“The project was Jonathan Hunt’s idea?”
“From day one. Max refused at first, thought about resigning right there on the spot. But the activist in him saw an opportunity.”
“By going ahead with Clean Water?”
Anya shook her head. “By bringing the company down from the inside. By the time ECG were brought in and I started working with Max, he’d already started snooping around their systems. I had no idea about any of this in the first few months. But as we worked together, we became close. Close enough for Max to trust me. He told me about Valence and TEL but made me promise to keep quiet about it. He wanted to find out more. There were signs, he said. Budgets not quite adding up. Unaccounted expenses. Mysterious donations. That’s when he brought Jason in, to hack into Valence’s system and take a closer look.
“I only met Jason once, at a bar. He and Max started talking about going to the press. I got scared. I didn’t want to know the things they were telling me, but at the same time, I didn’t want to be part of Valence’s smokescreen.” She shook her head, lowered her gaze to the carpet. “I should have quit right then and there. I thought about it, I did. But Max and Jason were so sure they were going to take Valence down that I started believing it myself. Then, one night, about a week before the launch, Max showed up at my house. He told me they’d found something big. Something criminal. But there wasn’t any of the excitement I’d seen back at the bar. Max was scared.”
“What did he find?”
Anya hesitated. She took a deep breath. Beside her, Emily bunched her fingers into anxious fists.
“The reason Valence Industries were able to dominate the markets in those countries with TEL was because they were getting rid of the competition.”
Emily heard Evan Holts words in her ear: I want to know why no unleaded alternative has tried to take their crown.
“How do you get rid of whole companies?”
Anya ran shaking fingers through her hair. “By arranging accidents, staging career-destroying scandals ... and by taking care of the people at the top.”
Emily stared at her.
“This is what Max and Jason uncovered,” Anya said. “Valence Industries have been bribing government officials in those countries with millions of dollars to fail their unleaded competitors at the testing stage. If there’s no suitable alternative...”
“There’s no one to stop Valence from selling TEL for as long as they like,” Emily gasped.
Anya nodded, grimly. “Meanwhile, Valence sit back and collect a fortune while the lives of millions of children are irreparably damaged.”
It all made a terrible sense now. The countries Valence had targeted were all in states of pandemonium. Civil war, violence, and poverty were a way of life. As was corruption. Emily raised a hand to her lips. What kind of government cared so little for its people? What kind of government actively took part in destroying the health of generations of children? She was sickened.
“I made the same face when I first found out,” Anya said. “Jason hacked into Jonathan Hunt’s emails. It was all there—all the exchanges between him and the various mediating agencies who took care of the dirty work. There was never direct contact between Valence and the governments, of course, but each month, payments were sent and competition was disposed of. Max and Jason found evidence of those transactions too. They made copies of everything. They were going to take it all to Evan Holt the day after the launch.”
Emily leaned forward. “Anya, what happened that night?”
“Max came to me, said he needed to talk to me in private. We arranged to meet upstairs in his hotel room. He told me to make sure no one saw me coming, so I made up the excuse Josh was sick, and I left the gala. When I met Max upstairs, he was in a bad way. He told me Jonathan Hunt was onto him, that that morning, he’d been called in to his office and questioned about a security breach. He told me someone had followed him home the night before. Max was terrified. But he knew there was no going back. The only choice was to make a move before they did—which meant making a move right then and there. He said we had to run. That the only way was to go into hiding, lay low for a few days, then contact Evan Holt again.”
Emily watched as Anya’s body sank like a punctured tyre.
“I panicked. I told him he was going too far, that he was putting us all in danger—that he was putting my son in danger. Believe me, I wanted him to bring Valence down. But I was never meant to be part of it. It’s all very exciting when you’re watching from a distance, but when they come knocking on your door, it’s a whole different matter. Max and I fought. I told him I wanted nothing more to do with what he’d found, that I was going to leave ECG. He accused me of being weak.” The sting of those words were still present on Anya’s face. “So I showed him how weak I was by storming out of his room and going home to my son.”
Emily tried to imagine herself in the same position. Would she have made the same decision as Anya? She wasn’t so sure. But then, she didn’t have a child to consider.
“And that was the last time you saw Max?”
Anya nodded. “And he was sober. He hadn’t touched a drop.”
They were both quiet for a moment, Anya haunted by memories and Emily frantically going over everything she’d learned.
“The evidence they found,” she said. “You saw it?”
“Yes. At my house that evening. That’s why I was so afraid. Max had made a list of names of the people involved. Jonathan Hunt might be at the centre of it all, but he’s small fry compared to some of the others. This isn’t just about Valence’s involvement, Emily. This goes further. Higher. How do you think they made contact with those governments in the first place?”
Emily caught her breath. She lowered a voice to a whisper. “What do you mean? That our government is involved?”
Anya slid her arms around her ribcage. “If you know politics, there are names on Max’s list you’ll recognise. There’s no price too high when your funds are limitless.”
Emily’s head was spinning. It was too much. Suddenly, the room felt hot and airless. She finally understood why Anya had run from the hotel room that night, and why she had been running ever since. Now, Emily had come blundering into the Copelands’ world, shining a great spotlight on mother and son, and putting their lives in danger once more. Guilt stabbed at her conscience.
“What did Max do with the evidence?”
Anya stood up, went to check the window again. “He had it with him in the hotel, ready to hand over to Evan Holt.”
“Surely he made copies?”
“I’m sure he did. And I’m sure Valence would have made it their business to find them all.”
“He didn’t give you a copy?”
“He tried. I refused.”
Emily asked her about the envelope that Max had given to the night porter. “He didn’t send it to you?”
Anya shook her head. “What about Evan Holt?”
“If was meant for him, he never received it.”
“Perhaps Valence intercepted it.”
It was possible, Emily thought. But that would mean Valence Industries had eyes everywhere. Did they really have that kind of power? Either way, she was getting no closer to finding Max’s evidence. A thought struck her.
“How did Valence know it was Max that was hacking into their system?”
She supposed that Jonathan Hunt would have had his suspicions about Max ever since he’d confronted him about TEL. But to kill him—to know Jason Dobbs was involved and end his life too—that kind of extreme reaction surely required irrevocable proof. Had someone been watching Max and reporting back to Hunt?
Over at the window, Anya watched the street. “You underestimate them. You shouldn’t. In some ways, I admire their tenacity.”
Emily’s jaw fell open. “You admire them?”
“For their dedication to their cause. It’s just unfortunate that what they believe in is a whole world of fucked up. Since when did yachts and second homes becom
e worth more than human lives?”
“We have to get you out of here. Somewhere safe.” Emily crossed the room and looked out of the window. It was a quiet, tree-lined street made up of Victorian houses and new-build apartment blocks. A handful of people sauntered by. Birds flitted from canopy to canopy. “Do you have family in London?”
Anya pressed her head against the glass, then closed her eyes. “My parents are in Bristol, but–”
“Okay, so we put you on a train. Right away. Right now.”
“There’s no point in–”
“It’s not safe here. So, you take Josh and stay with your parents for a little while. Until this is all over.”
Anya turned towards her. “For how long? A few days? A week? Do you even know what you’re going to do? You think one person against an entire corporation is going to win? Look at Max, at Jason. Look at my son. You don’t even have the evidence you need to bring Valence down.”
A small voice behind them made the women turn around.
“I’m thirsty.” Josh was in the bedroom doorway again, staring up at his mother, at the strange woman next to her.
“We were safe until you came here today,” Anya said. Her voice was cracked, defeated.
Emily placed a hand on her arm. “I saw you in the park, Anya—how can you be safe when you live every minute in fear?” She stole a glance at Josh, who was now standing in the middle of the room, staring impatiently at his mother. “Pack some things.”
“We’re going to see Nanny and Granddad?” Josh bounced with excitement.
Anya opened her arms and he scurried into them.
“Yes, we are.” She glared at Emily. “But just for a little while.”
“Good,” Emily breathed. “That’s good.”
All she had to do now was to get Anya and Josh safely across London without being seen.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Helen sat at her desk going over the story she’d just written; a small, satirical piece for London Truth about the recent tax relief scandal involving a number of high profile celebrities and politicians. It wasn’t her best work, but with the events of the last forty-eight hours, it would have to be good enough. Besides, her editor would get the subs to rewrite it, just like she’d done with her last article, allegedly to save her from a potential libel lawsuit.
Giving her eyes a break from the screen, Helen leaned back in her chair and stretched out her spine. An image of Evan Holt’s dead, naked body assaulted her mind. The room spun. Nausea bubbled in her stomach.
Standing up, she hurried past her busy colleagues and headed to the bathroom. It was empty. She dashed into a cubicle and vomited. When she was done, she dabbed her mouth with a tissue, flushed the toilet, then at the sink, splashed cold water on her face.
She thought about Evan again—not about his actual death, which was too grisly to have in her head—but about the timing of it. Just twenty-four hours had passed between the theft of Max Edwards’ diary from Emily’s apartment and Evan’s murder. How had Valence found him so quickly? Even if they’d gone through the diary straight away, they would have needed to know who Evan Holt was in the first place to have been able to find him. Helen had recognised his name instantly, but that was because she was a fan of his work, hoping to one day emulate his success as an investigative journalist. But would Evan have been known to Jonathan Hunt? It was possible, she supposed. His PR people would constantly be on the lookout for names like his. But still...
She glanced at her reflection in the mirror. She’d slept maybe three hours and the shadows around her eyes showed it. She’d lied to Emily. There was no boyfriend. Instead, Helen had returned to her flat and bolted the door. She hadn’t wanted to be around people. That was not her way of dealing with shock and upset. Her way was to be left alone, to process the event as quickly as possible, then to shut it away somewhere in the back of her mind. Usually, her method worked. But last night, when she’d finally fallen asleep, she’d been plagued by nightmares of being chased, of being caught, of being stripped and throttled. And when she’d woken, she’d immediately lunged for the knife she’d hidden beneath her pillow, and brandished it at the empty bedroom.
This behaviour was most unlike her. She was supposed to be the tough one. Tougher than her three older brothers. Tougher than her father, who’d said the only job she should be thinking about was settling down and birthing him grandchildren. Tougher than her mother, who said yes to her husband, and agreed with his opinions, and didn’t know what she would do without him.
“Get it together,” Helen whispered to her reflection.
Her reflection stared back with wide, frightened eyes.
Returning to the newsroom, she sat down at her desk and tried to zone out from the din of clacking keyboards and telephone calls. How had Valence Industries found Evan so quickly? Had Emily unwittingly told someone about him? It was entirely possible. She was, after all, a rank amateur who had somehow managed to stumble upon the story of the year—the kind of story that would not just elevate the profile of London Truth, but would also skyrocket Helen’s career. And wouldn’t she have earned the step up? If she hadn’t directed Emily to Evan Holt, then she would still be stumbling around in the dark, still convinced that Max Edwards had died because of his inability to keep his penis in the marriage bed.
Helen huffed. She should never have texted Emily. She should have contacted Evan Holt herself. Perhaps this whole sorry business would have been conducted a little more professionally. Perhaps Evan Holt might still be alive. Or perhaps if you hadn’t opened your big mouth and mentioned TEL, none of this would be happening.
A wave of nausea crested in her stomach again. She fought it down. No, this was not her fault. She had only been following her journalistic impulses like any forward-thinking journalist would.
So why was she the one sitting here, stuck at her desk writing some pointless article she didn’t even care about, while Emily Swanson was off chasing Anya Copeland and probably asking all of the wrong questions?
She would speak to Emily when they met later. She would make it clear who was the professional and who was the amateur. And she would demand exclusive rights to the story. Emily would probably whine and complain, but Helen would insist. She had risked her life. Valence could be watching her right now, waiting for her to leave the office so they could drag her off down a dark alley and hack her to pieces.
She looked over her desk, towards the smoked glass office doors. Or they could walk straight in and stick a knife in her gut. Would they be so arrogant? Helen trembled. The air grew thick around her, making it hard to breathe.
Yes, she would speak to Emily Swanson, and she would get what she deserved.
“Helen?”
Startled, she spun on her chair. Her colleague, Bill, stared down at her.
“Are you all right?” he said. “You look sick.”
Helen straightened. “Jesus, a hundred points for compliment of the week, Bill. Charm like that must work wonders for your wife’s self-esteem.”
“Okay... Well, a call just came in for you while you were in the bathroom. A Sally Turner? Said something about her landlord giving her an eviction notice. She wants to see you.”
Sally Turner was one of a handful of tenants Helen had recently interviewed for a feature on corrupt London landlords. Without any legal rent cap in place, many landlords were hiking up rental prices to extortionate prices, while providing little to no maintenance management when problems arose. Sally had been living in the same one-bedroom flat for the last four years and seen her rent increased each year. She’d also been living with ME, as well as chronic damp and mould issues that were affecting her health. After interviewing Sally, Helen had approached the property owner, who had slammed the door in her face and told her in no uncertain terms to ‘go fuck a lamppost.’
“I’ll call her back,” she said, turning away.
“Is that the rent piece?”
She turned back again to see the editor-in-chief, C
hristine Gates, standing next to Bill.
Bill nodded. “Sally Turner’s just been served an eviction notice. Reckons it’s because of the interview.”
“What’s your schedule like for the next couple of hours?” This was directed at Helen, who stared at her computer, then at the office doors.
“Well, I have the tax evasion piece...”
“That can wait. Get over to Sally Turner’s now and try and see what’s going on,” Christine said. “And put some makeup on. You look like hell.”
Helen opened her mouth to protest, but Christine was already walking away.
Bill shrugged an apology, then retreated to his desk. Helen returned her gaze to the doors. A cold tremor ran down the length of her back.
“Get it together,” she whispered.
She had her car. It was parked in the staff car park around the back of the building. There would be people in the street. Nothing was going to happen.
Logging off the computer, she picked up her bag, fished out her car keys, and made her way to the doors.
The corridor was empty, the stairs too.
Out in the street, she looked left, then right. It was a little after five-thirty. The pavements were already busy with pedestrians. Good, she thought. You see? Nothing is going to happen.
Turning down a narrow, litter-strewn alley, Helen hurried towards the car park. Her phone started ringing. While she waded through her bag to retrieve it, two young men with buzz cuts and bloodshot eyes entered the alley behind her.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The taxi ferried its passengers through the streets of Southfields. Sat in the front seat, Emily fixed her gaze on the wing mirror. Rush hour had started. Although Southfields was relatively suburban, traffic clogged the roads. The car behind them, a red Nissan, was driving close enough for Emily to make out the passengers—a female driver and a school girl who was busy texting.
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