She heard more squeals and whoops. When the man spoke again, his happy, polite tone was gone.
“Two hours, Miss Swanson. St. Katharine Docks. Warehouse three. I’ll send directions. You know what will happen if you involve the authorities.”
The floor was slipping away from Emily’s feet.
“I don’t have what you’re looking for,” she said. “Someone’s taken it.”
“Then I suggest you get it back. Two hours, Miss Swanson.”
The line went dead. Emily checked the time: 11.44 p.m. She spun on her heels. The lights bore down on her. The smell of antiseptic became a stench. She was going to be sick.
Emily ran along the corridor, burst through the double doors, and found herself back in A&E. Two hours. It would take her half of that time to get back to London. And then what?
Helen would be on her way to London Truth right now. Even if Emily could get there in time, how was she going to convince Helen to hand over the flash drive?
Emily hurried through the exit and out into the night. The air had grown cold. The sky was black and filled with thousands of stars. For a second, she was paralysed; captivated by they’re beauty. Then, she was waving down a taxi and hopping into the back.
“Where are we going?” the taxi driver asked.
“London,” Emily breathed.
The taxi pulled away from the kerb. Emily pulled out her phone and dialled Helen’s number.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
The taxi pulled up in front of London Truth’s offices at half past midnight. Helen paid the driver, who had been eyeing her cuts and bruises throughout the entire journey, then let herself into the building. It was dark; her colleagues had gone home hours ago. Some had tried calling and had left worried voicemails. People were concerned for her safety. Well, they needn’t be, Helen thought. She was just fine. She’d managed to get out of her car and run as hard as she could, away from those psycho assholes. Then, she’d hidden in street crowds and department stores, ignoring the stares and concerned looks, and growling at people to leave her alone when they offered help. She didn’t know how long she’d wandered for. An hour or two, maybe more. But at some point, she’d woken up from her shock-induced haze, and reality had struck. Night had fallen. The crowds had thinned. She had never felt more alone in the city.
Helen climbed the stairs and reached the office. She did not switch on the lights, but went straight to her desk and switched on her computer. Her phone was ringing. Emily was calling again. She’d already left several voicemails, none of which Helen had listened to. She knew what she’d done was awful. Possibly the most awful, underhand stunt she’d ever pulled. But Emily did not understand what Helen was trying to achieve. This wasn’t just about furthering her career. It was about journalism. It was about shining a light on corruption in the world. It was about telling the truth. If Emily had given the flash drive straight to the police, they would have investigated, made some arrests, and that would be the end of it. The police did not have the power of the press. And the people of the world deserved to see the evidence that would no doubt be buried by red tape and bureaucracy. This was the way that Evan Holt would have wanted it.
The computer was good to go. Helen took out the flash drive and plugged it into the USB socket.
Emily would never be convinced, but Helen’s decision to take the flash drive had been impulsive. After learning from Daniel what had happened to Jerome, she’d made her way to the hospital; partly out of concern, but mostly to discover what Emily had found. After all, Helen had almost been murdered—she had the right to know why. The moment she’d learned that Max Edwards’ evidence was right there in Emily’s pocket and that she was about to hand it over to the police, the decision to take it had been instantaneous.
So, she had lied. And it had been an awful lie. Somewhere beneath the hardened shell that was her conscience, she felt a pinch of guilt.
The flash drive had finished installing. Helen opened up the folder and clicked through the files. As she read, she gasped, and she cursed, and she grinned with excitement. It was far worse than she’d anticipated but far better than she’d hoped.
The newsroom was suddenly bathed in light.
Startled, Helen leapt up. She relaxed once she saw who was standing by the door.
“Normally, I don’t appreciate late night calls from my staff,” Christine Gates said, as she marched towards her. “But in this situation, despite the fact that you look like shit, I’m glad to hear you’re all right. Now, would you mind telling me where the fuck you’ve been? And why I’m here when I should be tucked up in bed getting my beauty sleep.”
“Believe me,” Helen said, nodding towards the screen, “when you see what I have, it’ll be worth the extra wrinkles.”
She drew in a large breath, then quickly relayed everything she knew about Valence Industries and their criminal activities, including the attack in the car park, and the murder of fellow journalist, Evan Holt. As the editor-in-chief listened, the lines in her forehead grew thick and deep.
When Helen had finished talking, Christine pointed at the computer screen. “How did you get this?”
Helen scratched an ear. “It fell into my hands, it doesn’t matter. What does matter, is what we’re going to do with it. We have a chance to get this out there before anyone else. An exclusive, Christine, to the biggest fucking story of the year. I could write it up, right here, right now. We could make the deadline for the next issue.”
Christine stared at the screen in stony silence. Running her tongue over dry lips, she clicked through the files.
Helen tapped her foot impatiently on the floor. “So? Is this the story that’s going to make our careers, or what?”
Christine drew back. Slowly, she shook her head. “No. I’m sorry, Helen. Come on, you know the rules. If we print this story before an arrest is made, we’ll be looking at a libel case big enough to bury us thirty-feet under.”
“There’s enough evidence here to put Jonathan Hunt away for years,” Helen said. “The police will make an arrest.”
Christine shook her head, over and over. “No. I can’t allow it. Even before we get to the lawsuit, this magazine is not big enough or strong enough to go making enemies with the police. You want an exclusive? Go through the proper channels. Broker a deal with the police—the flash drive for first rights to the story. They may go for it, they may not, but it’s the only way you’re getting what you want.”
Helen jabbed a finger at the screen. “I almost died getting this.”
“Then make sure the police know about it when you talk to them. I’m sorry, Helen. This story is big. It’s fucking huge. Which is why I can’t risk London Truth without doing things the right way.”
Anger welled up inside Helen. She had expected to be championed, commended for bringing London Truth what was undoubtedly its biggest ever story. But instead, she had been met by fear and cowardice. Well, that was just fine, she thought. The magazine didn’t go to press for another week anyway. She would take her evidence to the tabloids and sell it to the highest bidder. The day after tomorrow, her story would be front page news. Her name would be everywhere.
“Fine. You’re right,” she said. “It’s not worth the risk.”
Christine patted her on the shoulder. “Good girl. We’ll get that exclusive—we just need to do it by the book.”
Helen wanted to knock the editor’s hand away, to tell her to shove her job up her ass. Instead, she smiled and stared hungrily at the screen.
It was then that the office doors burst open and Emily Swanson came rushing in.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Emily was furious. As she bounded into the newsroom and caught sight of Helen, it was all she could do to stop herself from launching forwards with fists flying. The taxi driver had put his foot down all the way from Dartford, but it had still taken an hour to get here. Which left her with one more hour to deliver the flash drive to St Katharine Docks.
She advanced towa
rds Helen. “Where is it?”
Christine Gates stared open-mouthed at Emily, then at Helen, who was still staring at the computer screen and clicking away on the mouse.
“What’s this about?” Christine asked.
Emily ignored her. “You have no idea what you’ve done, Helen. Where is it?”
Helen finally turned to face her. “Relax. It’s right here. And you were right, we should take it to the police.”
It was not the response Emily had been expecting, and it only stoked her anger. “Then why the bloody hell did you take it from me? I’ve just had to leave Jerome in the hospital.”
Helen shrugged. “I did what I thought was right.”
“You mean, right for you! That’s all you’ve done throughout this whole investigation. Never mind anyone else!” Emily trembled with fury. “Evan Holt is dead because you had to go and tell Jonathan Hunt that we knew about TEL!”
“Evan Holt is dead because Valence murdered him!” Helen snarled.
Emily thrust out a hand. “I don’t have time for this. Just give me the bloody drive!”
Helen stared at her, unmoving.
Christine Gates wedged herself between the women. “Now, wait a second. Helen has agreed to take the flash drive to the police. I’ll see it’s taken care of, so try not to worry.”
“So you can get your exclusive? It’s too late for that!” Emily stretched out her fingers towards Helen. “Give it to me.”
Helen folded her arms. “You heard what Christine said. We’ll take care of it.”
Emily glared at the two women. Bloody journalists!
“They have Josh. Anya too. They’re going to kill them if I don’t bring them the flash drive.”
Christine’s hardened expression drooped. Helen flinched but made no move to retrieve the drive.
“Who are Anya and Josh?” Christine said.
“Josh Copeland is a little boy who’s going to die—along with his mother—if Helen doesn’t give me the drive. Please, I have less than an hour.”
There was a moment of terrible silence, which seemed to steal the air from the room. Helen shook her head.
“I’m sorry. You’re asking me to make a decision between saving two lives or millions of lives. As hard as it is, you know what the right answer is.”
Bitter tears stung Emily’s eyes. Helen was right—Emily did know the correct answer. Her outstretched hand remained.
“Give it to me.”
Their eyes locked. Helen clenched her jaw. Emily took a step towards her.
“For God’s sake, Helen!” Christine Gates grabbed hold of Helen’s chair, rolled her out of the way, then pulled the flash drive from the computer. “Some stories have to wait.”
She handed the flash drive to Emily. Emily thanked her, then turned to Helen.
“You need to take a good look at the people around you,” she said, barely able to control her temper. “Because if you keep going the way you are, pretty soon they won’t be there anymore. And believe me, it’s a very lonely path to choose.”
Refusing to meet Emily’s gaze, Helen shrugged a shoulder.
“People are overrated.”
Emily backed away, trembling with resentment and pity. “I don’t think I ever want to hear from you again.”
She spun on her heels and bolted from the newsroom.
The taxi was still waiting outside. Emily leapt into the backseat.
“Where next?” the driver asked.
Emily squeezed the flash drive in her fist. “St. Katharine Docks.”
It was now 12.57 a.m.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
St. Katharine Docks were situated just east of Tower Bridge. Heavily bombed during the Second World War, what was once a thriving, if not commercially successful part of the Port of London network, had since been redeveloped into a popular modern housing and leisure complex, complete with marina.
The taxi pulled up in a nearby empty car park at 1.23 a.m. As Emily fumbled in the dark for her wallet, the driver peered through the windscreen and shook his head.
“This isn’t any place for a woman on her own.”
Emily paid him, thanked him for his concern, then got out. She watched him drive away, waited for the headlights to fade into darkness, then she headed up a short flight of stone steps. Blood rushed in her ears. It would be easy. She would go in there, hand over the flash drive, take Josh and Anya to safety, and it would all be over. She would go back to the hospital, back to Jerome. Back to her ordinary life, which hadn’t been ordinary for a very long time.
Crossing a small footbridge, she descended the steps on the other side. A minute later, she came upon the quayside. The River Thames stirred in the night time breeze, lapping against the harbour walls, and rocking yachts and barges gently to and fro like a mother rocking her children to sleep. Modern warehouse-style apartment complexes flanked the marina, along with strips of restaurants and bars, now all closed for the night and shrouded in shadows.
Emily made her way through St. Katharine’s Docks, following the directions that had been texted to her. As she walked, she listened to the gentle slosh of the Thames and the soft creaks of the boats. The sounds did nothing to soothe her fear.
Taking a left, she moved away from the quayside and along a cobbled passage. She took another turn and found herself in a wide, open space, which was occupied by a number of warehouses. It didn’t take long to locate warehouse number three.
Her legs trembling beneath her, Emily slipped into the shadows and observed the warehouse from a safe distance. A strip of horizontal windows ran along the top of the building. Dull light shone out of them.
Emily squeezed the flash drive, hurting her fingers.
“You can do this,” she told herself. In a few minutes, you can go back to worrying about what to do with the rest of your life. She knew, of course, there was a strong possibility of something terrible happening to her instead.
Taking a deep breath, Emily held onto it for as long as she could, then let it out. Stepping from the shadows, she walked towards the warehouse.
As she reached the door, she stopped and turned to face the darkness of the yard. She thought she heard a noise, somewhere behind her on the left. And now, real or imagined, she felt eyes upon her.
Emily turned back to the door and reached for the handle. She froze, unable to escape the feeling that her past and her future were converging in this one spot. Then, turning the handle, she opened the door and stepped inside.
The warehouse looked derelict, but it still had power. Strips of lights hung from the ceiling, illuminating graffiti-covered walls, broken crates, empty boxes, scraps of metal, broken glass, and in the middle of the space, a man and a boy.
Emily recognised Josh Copeland immediately. He appeared unharmed as he sat cross-legged on a crate, playing with two toy trucks. As Emily came closer, he looked up and frowned.
The man whispered something to him, then leaving him to play, walked towards Emily. He was tall and slim, with sharp cheekbones and thinning grey hair. Dressed in jeans and a striped polo shirt he looked nothing like the menacing picture Emily had painted in her mind. But hadn’t that been Valence Industries’ modus operandi all along? To mask their cruelty with benevolence?
The man stopped three feet away.
“Miss Swanson, thank you for coming,” he said. “And early, too. I do appreciate punctuality. It shows respect for your fellow man, don’t you think?”
Emily did not reply. She leaned to the side, checking on Josh, then glanced around the cavernous warehouse. The three of them were quite alone.
“You’re not Jonathan Hunt,” she said.
The man smiled. It was a warm, inviting smile that made Emily feel strangely at ease.
“Indeed I am not.”
“Who are you?”
“An employee of sorts.”
Emily returned her gaze to Josh, who seemed quite content. “Where’s Anya. Why isn’t she here?”
The man clasped his ha
nds behind his back and continued to smile. “Miss Copeland is quite safe.”
“And after I give you what I have?”
“She will remain so. Some people have the good sense to hold onto their secrets, Miss Swanson. To take them to their graves.” He looked back at Josh, who appeared uninterested in the adults’ conversation. “Of course, it helps when they have an incentive. Miss Copeland has sworn to retain her discretion. And who are we to hold her accountable for the actions of others?”
“You mean she’s free to go on living like a prisoner?”
“Miss Copeland is free to live wherever she chooses.”
Emily realised then that the man was not lying. Not everyone had to die if they could be forced into silence. But the Copelands’ freedom, of course, was reliant on Emily handing over the flash drive. She could feel it in her pocket, tucked away like a vial of poison.
“So, Miss Swanson, shall we keep this brief?” the man said. “Someone here is up way past his bedtime.”
Josh shifted his gaze between the adults, then returned his attention to the toy trucks.
Emily moved a hand to her pocket. She hesitated. Then, she removed the flash drive. The man eyed it. He nodded.
“Very good.”
“What guarantee do I have that once this over I’ll be left alone?” Emily watched him carefully, analysing every twitch of his mouth and crease of his brow. Inside, her heart was beating like a hummingbird’s. Where were the other men? Why weren’t they here, taking the flash drive from her by force instead of waiting for her to politely hand it over. Why was she still alive and not face down in her bathroom, the staged victim of an accidental overdose?
The man’s smile remained steady and true. “Your silence will be your guarantee. It’s as simple as that. You see, it’s not the intentions of my employers to go around destroying lives, Miss Swanson.”
“Tell that to the millions of kids breathing in Valence’s poison right now.”
“However, if threatened,” he continued, “they will take measures to protect themselves.”
Cold Hearts Page 21
