Cold Hearts

by Malcolm Richards

  “I don’t know why you bother with all that volunteering business,” Harriet said. “Well, you don’t get paid for it, do you? Bit of a liberty if you ask me.”

  “They’re a charity. They don’t make a profit.”

  “Still, how are people supposed to live? On bread and water, I suppose. Shouldn’t you be looking for a real job?”

  “I am looking. I just haven’t decided what I want to do.”

  “Anything that puts money in your pocket, I should imagine. In my day, there was none of this deciding you want to be this or want to be that. You took what work you could find and you were grateful for it.”

  Colour blossomed on Emily’s cheeks. “Well, the world’s not like that anymore. There’s more opportunity to do what makes you happy.”

  She briefly wondered if she should tell Harriet that actually, she did have a job, thank you very much. Albeit a temporary one. Then, reminding herself of Harriet’s scathing resentment for anything that shirked tradition or seemed out of the ordinary, she hastily decided against it.

  “Hippy clap trap. Anyway, what are you doing working for free when there are bills to pay? I know you’ve had a bit of money to live off, and Jerome pays his keep, but unless you find a rich man to marry, you better start thinking about earning a proper crust.”

  Her words of wisdom delivered, Harriet reached for her cup of tea. She froze halfway. Her hand moved to her ribs.

  Emily’s irritation immediately vanished. “What is it? Are you hurt?”

  “It’s nothing. Old lady aches and pains.”

  A few seconds passed before Harriet reached for the cup again. Emily watched her closely, noting the tightening of her lips and the tremors in her hands. But she knew better than to voice her concern. Instead, she told Harriet Jerome’s news.

  “Eh? What’s that? Moving out? Well! Where’s he going?”

  “Brixton.”

  “Brixton? Why ever would he want to move all the way down there?”

  “It’s not that far.”

  Harriet raised her eyebrows. “Are you trying to convince me or yourself? Still, I shall expect you’ll miss him. He’s been good company for you, and he’s helped you out of a scrape or two, hasn’t he?”

  Emily nodded.

  “’Ere, is he still hanging around with that foreign fella?”

  “If you mean Daniel, then yes. The two of them can’t seem to get enough of each other.”

  Harriet muttered into her tea and shook her head. Then, she said, “And what about you? Isn’t it time you found yourself a nice fella? Especially now you’ll be all alone. Who’s going to take care of you?”

  “I think I might just be able to survive on my own, thanks.”

  “Oh no, it’s not right, a woman your age on her own. You’re not getting any younger.”

  “I’m still in my twenties!”

  “Still, a pretty girl like you ought to be married by now.”

  Emily rolled her eyes. This was exactly why she hadn’t mention Carter West. Harriet would have her married and procreating before she’d even had a first date. Which was tomorrow evening, Emily realised with some alarm.

  Harriet gave a dismissive shake of her head. “No fella, no job, no prospects. It’s a good job you’ve got me to worry about you or you’d have nothing at all!”

  Emily’s heart sank into her stomach. “It certainly is.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The River Thames was wide and murky, its fast-flowing water a dark shade of brown. There was, still, a commonly-held belief by both tourists and city dwellers that the river was heavily polluted. And indeed, there had been a time in the annals of the Thames’ history when Victorians had used the river as a dumping ground for human waste. In the summer of 1858, London had experienced a long bout of unusually hot weather. The stench that had risen from the Thames during this time had been nauseating enough to shut down Parliament—leading to the creation of a proper sewerage system. In recent years, the Thames had undergone huge changes in terms of cleanliness and biodiversity. Its muddy hue was caused by exactly that—mud. Emily’s cohort of young students hadn’t been interested in biodiversity. It was the story of The Great Stink of 1858 that had kept them horrified and amused in equal measures, time and time again.

  As Emily walked along the Southbank, the great body of water rushing past on her left, memories of her teaching days—before those days came to a terrible end—filled her mind. Life had been so quiet and ordinary then. It was hard to believe those memories were her own.

  The holiday season was reaching its end, and although the country’s children had returned to school a week ago, there were still plenty of tourists for a late Wednesday morning. Some ambled along the Southbank, stopping for photographs in front of the Thames, while others took in the sights as they were ferried up and down in tour boats.

  Keeping close to the railings, Emily picked her way through the crowds. On the opposite bank, Westminster Palace, which housed Parliament and the world-famous Big Ben, stood bold and archaic against blue sky. Up ahead, the London Eye loomed over the water. Throngs of tourists gathered at the entry point on the ground. Emily banked right, taking a wide berth via Jubilee gardens. She emerged from the small, green space and returned to the river, passing beneath the sandwich of Hungerford Bridge and the Golden Jubilee Bridges.

  Waterloo Bridge was next, followed minutes later by Blackfriars. Emily paused, perspiration beading her brow. Just ahead, the Millennium Bridge stretched across the Thames. The Tate Modern gallery was on the right, its tall central tower a ghost of the building’s power station origins.

  The crowds converged as choices were made to either head inside the gallery or cross the bridge towards St. Paul’s Cathedral. Trying to temper her rising stress levels, Emily pushed through the bodies, until she stood to the left of the bridge. She clutched the railings and peered down. The Thames was a tidal river, which meant its banks became uncovered every day. It was here, right at this spot, that Max Edwards had been washed up and found by tourists.

  Staring at the multitudes of people around her, Emily imagined the shock of finding his bloated body, lying face down amid the flotsam and jetsam.

  Emily leaned out and looked down the river. Max had disappeared somewhere between 10 p.m. on Thursday night and 8 a.m. Friday, but he hadn’t been discovered until Saturday morning. His body would have floated along until it reached shallow ground, where it would have been left behind by the receding tide. Something didn’t make sense. The distance between the Riverside Hotel and where he’d been found was just a couple of miles. Had it really taken an entire day for Max’s body to travel such a short distance? Or had he still been alive somewhere, drinking himself into oblivion, while his wife and colleagues grew frantic with worry?

  Emily stared into the muddy river, wondering if it held the answer. Then, drawing in a deep breath, she dived back into the crowds and made her way to her next destination.

  ***

  Tim Marsden was in his early thirties, tall, tanned, and clean-shaven, with dark hair swept into a neat parting. He greeted Emily with a handshake that was somewhere between gentle and firm. As they sat down, she noted his tailored suit and caught a whiff of his expensive-smelling cologne. Emily had been fully expecting a Science nerd in thick-lensed glasses.

  “Thank you for seeing me,” she said. “I know you have a meeting to get to, so I’ll keep it brief.”

  Tim smiled, exposing whitened teeth. “You’re welcome. I’m not often in the Big Smoke, so you got lucky.”

  Tim had suggested meeting in London’s West End because it was close to his next destination. After escaping the crowds of the Southbank, Emily wasn’t looking forward to fighting her way through even larger hordes, who were on their way to visit theatres, monuments, and museums, or to empty their wallets in the high street stores of Oxford Street. But she had survived.

  The bar Tim had chosen was all chrome and glass and neon blue lighting; much better suited to drinking two-fo
r-one cocktails at happy hour than to having a serious discussion about his dead colleague. But here they were.

  It was one-thirty in the afternoon. The bar was filled with high numbers of office workers enjoying a sneaky lunch hour drink with their niçoise salads and toasted paninis, while they openly discussed office politics and who was sleeping with whom. It was a world Emily felt unfamiliar with, and one she had no desire to get to know. It wasn’t that she disapproved of the corporate landscape. It just wasn’t her.

  “I have to say I was surprised by your call.” Tim said. A waiter brought over their drinks—an orange juice for Emily, and a chilled Pinot Gris for Tim. “Especially when you told me why you were phoning.”

  “As I explained, Mrs Edwards suggested you would be an appropriate person to talk to, seeing as you were one of the last people to see Max alive.”

  “To be honest, I don’t know what else I can tell you that I haven’t already told Diane. How is she by the way? I’m ashamed to admit I haven’t been in touch since the funeral.”

  “So you knew Mrs Edwards? You and Max were friends?” Emily realised it might be a good idea to jot down some notes. She fished out her notebook and pen, then flipped to a clean page. “Do you mind?”

  Tim shook his head. “In answer to your question, I was Max’s assistant manager, so we worked together on most projects. We worked side by side, so of course, we became very friendly. Close, even.

  “Did you socialise outside of work?”

  “Not really. As friendly as Max and I were, he liked to keep work and business very separate. There were various work-related gatherings over the years, of course, and he’d occasionally bring Diane along. But you know how it is when you work closely with someone for a long time—you get to know their friends and family without ever having met them.”

  Emily nodded as she wrote down: Friendly, but did not socialise outside of work. She stared at the words, hesitating before she asked her next question.

  “Mr Marsden, did you know that Max was an alcoholic?”

  Tim sipped his wine, then as if realising the inappropriate timing, smiled and set down his glass. “Yes, I did. It was something he told me very early on. But as far as I knew, he hadn’t touched a drop for years.”

  “Why did he tell you?” She watched Tim’s forehead crinkle with a frown. “If it was early on, I’m assuming you were still getting to know each other as colleagues—there must have been a reason for him to tell you something so personal.”

  “We were away at a conference, staying over at some hotel,” Tim said. “Every evening the team would hit the hotel bar. Max made up an excuse the first couple of nights, but when I eventually twisted his arm into joining us, he stuck to orange juice. As my wife always tells me, I have as much subtlety as a brick through a window. I made a joke to Max about being an alcoholic. He told me I wasn’t so far from the truth. I was mortified.”

  His gaze dropped to the table. Emily scribbled into her pad.

  “Max’s alcoholism—was it public knowledge?”

  “Oh God, no. It’s not exactly the kind of thing you go shouting about at work, is it? Especially when you’re in a position of authority. You know how people are—most would ignore the part where he hadn’t touched a drop in years. People like labels, don’t they?”

  “Yes, they do,” Emily agreed. She peered at her notes, which now filled most of a page but had yet to yield anything of real value. “What about the night of the Clean Water gala? What was he drinking then?”

  “It looked like orange juice.”

  She leaned in a little. “Mr Marsden, I know you’ve already spoken to Diane, but it would be very helpful to me if you could go over the events of that night.”

  Tim’s eyes roamed around the bar before returning to settle on Emily. He drank more wine, this time emptying half of the glass.

  “We’d been working with ECG—the Earth Conservation Group—for a number of months to get the Clean Water Project off the ground. It was something Max was very passionate about. Despite what some people might say, Valence are genuinely trying to have less impact on the environment. They wouldn’t have created an entire Sustainable Development department if they didn’t have some sort of real concern. The Clean Water Project is a perfect example of that.”

  “All the same, the project would serve to boost Valence Industries’ reputation.”

  “Naturally, just as any other public activity would. But that doesn’t take away from the fact that it’s still a worthy cause. One in ten people across the world live without clean water. Most live in isolated areas where women and children walk miles every single day to fill a jug. Most of the time, that water is teeming with bacteria. People get sick. Children die. Surely that’s something needing change regardless of whether or not Valence earns a better reputation?”

  The idea of a multi-billion-dollar company benefitting from providing better living conditions for the more unfortunate sat uneasily on Emily’s conscience, but she had to agree.

  “Please, go on.”

  “The launch for Clean Water was a fundraiser event. Like any other charitable cause, longevity requires sizeable donations. So, we invited various corporate CEOs, local MPs, a few minor celebrities, with the idea of wining and dining them, then pitching the project as a vital cause for concern. Max led the presentation, which was followed by a charity auction. The night was a great success. We raised thousands and got the project into the newspapers.” He paused, staring solemnly into his now empty wine glass. “Although that success was obviously mired by what happened next.”

  Emily loosened her grip on her pen. “That night—when did you last see Max?”

  “He didn’t stay until the end, which surprised me. He’d spent months organising the event and he left early.”

  “Why was that?”

  Tim shrugged a shoulder. “He said he was tired, that it had been a long day. He stayed long enough to mingle, to talk the talk with the necessary people, but the wine was flowing and everyone was drinking. Maybe it made him feel uncomfortable.”

  “And what time was that?”

  “Perhaps around ten. Things came to an end at eleven.”

  “And Max was definitely sober?”

  “As a judge. Or so it seemed. I can’t say the same for me, however. The rest of the night is blurry at best.”

  “And in the morning?”

  “I knocked on his door around eight. When he didn’t answer, I assumed he’d already headed down to breakfast. He hadn’t. It was strange. Max was always annoyingly on time. So, I tried calling his phone, but it went straight to voicemail. I thought maybe he’d gone for a walk or something.” Tim paused, took a large breath. “When he still hadn’t shown after breakfast, I knew something was wrong. I called the concierge. She let us into his room. The bed was all made up as if he hadn’t slept in it. His clothes were still hanging in the wardrobe. I half expected him to come walking out of the bathroom, saying he’d been in the shower or something. Of course, as you know, that wasn’t the case.”

  Emily scribbled into her pad. “And what did you do then?”

  “I called into the office to see if they’d heard from Max. They called Diane. Then I tried ECG. No one had heard from him. I didn’t know what else to do, so I returned to the plant.” He lowered his gaze to the table. “There was nothing else I could do.”

  Emily’s mind raced. Tim had helped her to frame the evening, but there was still a huge hole in the timeline of events leading up to Max’s death. Across the table, Tim’s initial cheer was now as drained as his empty wine glass.

  “It’s so strange, isn’t it?” he said. “One minute he was here, the next... It doesn’t make any sense to me.”

  “What do you think happened to him?” Emily watched his eyes grow round and dewy as he mulled over the question.

  “Maybe the stress of the launch got to him, or maybe he’d been lying to us all. I don’t know. If he had been drinking in secret, though, he did a bloody good
job of covering it up. And there was no sign he’d been getting drunk in his hotel room either. I guess he must have sneaked off to the nearest bar and gone from there.”

  Emily leaned back in her chair, her mind playing out numerous scenarios, which all ended with Max Edwards lying face down on a muddy bank.

  Tim glanced at his watch.

  “One more question, if you don’t mind,” Emily said. Tim waved a hand for her to proceed. “Is there anyone else you think would be worth talking to? Someone who was there that night, perhaps.”

  Tim rubbed his chin as he thought about it. “You could always try Anya Copeland. She was ECG’s lead on Clean Water at the time. I can’t tell you where she is now, though. She quit a few weeks after Max’s death.”

  Emily raised an eyebrow. Interesting.

  Tim glanced across the bar, then back at Emily. “They were close.”

  Emily recalled the name from the ECG blog. Anya Copeland had been the woman pictured shaking hands with Max.

  “Talk to Charlie Jones at ECG,” Tim said. “She took over as lead when Anya quit.”

  Emily jotted the name down. “And you took over from Max?”

  Tim hesitated, straightening the cuffs of his jacket. “Stepping into Max’s shoes wasn’t an easy decision to make. But I believe it’s what he would have wanted. I may not be as radical as Max about environmental issues, but I am passionate all the same. I believe that Valence is doing great things with the Clean Water Project. I just wish Max was still around to see the fruits of his labour.”

  With that, Tim Marsden reached out a hand and Emily shook it.

  “I hope Diane gets the answers that she’s looking for. I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help.” He looked at her, his grave expression giving way to curiosity. “So, what’s it like being a private investigator? Is it all guns and car chases?”

  Emily’s face began to burn. There was no way she could tell him the truth. Instead, she glanced away and said, “It ... pays the bills.”

  Out in the street, they shook hands again. Tim Marsden flagged down a black cab and Emily watched it join the queue of traffic.