Still feeling flustered, she pushed her way through the crowds to the edge of the pavement. As she headed to the bus stop, she replayed her conversation with Tim Marsden in her mind. Anya Copeland’s name floated to the top of her thoughts. They were close. Insinuation had dripped from each word. Emily cursed herself for not asking more. Perhaps this Charlie Jones would have something to say on the subject.
But before Emily could go ahead and arrange to meet with her, there was, she realised with increasing anxiety, a more pressing matter to attend to. Coffee with Carter West.
CHAPTER SIX
“So what made you want to volunteer at LOST?”
They sat opposite each other in a booth at Bramfords Diner; a fifties style American café tucked away down a cobbled side street in Shoreditch. It was the first place that had sprung to mind when Carter had asked where she liked to go for coffee. In truth, she had visited the diner a handful of times several months ago to meet a young receptionist named Rosa, who had helped Emily uncover the horrific goings-on at the Ever After Care Foundation. Sat here now, fingers drumming against the side of her coffee mug, Emily wished she’d chosen a different café. There were too many unpleasant memories hiding behind the colourfully-tattooed staff and retro fittings. For a moment, she was lost in them. Then, she remembered Carter had asked her a question.
“I had time on my hands.” It was the truth, she supposed. “How about you?”
“The same, I guess. They started out by putting me on the phone lines, but in spite of my soothing tones, I ended up getting more panicked than the callers. Which is why I ended up on social media duties.”
Carter did have a soothing voice, Emily thought. Deep and rich, with a melodic edge. She took a sip of coffee, noting that he’d also answered the question in a roundabout fashion.
“What’s it like in the all-mysterious archives?” he asked her.
And now he was deflecting.
Emily shrugged. “It’s strange. All of those faces staring up at you from the past like ghosts. And they’re being filed away, a lot of them still missing, more than likely never to be seen again.”
Carter smiled, his eyes sparkling. “Sounds morbid.”
Why is he smiling? Emily thought. Was that a bad sign? Had she said something stupid?
Awkward silence filled the space between them. Emily glanced around the room, catching the eye of a pink-haired waitress.
“So what do you do outside of LOST? Where do you work?” Carter swept locks of curly hair from his brow and placed his hands symmetrically on the table. They were large, strong hands, Emily noted, with neatly trimmed fingernails.
How did she answer the question without sounding completely hopeless?
“Actually, I’m between jobs right now. Well, that’s not completely true. I’m doing some work, but it’s just a one off thing. So it’s not between jobs exactly, more like between careers. Deciding what to do next.”
Her skin prickled with heat. She sipped more coffee and sank into the booth, hoping that a hole would open up beneath her and put her out of her misery. She hadn’t intended to mention her current work. Panic had teased the words from her lips. Now Carter would ask about it, and she would have to lie.
Carter smiled. “So many people I know are going through career changes right now. It’s great that we live in an age where we can choose to do something that makes us happy, don’t you think?”
Emily agreed.
“What was your old career?”
Overcome by sweaty panic, she hesitated. Should she tell him the truth? What if he then made a connection? Perhaps he already knew about her and this was some kind of test. Well, perhaps she would tell the truth and it would be a test for him.
“I used to teach.” She held her breath and waited for it to come—the look of recognition, the expression that said, I know who you are, followed by a swift departure. None of that happened. Instead, Carter nodded emphatically.
“What made you leave?”
Her face was on fire. This was worse. Now she would have to tell him herself. Or she could lie. Why hadn’t she lied in the first place?
“I suppose ... it was time for a change.”
It was a sort of truth.
“Teaching sounds tough,” Carter said. “Too much paperwork and not enough class time from what I hear. What do you think you’ll do next?”
The tension in Emily’s shoulders unravelled a fraction. Good. The conversation was moving away from that deep, dark confession.
“I’m still trying to work that out,” she said. “I know I like helping people.”
“Maybe LOST is a way into charity work. Paid work, I mean.”
Emily watched him. Did he really know nothing of her exploits? The recent court case? The massacre at Meadow Pines? Both had been high profile cases, which the newspapers had devoured.
“Perhaps.” She cleared her throat and relaxed a fraction more; enough to wonder how Carter would react if she were to tell him the nature of her present employment.
“How about you?” she asked, instead. “What do you outside of LOST?”
Carter sat up. “Oh, I build furniture. I know, it’s not flashy and exciting, but I get a lot of satisfaction out of it. Plus, I get to be my own boss.”
“You must be very skilled with your hands,” Emily said, then, immediately turned scarlet. “I mean... I didn’t... I meant you must be very skilled to make furniture by hand.”
Carter laughed. “I suppose so, yes.”
More silence fell. Emily’s heart pounded in her chest. This was all wrong. She wanted to leave.
Carter looked up at her, ready to try again. “So you’re not from London? I detect a hint of an accent. Is it West Country?”
Emily’s mouth was dry. The caffeine was not helping her nerves. All of these getting-to-know-you questions kept leading back to the same place. She would have to tell Carter about her past. About Phillip Gerard. Even if she didn’t tell him today and there was somehow a next time, the truth would eventually come spilling out. What was the point in trying to pretend it wasn’t going to happen?
Carter stared at her, waiting for an answer.
She nodded stiffly, then pushed her coffee away.
“So, does that mean Somerset? Devon?”
Emily found herself glaring at him, wanting the questions to stop, unable to prevent herself from answering them.
“Cornwall.”
“Oh, I love Cornwall! We used to go there as kids. We’d stay in Penzance or St. Ives, and we’d go to the beach and pretend we were abroad. Which part are you from?”
Blood pulsed in her ears. She felt like she was tearing open her flesh for Carter to look inside. What would he think, when he saw darkness?
She still hadn’t answered the question. Carter was staring at her uncertainly. This was all wrong. It was too soon. Who did she think she was?
“What about family?” Carter asked. “Are they still in Cornwall?”
Emily couldn’t take any more. “I have to go.”
Avoiding his gaze, she gathered up her jacket and her bag.
Carter’s mouth hung open. “Emily, what is it? Did I say something wrong?”
She stood up, almost knocking over her coffee. “I’m sorry.”
She leapt from the booth. His face lined with hurt and confusion, Carter watched her go.
“But Emily–”
“Sorry,” she said, again.
Leaving Carter red-faced and flustered, Emily headed straight for the door.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Jerome leapt up from the pillow with a strangled cry. Sweat dripped from his body. Blood pounded in his ears. He looked around the darkened room to see familiar shapes and shadows. He was in Daniel’s bedroom. Daniel was flat on his back, mouth open, lost somewhere in deep sleep.
It was seven minutes past five on a still dark Thursday morning. Slipping out from under the sheets, Jerome padded to the bathroom. He drank deep drafts of water from the tap, then splash
ed more on his face.
The nightmare still echoed in his head. He was back in Meadow Pines, locked in an upstairs bedroom. Corpses were piled up on the floor—bodies that had been stabbed or hung, or had had their heads bashed in with hammers. And they were coming to life; their limbs creaking from rigor mortis as they untangled from each other, their feet unsteady on the floor. Teeth gnashed and fingers clawed as the dead forced him towards the open window, where the rain lashed down outside, and the drop to the ground was impossibly high. It was the same nightmare that had been haunting him every night for weeks.
Drying his face with a towel, Jerome perched himself on the edge of the bath and waited for the palpitations in his chest to fade. Usually, this took anywhere between five and ten minutes. The trembling in his hands took longer.
“You’re safe,” he whispered to the silence of the bathroom. “You’re at Daniel’s. You’re in the bathroom. Nothing can hurt you. You’re safe.”
By the time he returned to the bedroom, the sun had begun its slow ascent. Daniel was now lying on his side, snoring softly. Jerome crept past the bed, picked up a spare blanket, and draped it over himself as he sank into the armchair. He waited another ten minutes, listening to Daniel’s quiet purrs. When enough light was sneaking in at the edge of the curtain, he opened up his script—Shakespeare’s Othello—and started going over his lines. He was probably too tall to play Othello, his frame too slim, his skin perhaps not dark enough for the archetypal, muscled black man that the producers were no doubt looking to cast. But such details were not going to stop him from auditioning. After all, it was the first audition he’d won since Meadow Pines. And it was a lead role—a part he rarely had the opportunity to play.
By the time Daniel’s alarm began beeping, Jerome had showered, dressed, and breakfasted. He brought coffee to Daniel, kissed him on the forehead, then slung his overnight bag over a shoulder.
“You’re leaving?” Daniel’s voice was still groggy, his Italian accent heavy with sleep.
“I have my audition.”
“But that’s not until eleven. I thought you were going to stay here and rehearse.”
Jerome picked up his script and rolled it into a tight tube. “I thought I might go for a walk first.”
“For three hours?”
His pulse was racing again. His mouth running dry. An image flashed in his brain: a body slumped in a tool shed, blood splashed across the walls like angel wings.
Creases appeared on Daniel’s forehead. He put his coffee down. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m fine. I didn’t sleep great.”
“You didn’t sleep well the other night either. What’s going on with you?”
Daniel reached out a hand. Jerome took a step away from the bed.
“Have you...” he began, then paused to open the curtains. Light rushed in. Jerome stood still, mouth twitching, sentences trying and failing to come out. He wanted to tell Daniel about the nightmare. About how every time he closed his eyes he saw blood and death. About how exhilarated he’d felt leaping from the bedroom window and running through the forest at night in a desperate bid to save Emily’s life. But he couldn’t tell Daniel any of these things.
Instead, he muttered, “I should probably go.”
Daniel pushed back the sheets and climbed out of bed. “Talk to me. What is it?”
“I’m fine.”
But he wasn’t fine. He was cold and sweaty, and he suddenly wanted nothing more than to be left alone.
Daniel moved to put his arms around him. Jerome took a step back.
“It’s probably the audition,” he said.
“It’s more than that. You’ve been–”
Jerome silenced him with a kiss. “Stop worrying and start praying I get a call back.”
Before Daniel could interrogate him further, he hurried out of the room.
“Good luck!” Daniel called after him, his voice filled with concern rather than well wishes.
Jerome raced through the house and out into the road. He marched through Bermondsey streets, walking until the panic subsided, until the awful pictures in his head had faded into darkness.
CHAPTER EIGHT
An uneasy chill ran up Emily’s spine as she entered Brick lane. Not so long ago, she’d been holed up here in a cramped hotel room, hiding from the eyes of Doctor Chelmsford. Now, as she walked the long, narrow street, famous for its Indian curry houses and vintage clothing stores, she pushed away memories of a much darker time. Carter West found his way into her thoughts. The date had been an utter disaster. She should never have agreed to go in the first place. Fortunately, Carter hadn’t been in touch since.
The Earth Conservation Group was situated just off Brick Lane, taking up the first floor of a small office block. Emily introduced herself to the receptionist, a young man in his early twenties, who eyed her curiously before asking her to take a seat.
It was a little after six p.m. Employees were heading home for the day. Even the receptionist was now shutting down his computer.
Charlie Jones appeared a minute later. She was a tall woman, with wavy, dark hair and savage grey eyes. Her smile did nothing to melt the fierceness.
“Thanks for waiting.” She shook Emily’s hand, then ushered her into a small office at the back, where posters detailing various ECG campaigns—including the Clean Water Project—covered the walls.
“You find us okay?” Charlie waved Emily towards her desk.
Emily nodded. The office was cramped, the desk littered with paperwork. Street sounds floated in through the open window.
“Thank you for seeing me at short notice. I know it’s an unusual situation.”
“It’s fine. But you can understand why I thought you were a journalist calling.” Charlie paused to tidy her desk. “So Max’s wife hired you to look into his death?”
“That’s right.”
“Why?”
How much could Emily tell her? Perhaps an exchange of information would put Charlie at ease.
“Because until the night of his death, Max had been a recovered alcoholic for almost ten years. She wants to know what made him drink again.”
Charlie linked her fingers and rested her hands on her stomach.
“I didn’t know Max was an alcoholic. Not until after he...”
“Perhaps you could tell me a bit about his work for the Clean Water Project. How long had he and Anya Copeland worked together?”
“For about eighteen months. Valence Industries approached us to help them become more involved in environmental issues. They suggested we partner up on a project. It was a complete greenwash of course, but whatever their reasons, we were happy to see such an environmentally hazardous industry demonstrating some accountability.”
Emily shook her head. “Greenwash?”
“Businesses using environmental issues to make themselves look caring and responsible. Works wonders for their image. And that’s exactly how we felt about Valence. But when they came to us with Clean Water and the funding to get it going, it seemed like the perfect opportunity. Of course, we thought it would be a case of them taking a back seat while we took care of the hard work—believe me, that happens a lot. But to our surprise, Max Edwards shows up one morning, ready to get his hands dirty.”
Emily nodded. “Max had been heavily involved in environmental groups when he was younger. It was a passion.”
“So we learned. Max had all sorts of ideas to develop the project. Anya had been over the moon. She honestly thought we were getting another number-crunching suit. But Max was different.”
“They had a good working relationship?” Emily’s pen hovered over her notebook.
Parting her lips, Charlie hesitated. “Yes. You could say they got on like a house on fire.”
“They were good friends?”
Charlie plucked a pencil from the desk and began rolling it back and forth between finger and thumb.
“You could say that.”
There was something there, hid
den between her words. The same insinuation that Tim Marsden had expressed.
“And you worked on the Clean Water Project with Anya?”
“I took care of a lot of the administration, as well as overseeing recruitment drives for skilled volunteers.”
“So you worked with Max too?”
“Not directly. We would talk sometimes, but much of my contact with him was through team meetings. I could tell he was passionate about green matters, though. About a lot of things...”
A hint of frustration crept into Emily’s thoughts. Charlie was dancing around now; clearly, she had something to say.
“The night of the Clean Water charity gala—the last time Max was seen alive—were you there?”
The pencil came to a halt between Charlie’s finger and thumb. “Yes, I was.”
Emily leaned towards the desk. “Can you remember anything from that night? Anything out of the ordinary?”
“About Max?”
Emily nodded.
“Apart from disappearing before the night was over, no.”
“Do you recall what he was drinking?”
“I wouldn’t have taken any notice. Why would I?” Charlie hesitated again. Her gaze moved from Emily to the desk to the door.
“Miss Jones, as I mentioned in our phone call, I’m not the police and I’m not here to get anyone into trouble.” A little of Emily’s frustration sneaked into her voice. “I’m just trying to help Diane Edwards understand what happened to her husband. Is there something I should know? About Max and Anya perhaps.”
Charlie Jones shook her head, then let out a frustrated sigh.
“I’m not one for gossip. Especially when the subject of that gossip is a friend,” she said. “But you know what office politics are like. Everyone has an opinion about everyone else, and once the rumour mill starts grinding, it’s hard to shut it down. There was talk. About Anya and Max. About how much time they spent together in this office with the door closed. About the way they looked at each other when they thought no one was watching. We all knew Max was a married man, and Anya was a single parent who’d been on her own for a long time. You can imagine the conversations at the water cooler.”
Cold Hearts Page 4
