview.” She leaned forward. “Or they could’ve been watching us.” Nightshade winked, straightened up, gave her head a vigorous scratch, then strode back up the tunnel. Her coat billowed behind her, and her boots clomped. “See you in America, darling.”

  47

  Present Day

  Claire Campbell folded her arms and frowned at Emma, as though trying to decide what she made of her story. “A drinking game?” She raised her eyebrows and glanced at the Dictaphone on her lap. “Poison?”

  Emma walked to the box of paintings, slid her hand between two of them and pulled out the lazy Susan. “It bothered me that after everything Olivia had s
et up, she’d leave something to chance.”

  “You think it’s rigged?” Melody sat bolt upright. “A magic trick, like the table?”

  Emma handed the lazy Susan to her. “See for yourself.”

  Claire gave Emma a hard look. “If you’d stopped running from the police and come clean, they would have reached the remaining victims in time, and then known the killer’s identity.” She clenched her jaw. “Instead, an amateur investigator led you on a wild-goose chase, where neither of you knew what the hell you were doing.”

  Emma stared at Maggie snoring in her basket, paws in the air.

  Claire gestured to the empty seat opposite. “Tell us about Nightshade,” she said. “Where does she live? How do your parents know her? Have they used her services before?”

  Emma remained standing.

  Claire let out a slow breath. “Look, we get that your parents can’t involve the police with any problems which might expose their business practices. But what about Nightshade?” She hadn’t heard of a local private detective going by the name of Nightshade, and given her haphazard method of investigation, she was unlikely to be an ex-police officer. In fact, Nightshade clearly had no formal training at all. Releasing a story about a freelance self-proclaimed PI working for organised crime gangs? That would get the Editor-in-Chief off Claire’s back. “Where is she from? What’s Nightshade’s real name? You have to tell us something.”

  There was a knock at the door and the Asian guard stepped into the studio. “Time to go.”

  Emma scooped Maggie into her arms. “Can you grab her bed, please?”

  Claire ground her teeth. “You can’t leave. You’re a witness.”

  “You said that I’d be anonymous.” Emma looked between the journalists. “I only agreed to talk to you as long as it remained off the record and you use no names. The police have zero evidence that I or my parents were at any of those crime scenes. We saw to that. It’s your word against ours.”

  “You ran from the police though,” Claire said. “That’s an offence. They saw you. They have you on camera.”

  “Olivia was driving,” Emma said. “I had no control. She was a psycho. I wanted to stay and talk to the cops, but Olivia forced me to run.” She cocked an eyebrow. “And given what you’ve heard about Olivia, you know she would have killed me if I hadn’t gone with her.”

  “Why ask me to come here then?” Claire said, annoyance and frustration creeping into her tone. “I don’t understand. If you’ve spent your whole life not talking to anyone outside of your family, why now?”

  Emma turned to Melody. “You took down Asher Hayes’s old address, right?”

  “The mansion?” Melody consulted her notes. “Sixty-one East Road, St George’s Hill.”

  “You’ll find a gun next to the pool,” Emma said. “The police can match the bullets to the one from Sophie’s head.”

  “You need to tell us where Nightshade is,” Claire persisted. “We’ve heard your version of events, now we want hers.”

  “She’s long gone.”

  “Your parents must know how to get hold of her,” Claire said. “They contacted her in the first place.”

  Emma shrugged. “Then ask them.”

  Claire stared at her. “We can’t escape the fact that you killed Olivia.” She reached for her phone.

  “Who said Olivia is dead?”

  Melody’s eyebrows shot up. “She’s alive?”

  Emma smiled. “Was the last time I checked.”

  Melody gasped. “That’s why you wanted to tell us all this? So we’d find Olivia? You couldn’t risk going to the police after everything that happened.”

  “Your parents still won’t be happy when they find out you’ve spoken to me,” Claire said. “Even though I’ll leave out their names, it will be obvious to them at least. I still don’t understand what you get out of this.”

  Emma cleared her throat. “I’d hurry. Olivia wasn’t looking at all well this morning. She’s been tied up a few days now. You wouldn’t believe how hard I worked to stop my parents from killing her.” Emma looked between them. “I can’t guarantee they won’t lose patience and send someone back for her.”

  Claire and Melody followed Emma from the house.

  Neil opened the rear door of the Rolls-Royce. Emma put Maggie on the back seat and made to get into the car, but Claire grabbed her arm.

  She opened her mouth to say something but hesitated. The story, along with Olivia’s arrest and subsequent conviction would get the chief off her back. Like Emma, Olivia had a wealth of knowledge about the organised crime families. Unlike Emma, Olivia was likely to talk with the right amount of persuasion. She could break open the Greco and Hernandez clans. Nightshade’s subsequent arrest and confession would be the cherry on top.

  Claire released Emma’s arm.

  Emma climbed into the back of the Rolls-Royce, and they watched it drive away.

  “Isn't she staying for the funerals?” Melody asked.

  “Maria and Richard are flying their daughter out of the country while they can.” Claire took a breath, then let it out slowly. “If Olivia is alive, we have what we need for now. But if that doesn’t lead to Nightshade, the UK has an extradition treaty with the US.” Claire pressed a phone to her ear and marched up the road.

  Melody trotted after her, as she examined the lazy Susan. “You know what’s been bothering me?” she said, as they rounded the corner. “Emma never told us who the big guy was.” Melody flipped the turntable over and checked the underside. “The one who helped Jacob break into the house and kidnap Martin Hernandez. She didn’t mention him again. Was it really that Raul guy? What happened to him? And what do you make of her mysterious bodyguard, Mac? We need Preacher to go through the arrest records, because—”

  “This is Claire Campbell,” she said into the phone. “We need a lift to an address in Weybridge. Immediately.”

  Melody ran a finger around the edge of the lazy Susan and pushed the middle, but nothing happened. “I can’t see how this comes apart.” She shook it. “Doesn’t seem rigged to me; it just looks like an ordinary plastic turntable. Do you think Olivia controlled the spin some other way? Maybe it’s a trick one she stole from Martin.” When Claire didn’t answer, Melody stopped and looked back.

  Claire stood outside a shop, staring into the window.

  The sign above read: The Frasier Gallery

  Melody hurried over to her.

  A painting of Westminster Bridge and the Houses of Parliament sat in the middle of the window display, done in moody reds with an overcast, angry sky.

  “Isn’t this Emma’s last painting? The one she had in her studio? It’s nice, I like it.” Melody started to turn away when Claire pointed to the bottom right-hand corner of the canvas.

  The inscription read:

  Death in London, by Nightshade.

  Melody stared at it. “What?”

  “They’re the same person.” Claire said. “She made her up. Emma is Nightshade.”

  Melody frowned, and then the penny dropped. “No way,” she said. “That’s ridiculous.”

  Claire faced her. “Remember what Maria said to Carlos? ‘You treat Nightshade as you would any one of us. You speak to her directly, and with respect.’” Her eyes intensified. “Nightshade is her alter. Emma shows both identities; that’s what people responded to—her flamboyant PI persona as opposed to the introvert we met today. Her parents accept it, nurture it, and they use Nightshade to their advantage.”

  “That’s all a bit far-fetched, wouldn’t you say?” Melody rested a hand on Claire’s shoulder. “You need to take a step back. Think it through.”

  She brushed her off.

  Melody sighed. “Look, even if what you say is right, which it isn’t, then what does it matter if Emma really is Nightshade? So what? It doesn’t change anything.”

  “Of course, it does,” Claire said. “She admitted to drugging Jacob for a start. That’s a crime, and something that may have aided in his demise.�
�� She leaned in and lowered her voice. “If Emma confessed to doing that, can you imagine what else she’s done and not told us?”

  Melody blew out a puff of air. “Sorry, I can’t believe it. Nightshade is a real person. You’re wrong.”

  Claire straightened. “Then I’ll prove it.” She turned and hurried up the road. “If we’re quick,” she called over her shoulder, “we can catch Emma at the airport.”

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  BOOK TWO

  “DEATH IN MANHATTAN”

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