The One You Trust: Emma Holden Trilogy: Book Three

by Paul Pilkington

  Pausing after half an hour to make a coffee, he yawned his way through to the kitchen. When he returned to the machine with his cappuccino, another digital folder of photos on the screen caught his eye. It was the photographs he had taken for Emma and Lizzy, which had revealed the identity of the man who had been following them.

  He opened up a slide show and sat back as the images faded in and out, one after another. It was the first time he had gone back to them since his meeting with Emma and Lizzy, around eight weeks ago, and he didn’t know what was drawing him to look at them again now. Maybe it was because he was proud of what he had done: the act had been reparation for his earlier behaviour, when, at the behest of a client, Guy Roberts, he had not only invaded the privacy of Emma and her friends, but also frightened her by taking paparazzi-style photos that were later splashed across the newspapers. The photos – taking advantage of the distressing circumstances surrounding Dan Carlton’s disappearance – had been an attempt by Guy Roberts to stir up publicity for his up-coming film, in which Emma had been cast.

  David knew that his behaviour, motivated by the need for money following a downturn in his photography business, had been shameful. But the photographs he had in front of him now had sought to put things right.

  He paused the slide show and focused on one of the images. It had been taken in Windsor, just outside the castle. Emma and Dan were on the left side of the photograph, and there, lurking behind a group of tourists, was the man who had masqueraded as Stephen Myers. Image after image, there he was – close to Emma and Dan, but far enough away to stay out of their immediate sight – Scott Goulding, the actor hired by Sally Thompson to impersonate Emma’s stalker. Sally blamed Emma (unfairly, David thought) for the death of her fiancé. She had used Scott Goulding as a means of taking revenge on Emma.

  David shook his head in sympathy for her, clicking on a different folder to be able to see the photos of the man talking to Guy Roberts on his Notting Hill doorstep. Yes, he was very pleased with these. The images might not have been perfect, they might not have had the visual impact of his portrait shots, but they had been far more valuable and rewarding.

  They had enabled Emma Holden to identify her tormentor, and take action.

  He wondered how Emma was doing. Emma and Dan had actually invited him to the wedding in Cornwall – as a proper guest, not a photographer. Unfortunately, he’d had a prior booking, but it had been nice to be asked, and a huge surprise. It had proved that in their eyes, he had make good his earlier damage.

  He was about to close down the image folder when a thought occurred to him – something that his subconscious had seen in the photographs suddenly rose to the surface. Is my mind playing tricks on me? He reopened the image of Emma and Dan outside the castle.

  ‘Can it be . . . ?’

  He clicked through another half-dozen photographs, his nerves tightening with each confirmatory shot.

  There was no doubt at all about what he was seeing.

  Chapter 6

  ‘Feeling better this morning?’ Dan was sitting up in bed as Emma came through from the bathroom, a fluffy white towel wrapped around her. Waking early from her shallow sleep on their final Sunday morning in Mauritius, she’d decided the best thing was to get up and have a shower.

  ‘More positive,’ she said, perching on the edge of the bed. Following the Friday night at the restaurant, they’d spent a lazy Saturday around the hotel, lounging by the pool and beach, after which they’d talked again about their anxieties, trying to put things into perspective. ‘I feel like we can put everything behind us, at last.’ She looked across at Dan, his hair ruffled in the way it always was in the morning, and smiled.

  Dan moved across the bed towards her and placed a kiss gently on her cheek. ‘That’s great,’ he said. ‘Fantastic. We have to move on, Em, we really do. Otherwise, we might as well be the ones in jail, not Peter Myers.’

  Emma nodded, wrapping another towel around her still-damp hair. ‘And I’ve decided, I’m definitely going to meet the counsellor. It can’t do any harm.’

  ‘As I said, you should do whatever you think is best. I’ll support you.’

  ‘And maybe if she’s as good as Miranda says she is, you might be tempted to meet her, too.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Dan said, rising from the bed and stretching luxuriously as he peered out of the glass balcony doors. ‘Just look at the view out there.’ He padded over to the doors, and Emma wondered whether he would ever take up the offer of speaking to someone about what he had gone through. Maybe he didn’t need that kind of support. But his evasive reaction every time Emma mentioned talking to someone, and his continued silence over what had happened, pointed towards the fact that Dan was still struggling to come to terms with being imprisoned by Peter Myers.

  ‘I’m really going to miss that view,’ Emma said, as she joined him at the doors.

  The sky was a flawless blue, and the sea sparkled like thousands of diamonds.

  Dan slid the doors open, allowing cool air to drift in. ‘Me too. And it feels nice and fresh out there – perfect weather for a swim and a walk on the beach. We should make the most of the morning, before we have to say goodbye to all this.’

  ‘You’re right.’ Emma hurried to get dressed. The minibus was due to pick them up at one o’clock, delivering them to the airport in good time for their 4.30 p.m. flight back to Heathrow. Twelve hours later, they would land in a much colder and, probably, wetter England, with only the memories of this magical island remaining.

  They headed down for their final champagne breakfast, which they enjoyed on the open-air decked area that overlooked the beach, then spent the rest of the morning walking along the golden sand, swimming in the warm sea, and making use of the all-inclusive bar – sticking to non-alcoholic drinks in view of their up-coming flight.

  Emma sat up on the sun lounger as Dan handed her a glass of Mauritius Sunshine Surprise, a particular favourite of hers – a blend of orange and mango, and a number of other tropical fruits, served in a tall, frosted glass. ‘Here you go.’

  She took a cooling sip as she looked at the ocean. ‘I’m really going to miss this.’

  ‘What, the view or the drink?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘Here,’ Dan said, handing Emma a piece of paper. ‘Something that might ease the pain of leaving. A little bit of Mauritius that we can take back to London with us.’

  ‘They agreed to give you it!’ Emma read down the ingredients list and instructions for making the cocktail.

  Dan smiled. ‘I managed to persuade the barman.’

  ‘But how?’

  The cocktail was advertised as a hotel secret special, and the barman, who was otherwise the friendliest, most helpful man you could ever hope to meet, had, two days ago, refused to reveal exactly how it was made.

  ‘Well, yesterday I tried asking again, nicely. Then I tried begging. And then I just made a deal.’

  Emma pulled up her sunglasses to look Dan in the eye. ‘A deal?’

  ‘I swapped the recipe for something.’

  ‘What?’

  Dan hesitated. ‘One of my Manchester United shirts.’

  ‘You didn’t!’

  ‘Afraid so. It was an old one, from a couple of seasons back. It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘The shirt they wore in the European Cup final?’

  Dan looked caught out. ‘Er, yes. I was hoping you might not remember that fact.’

  ‘But that’s one of your favourite things,’ Emma said, her heart filling at what Dan had just done for her. ‘You swapped that for the cocktail recipe?’

  ‘It’s just a shirt.’ Dan laughed it off. ‘It’s no big deal.’

  Just then Emma spotted the shirt. The barman was already wearing it, along with the broadest smile she had ever seen.

  ‘Hey, look, I’ve made two people very happy,’ Dan said, also noticing as the barman showed off the shirt to a customer. ‘He’s a huge United fan – said he’s been supporting them for twenty-
five years, and he watches all the games he can get to see on the TV here. His dream is to go to Old Trafford.’

  Emma continued to watch, as the barman simulated scoring a header. ‘I can’t believe you did it.’

  Dan shrugged. ‘I wanted to. Now you can make your drink at home – a little bit of Mauritian sunshine in soggy, grey London.’

  Emma kissed Dan. ‘You’re a big softy, Dan Carlton. Thank you.’

  ‘Anything for you, Em.’

  The day passed quickly and, before they knew it, they were saying goodbye to the hotel and clambering aboard the minibus, which was already busy with fellow departing holidaymakers. The journey to the airport took less than an hour, and within no time they had checked in and found a couple of seats in the airport’s waiting area. But it was only when they climbed the steps to the aeroplane and entered the cabin that reality hit Emma. This was the end of the honeymoon, and they were, indeed, returning to reality.

  She watched from the window as they prepared for take-off. Dan cupped his hand over hers as the plane taxied away from the terminal, heading for the top of the main runway. He knew that she wasn’t fond of taking off.

  For Emma, it was definitely the worst part of any flight. Maybe it’s a family trait, she thought, given Will’s similar, but worse, fear of flying. The plane came to a halt for a minute or so, and she shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

  I’m still your number one fan.

  This thought was unexpected and unwelcome. Emma glanced across at Dan, who smiled reassuringly.

  The noise level rose as the engines sped up and, seconds later, propelled the plane forward at unnerving speed.

  I can’t wait to see you again, Emma.

  Emma gripped the arm rests of her seat as the plane rose into the sky, angling into the blue, leaving the ground far behind. She closed her eyes as the plane banked a hard right, gaining altitude as it turned.

  I’m so glad you’re coming back to me.

  Emma tried to shut out the thoughts.

  She would arrange the counselling appointment for that week, if at all possible.

  Lizzy spent most of Sunday in her apartment, worrying about how she was going to tell Emma about what had happened while she and Dan were away. It was a conundrum. Was it fair to relay bad news just as Emma returned from her amazing honeymoon, to the start of her new life? She considered not telling Emma about the person who had been sending letters, and what he had left, but she knew she had to. What if she kept quiet and then something happened? She would never forgive herself. No, she had to tell her. The question was, when? Ideally, she wanted to give Emma some time to settle back in – maybe a few days of ignorant bliss, before she burst her bubble.

  She picked up the photograph again. ‘There must be another explanation,’ she murmured to herself. Except that she hadn’t been able to think of one.

  She glanced at her watch. Emma and Dan would have taken off by now.

  What if I just get rid of the photograph?

  There was no doubt that the image, if it was how it looked, had the potential to jeopardise Emma and Dan’s relationship.

  Maybe it’s better to talk to Dan first.

  But that could be an even higher-risk strategy.

  As much as she hated to think it, if the photograph showed what it purported to show, challenging Dan could be downright dangerous.

  Chapter 7

  ‘Lizzy, great to see you!’

  Emma and Lizzy hugged in the doorway to Emma’s flat. Lizzy’s smile masked her concerns about what she was about to do. After more consideration, she had decided that the best course of action was to tell Emma about everything as soon as practically possible, and take things from there. Anything else – leaving things to fester, or approaching Dan first – was just asking for more trouble.

  ‘Recovered from the jet lag?’ Lizzy asked, as she followed Emma inside.

  ‘Pretty much, although I still don’t feel one hundred per cent. I went for a run before breakfast, and my legs felt so heavy.’

  Lizzy had given Emma and Dan the Monday to recover from the flight, calling first thing on Tuesday morning.

  ‘How about Dan, was he okay for work?’

  Lizzy knew that Dan was already back at work, which had given her the perfect opportunity to discuss this most sensitive of issues in private.

  ‘Yeah, fine,’ Emma replied, filling the kettle. ‘I think he was quite looking forward to getting stuck back into things, to be honest.’

  Lizzy took a seat at the table. She watched her friend preparing the tea, wishing that she wouldn’t have to do this. She looked happier than she’d seen her in a long time. ‘You look really good, Em.’

  ‘Thanks. I feel good.’ Emma smiled at her.

  ‘So the honeymoon was fantastic, I assume?’

  ‘Amazing. The best holiday ever. Lizzy, everything about it was just, well, perfect! The hotel, the island, all the things we did—’

  ‘I don’t need to know about that,’ Lizzy joked.

  Emma grinned. ‘You know what I mean. It was just paradise, Lizzy.’

  ‘Sounds it. So you’re not glad to be back, then?’

  ‘In some ways, no. It’s good to come back home, don’t get me wrong, but we were just so carefree out there, as if nothing else mattered apart from us – no external factors could affect our happiness. It was all under our control. But I guess real life isn’t like that, really, is it?’ She handed Lizzy a cup of tea.

  ‘No, it isn’t.’ Emma didn’t know the half of it. ‘So, you and Dan, you’re still getting along well?’ Lizzy hoped the question sounded light, rather than serious.

  Emma looked at her. ‘Of course!’

  ‘That’s great, glad to hear it.’ Maybe she wouldn’t tell her now. Maybe she just couldn’t bear to do it at this point. To give her bad news so soon, it was just cruel, wasn’t it?

  But then she glanced at the table top, and saw a familiar-looking grey envelope on top of the small pile of letters there.

  ‘Are you okay, Lizzy?’

  ‘What? Er, yes,’ Lizzy replied, caught staring dead-eyed at the letter. It was definitely the same handwriting as before. ‘Your post,’ she said. ‘You’ve not opened it yet.’

  Emma reached for the pile. ‘No. I was just about to when you arrived.’ She looked at the front and back of the offending letter, obviously intrigued as to what it was, and started to slide her finger under the seal.

  ‘Don’t!’ Lizzy said, holding out a hand.

  Her reaction shocked Emma into stopping what she was doing, and she stared at her friend.

  Lizzy calmed her voice. ‘Don’t open it, please, don’t open it yet. Not until I’ve had a chance to explain.’

  ‘I don’t understand. You know what it is?’ Emma held the letter out towards Lizzy, as if asking for advice as to what to do.

  Lizzy swallowed her fears. ‘I know who sent it. Whatever’s in there, it won’t be good.’

  Emma watched Lizzy’s face, then realised what it all meant. She shook her head in disbelief and horror. ‘Please, Lizzy, don’t say that this isn’t over . . .’

  ‘I’m sorry, Emma, I’m so sorry.’

  Emma’s face was white. ‘No, it’s finished . . . we had the happy ending – the wedding, the honeymoon . . .’

  Lizzy didn’t know what to say. She felt sick. ‘I know, I know.’

  Emma was now holding the letter with a look of revulsion on her face. ‘How do you know who sent this?’

  ‘I don’t know the identity of the person, but I recognise the handwriting – there have been other letters.’

  Emma’s eyes widened. ‘More? To here?’

  ‘While you were away. But addressed to me.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Emma stared at Lizzy. ‘And you don’t know who they’re from?’

  ‘No,’ Lizzy said. ‘But I saw the person. They were wearing a cap. I interrupted them on Friday morning, hand-delivering one of the letters. They’d been downstairs at the post tr
ays. I didn’t see their face. I chased after them, but the person was too fast.’

  Emma was shaking her head. ‘My God. What did the letters say?’

  Lizzy’s heart was breaking as she watched her friend descend once again into the nightmare. A few sentences was all it had taken to destroy the happiness that had been flourishing in the newly married Emma Carlton.

  ‘Not very much. Short messages, about trust.’

  ‘Trust?’

  ‘Warning me, asking me who I trusted.’

  Emma was still struggling to take this in. ‘And they were addressed to you, but delivered here?’

  Lizzy nodded. ‘Whoever it is, they knew that you were away, and they also knew that I would be coming over to your flat.’

  Emma put a hand to her forehead. ‘I can’t believe that this is happening. I thought it was all over, I really did.’

  ‘I know. Me too.’

  Emma looked up. ‘Who do you think it is? It couldn’t be Scott Goulding again, could it?’ She shuddered as she remembered again how the actor who had impersonated Stephen Myers had stalked them, as he had been convinced by Sally Thompson that he was auditioning for a part in the Emma Holden docudrama.

  ‘I’m not sure where the motive would be. Last time it was clear: he was tricked into doing what he did because of what Amy – I mean, Sally – told him. He was just playing a part, and it was for a specific purpose.’

  ‘I agree. It wouldn’t make sense. Unless this time he’s being paid to do it. We know he was having trouble finding work.’

  ‘Possibly. Although I wasn’t sure the build of the person I chased matched him, but it was hard to tell, because things happened so fast.’

  ‘And he did seem genuinely sorry for what he had done,’ Emma said, now more convinced that Scott wasn’t a likely candidate. After David Sherborn’s photographs had identified him, which had led them first to Guy Roberts and then to Scott himself, he had confessed to what he had done and why, and had appeared to be extremely remorseful. In fact, he had been the one to alert them to Sally’s plans for the parachute jump.