Cold Hearts

by Malcolm Richards

  Emily stared at both diagrams. Her jaw dropped as she made the connection. “Twenty years for children affected by TEL to grow into adults.”

  “You could think I was making this all up, but go take a look online and you can find the research easily enough. Like, for example, the study in Cincinnati, which found young offenders are four times more likely to have high levels of lead in their bones than the general population.” Evan retrieved his beer and took a sip. “My point is, nearly all of these studies were conducted by independent bodies, in different cities and states, and then in different countries, including right here in the UK. Almost every one of those reports had the exact same findings.”

  Horrified, Emily stared silently at Evan’s diagrams.

  “No one should be surprised by this,” he said. “We’ve known for decades that lead is highly toxic. Even in the 1940s, behavioural changes were documented in children who chewed the leaded paint from the railings of their cots. They went on to display high levels of aggression and violence, and to suffer all kinds of developmental delays. And yet, here we are eighty years later, still talking about the harmful effects of lead.”

  Emily felt a chill slip beneath her t-shirt. “And why are we talking about it? If TEL was banned in the UK in 1999, what does it have to do with Max Edwards, with Valence Industries?”

  What she’d just heard sounded like something out of a science fiction story. Chemically-induced violence? From everything Emily had learned about Valence Industries, they’d been working hard to reduce their impact on the environment, not increase it.

  “It has everything to do with Valence Industries,” said Evan. He leaned forward, eyebrow arched, a knowing smile on his lips.

  Emily couldn’t hide her shock. “What are you saying? That Valence still produces TEL?”

  “That’s why Max contacted me. He’d found out that Valence Industries is the only chemicals company in the world to still produce TEL. And they’re selling it to a handful of developing countries where leaded petrol has yet to be banned.”

  Leaning back in her chair, Emily stared at the journalist. Thoughts careered and collided in her head. “But I thought you said TEL was banned from sale in the UK.”

  “It is. But there are no current laws prohibiting its exportation. I’ve looked into it. What Valence are doing is perfectly legal. The moral and ethical implications, however, are completely fucked. Which is why they’ve been trying to keep the whole nasty business covered up.”

  Emily couldn’t believe it. “But all of the environmental work they do. All the work Max Edwards was doing—the Clean Water Project, the sustainability.”

  “Green wash,” Evan shrugged. There was that phrase again. The same phrase Charlie Jones had used.

  Emily’s head was spinning. Half an hour ago, she’d been certain that Max Edwards’ death had been the result of a doomed affair. But now, her theory didn’t seem to carry any weight at all.

  “You sure you don’t want that drink?” Evan said.

  Emily shook her head. “Max told you all of this?”

  “Some of it. Like I said, when he didn’t show, I put it down to a hoax. But he got me curious. When I learned he was dead, I started looking into things. It wasn’t hard to find out which countries are still selling leaded petrol. Unsurprisingly, they’re all in chaos, headed by governments who don’t give a damn about their people. Once I’d pinpointed the countries, it was easy enough to work backwards and find out who was providing the fuel.”

  “It doesn’t make sense.” Emily was beginning to feel overwhelmed by all that she had learned. “So you’re saying Valence were using Max as a smokescreen? Hire someone with a passion for the environment to help create a positive green image for the company, and then hide behind him while they make a fortune from selling TEL.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

  “He must have been furious when he found out.”

  “He’d sounded pretty pissed off on the phone.”

  “But that still doesn’t explain his death.”

  “Maybe the anger got to him and he hit the bottle. Or maybe he didn’t touch a drop...”

  Emily wrapped her arms around her ribcage and eyed the men at the bar.

  “What do you mean? The coroner’s report said–”

  “I know what the coroner’s report said,” Evan replied. “I’m not disputing the cause of death. I’m disputing how he died.”

  Emily stared at Evan, the realisation of what he was suggestion hitting her fast and hard.

  “Surely you don’t think that Valence...” She watched him lean back in his chair and shrug his heavy shoulders. “But you said yourself, it was easy to track the TEL back to Valence.”

  “Easy for me because Max told me what to look for.”

  “But they wouldn’t have...” She looked around the bar again, making sure no one could hear her. “...killed him. Like you said, Valence aren’t breaking any laws. Someone was bound to find out what they’re doing sooner or later.”

  “I’m sure Max Edwards isn’t the first person to meet a sticky end at the hands of a greedy corporation, and he certainly won’t be the last. Not by a longshot.” Evan leaned forward. “Here’s what I think. I think there’s more to the story. I think Max found out about TEL, and then dug deeper and found something worse.”

  Emily was quiet, processing everything. “What do you think it could be?”

  Evan shrugged his shoulders again. “I don’t know. But every lead I’ve chased so far has turned up empty. Whatever Max found out, I highly doubt he was working on his own. He was an environmentalist with a political past—he would have known people who could have helped him get deep inside Valence. Who knows, maybe he even had inside help.”

  Pulse racing, Emily sat up. “Anya Copeland. She led the Clean Water Project for Earth Conservation Group. She worked closely with Max. There’d been rumours they were having an affair. The night he disappeared, she was seen coming down from his hotel room. Two weeks after his death, she quit her job and disappeared. Moved home, changed her number, vanished into thin air.”

  Evan leaned forward. “Interesting. Any luck finding her?”

  “Not yet.”

  Anya’s elusiveness was made worse by the fact that Emily had limited resources with which to find her. But now more than ever, it was imperative that she did find her—everything that Emily had thought she’d discovered about Max Edwards’ death had just been obliterated by one, short conversation.

  She felt quietly embarrassed. Perhaps she had made a mistake turning down Helen Carlson’s help after all. But now, it didn’t matter because she had Evan Holt, who was a highly experienced investigative journalist, and he’d taught her more about Max Edwards and Valence Industries in the last twenty minutes than she’d learned in an entire week of working alone.

  But how had she come to learn about Evan Holt?

  “Maybe I can put some feelers out,” Evan said, staring into his now empty glass. “Do you have Anya’s last known address?”

  Who had sent her that text message? Only a handful of people knew that Emily was investigating the death of Max Edwards. Even fewer knew that she was in possession of his diary.

  “Emily?”

  She froze. The night she had returned home to find Helen Carlson in her living room, Max’s paperwork and diary had been moved from the table and had been sitting on the floor. Right beside Helen Carlson’s feet. A fire sparked in the pit of Emily’s stomach.

  “Emily, are you all right?”

  She could feel her skin prickling with heat. Regardless of Emily’s refusal, Helen had found a way to become involved in the investigation. And now Emily was indebted to her.

  “I can get Anya’s last address,” she said. She looked up, pushing her anger down.

  “Good,” said Evan. “Because we’re going to put our heads together and figure out exactly what it is that Max Edwards found. But Emily ... be careful who you share this information with. What we
don’t want is Valence Industries finding out we’re onto them.”

  Emily stared at him. “Don’t worry. I’m not so amateurish that I’ll go shouting it in the streets.”

  “Point taken. Sorry, it’s not often I work in collaboration. And I know you’re pretty new to this, so...”

  Emily’s mouth fell open. “You’ve been looking into me?”

  Evan gave her a sheepish grin. “If I’m going to work with someone, I need to know I can trust them.”

  It was understandable, she supposed, but she couldn’t help feeling like an organism under the lens of a microscope.

  “I’m going to follow up a few leads overseas, see if I can find anything more,” Evan said.

  “And I’ll get Anya’s old address.” A thought struck her. “Have you spoken to anyone at Valence Industries apart from Max?”

  “No. It would be good for the story if we could get closer, though. Their UK CEO, Jonathan Hunt, has had a lot to say publically about the good the company’s been doing for the environment. I’d love to get a direct quote from him, just so I could then serve his balls up on a plate. Men like him deserve all the humiliation they can get.”

  “What about an interview with him?”

  “My ugly mug is all too familiar in the world of investigative journalism. One sniff from Hunt’s PR people and I’m not getting within a hundred yards. It would be interesting to talk to him, though.”

  It would, Emily thought. An interview played in the right way could even shed some light on Max Edwards’ death. But if Evan Holt couldn’t get close... Her heart sank into her stomach as she realised who would be able to get close. There had to be another way.

  “I’ve been in touch with Tim Marsden, Max Edwards’ former right hand man,” she said. “He might be persuaded to agree to an interview with you.”

  “No one’s going to listen to the words of an assistant. It has to be Hunt. He’s the one in charge of UK operations. He’ll know exactly what Valence are up to.”

  Damn it! Emily bit down on her lower lip, then heaved out a heavy breath. “I might know someone who can help. Another journalist.”

  Evan looked up. “The one from Meadow Pines?”

  The man really had been doing his homework. “Yes. Helen Carlson. She’s writing for London Truth now.”

  “Can she be trusted?”

  “I’ll let you find that out for yourself.”

  In all honesty, she had no idea whether or not Helen could be trusted with such delicate information. But she had to hope her journalistic integrity and passion for a story would work in everyone’s favour.

  “Fine. Put her in touch with me,” Evan said. “In the meantime, let’s see what else we can dig up. And Emily? Please remember to keep a low profile.”

  Emily’s eyes burned into him.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Helen pulled up in front of The Holmeswood at ten a.m. on Friday morning, and beckoned Emily towards the blue Renault. The road was still crammed with traffic and it took over a minute before Helen was able to reinsert the vehicle into the flow.

  “Christ, I hate London drivers. Everyone’s a selfish bastard.”

  The strain of driving in the city was already showing on Helen’s face. She blasted the horn as a car slid into the space in front. Emily sank down an inch in the passenger seat and peered out of the window. Streams of unsmiling faces filed past.

  “Any joy with the Copeland woman?” Helen asked.

  Emily shrugged a shoulder. “Still working on it.”

  “Have you thought about getting Daniel involved? Maybe we could find her by finding her kid.”

  “I already tried. Jerome refused to let him get involved.”

  “Well, that’s deeply unhelpful. I didn’t realise Jerome had such a tight hold on his boyfriend’s reigns.”

  “He’s trying to protect him, that’s all.”

  They took a left at the crossroads, narrowly escaping the changing lights.

  “Can’t you speak to Jerome, get him to unprotect him?”

  “Jerome and I aren’t exactly on speaking terms right now.”

  It was true. Jerome hadn’t replied to Emily’s text message asking to meet and talk things over. He’d also ignored her phone calls and voicemails. Perhaps this is it, she thought, as she watched the pedestrians. Perhaps Jerome is finally done with our friendship. The thought was too painful to have inside her head.

  “Still?” Helen snorted. “Well, you better not be blaming me.”

  “Not everything is about you, Helen.”

  “So what is the problem then? Actually, on second thoughts, I don’t care. And I think it’s about time that I have a go at finding Anya. Show you how the professionals do it.”

  Emily sank lower in the seat, feeling uncomfortable in the trouser suit she was wearing. It was bad enough that she would be spending the next few hours with Helen. But to know Helen would have full control over the interview with Jonathan Hunt was making her bad mood that much worse.

  Up ahead, the traffic lights turned from red to amber. Helen honked the horn. “Hurry the hell up, assholes!” The road got moving again. She glanced over at Emily, who had all but disappeared beneath the window. “Look, whatever your damage is, you better have dealt with it by the time we get to the plant. I need you all smiles. Granted, that’s a tall order for someone like you, but for God’s sake try.” She returned her attention to the road. “And for the record, I’m not happy about having to take you along.”

  Emily pulled herself up and brushed down her jacket. “The whole reason you’re getting your hands on this story is because of me. I have every right to come along. Besides, you know Evan wants me to be there.”

  “The whole reason you have even have this story in the first place is because I sent you to Evan Holt. So I have every right to be here too. And anyway, if you’d agreed to let me help you in the first place, I wouldn’t have had to be so damn sneaky. As soon as I saw Evan Holt’s name in the diary I knew this was going to be something big. Evan is a very well-respected investigative journalist. If it wasn’t for me, you’d still be running around claiming broken hearts and clandestine affairs.”

  Emily swivelled her head back towards the passenger window. “You know, you could have just come out and told me about Evan Holt.”

  “And where’s the fun in that? Besides, you’d pissed me off.”

  “What if I hadn’t worked out it was you that sent the message?”

  Helen smiled as the traffic finally broke up. She pressed her foot down on the accelerator. “Come on, Emily. You’re stupid, but you’re not that stupid.”

  It took almost an hour to break free from the city. Helen surprised Emily by leaving her to her thoughts. She used the time to text Carter: Any luck with Anya Copeland? He replied a few minutes later: Nothing. Sorry. Any other ideas? Emily could think of none. But since her meeting at the Lions Inn, she had tracked down Anya’s previous address and had passed it on to Evan. Hopefully, he would have better luck finding her. Or perhaps Helen would.

  Now, as they headed southeast along the A2, urban chaos falling behind them, Helen cleared her throat.

  “So here’s how today’s going to happen. The feature for which I’m interviewing Jonathan Hunt concerns Valence Industries’ efforts to reduce their impact on the environment, as well as their more philanthropic endeavours such as the Clean Water Project. As far as he’s concerned, we’re writing for Star News Chronicle. There’s no way Hunt would entertain the idea of an interview with London Truth.”

  “What if his people check?”

  “I have a friend on the Chronicle who owes me a favour—we’re covered. All you need to do is flash a smile, take some notes, try not fuck things up.”

  “Aren’t you going to record the interview anyway?” Emily asked, ignoring Helen’s attempts to rile her.

  “Yes, but you’re my intern and you need to be doing more than just sitting there, twiddling your thumbs.
I don’t want any distractions. What I do want is Jonathan Hunt eating out of my hands.”

  Emily studied her face. “I hope you’re not planning anything. Evan said in no way are we to mention TEL.”

  “I know what he said. Take a pill or something, why don’t you.” She shot Emily a teasing smile. “Just relax, okay? I’ve got it covered.”

  Emily’s eyes narrowed. “What if I think of some questions?”

  “You keep them to yourself. You’re the intern. Your job is to watch and learn—in silence.” Helen cast a quick glance over Emily’s attire. “By the way, you look like you’re dressed for a day trip to the morgue. At least undo that top button for Christ’s sake.”

  Emily glared at the journalist. Begrudgingly, she did what she was told. Helen inspected her once more.

  “No makeup?”

  “I don’t wear it.”

  “Well, today you’re not you. You’re my intern. And my intern at least wears eyeliner. There’s some in my bag.”

  “Do I use my real name?”

  “I thought about that. Seeing how you’ve been snooping around, it might not be a good idea. So for today, your name is Meryl Silkwood.”

  Forests and fields zipped past the windows as the A2 merged with the M2. Traffic had thinned out considerably, prompting Helen to hit the accelerator.

  They headed northeast, past Higham and on towards Cliffe Woods. The road narrowed, slicing through villages of whitewashed houses with red slate roofs. Soon, they were driving along a winding private road. Wide stretches of gloomy-looking marshland rolled out in all directions.

  Emily fidgeted in the passenger seat, shooting anxious glances at Helen. It was a gamble having her involved. The journalist had already proven back at Meadow Pines that her ambition was greater than her compassion. That kind of reckless determination was either going to pay off in a good way—getting the required quote from Jonathan Hunt—or it was going to alert Valence Industries to the fact that they were being investigated. It was a risk Evan Holt seemed willing to take, even when Emily had warned him about Helen’s ruthless ambition.