The Deadly Truth

by Valerie Keogh

  Tipping water from a garden chair, she sat and let out a long defeated sigh. The evening still puzzled her. The outcome so far removed from what she’d expected, from the signals he’d given. Had she done something to put him off? Said something wrong? Melanie felt her eyes fill. She was being stupid. Even if her expectations had been met and she’d spent the night with Hugo, nothing would have come of it. Nothing could have. The shadow of Anne Edwards would have fallen over it and in the chill of that shadow, it would have withered and died.

  Anne Edwards. Melanie looked back into the living room to where she’d dropped her bag on the sofa. She pulled the teabag from her mug, chucked it into the shrubbery and took a sip; but camomile tea didn’t have sufficient soothing properties to make up for the tension that tightened around her forehead as her eyes lingered on her bag. Finally, with a soft growl, she put her mug down on a flagstone and headed inside.

  She’d only taken a small clutch bag with her to the restaurant and when she opened it her brightly-coloured phone stood out, almost taunting her. It wasn’t until she was sitting back on the garden chair that she looked at it, relief coming in a whoosh of exhaled breath to see that there were no more emails from nobody. There was, however, one from Hugo. She couldn’t help the jolt of pleasure in seeing it nor the pathetically grateful sigh as she read, You made me feel like a teenager tonight, I wanted so much to kiss you but I was afraid if I did, that I’d never want to let you go. Rushing you into a taxi seemed to be the safest thing to do. Friday can’t come soon enough.

  She wanted to cheer, to whoop in relief that she hadn’t somehow made a mess of it and then shook her head, feeling stupid for being so elated. But she was still smiling when she finished her tea, locked the doors, and headed to bed.

  Her good mood lasted until an unsettling thought crossed her mind. Someone knew about Anne Edwards. Would they have gone to the trouble of setting up an email address simply to send her that one message? It was unlikely. Very unlikely.

  The unsettling thought turned into a shiver of despair as, with grim certainty, she knew there was more to come.

  4

  Sunday was normally Melanie’s day to relax, catch up with housework, do some grocery shopping.

  She kept busy, and if her thoughts drifted she guided them firmly towards Hugo. Finally, she sat on the sofa with her dinner on a tray and tried to find something entertaining on TV, giving up in the end and picking up the book she’d been reading. She’d read a few chapters when she heard the ping that dragged her reluctantly back from the story to her apartment, her eyes widening as they slid to her phone. Tension ratcheted up immediately, and she felt her insides cramp. It could be Hugo, of course, but she knew it wasn’t.

  Swinging her feet to the floor, she stretched out and grabbed her phone. Her instincts had been correct, it was nobody and the message was the same. Anne Edwards. Nothing more.

  Again, she was tempted to send a reply, her fingers hovering over the keys. What would she say? What could she say except why or who? With a grunt of frustration, she dropped the phone onto the sofa beside her and relaxed against the cushions, her thoughts slipping back through the years to the pretty, naïve fifteen-year-old, Anne. One of the counsellors she’d seen over the years, and there’d been many, had said she needed to forgive herself for what she’d done because until she did so, the pain of guilt would continue to eat away. But, of course, she hadn’t been able to tell them the whole truth, making a vague reference to something regrettable in her youth. They hadn’t pushed her for more, maybe seeing the set look that came on her face whenever she thought about what she’d done.

  Only one counsellor had been bluntly honest. Crossing stubby arms across a flat chest, she’d looked directly at Melanie. ‘I don’t know why you wanted to see me if you’ve no intention of telling the truth. You’re wasting your time and money. If you were looking for a magic get-out-of-jail card, let me tell you, it doesn’t exist.’

  Melanie had smiled, appreciating the honesty, but if the counsellor had thought it would be the wake-up call that she needed, she’d been wrong. Melanie had stood, thanked her and left, and she’d never seen a counsellor again. It meant that the guilty pain lingered and sometimes it overwhelmed her but, mostly, she’d learned to live with it.

  When it overwhelmed her, like tonight, it proved itself a poor bed-companion. The dream that had haunted her since her childhood returned, as it often did, to leave her shaken. When she finally got back to sleep the remainder of the night was a series of restless periods of slumber filled with dark shadows and creeping menace interrupted by wide-awake moments where memories reeled and spun. She gave up when her clock hit five, climbing wearily from bed and standing for a long time under a cool shower, hoping it would make a difference. If it did, it wasn’t obvious when she looked in the mirror.

  With careful application of slightly more make-up than usual, she looked a little better and satisfied, she headed to work at the same time as she’d done since she’d started with Masters Corporate Law. As junior partner, she didn’t need to be in the office quite as early but habits of a lifetime were hard to break. Anyway, she’d been told her office was ready and being in the newly-painted, small but quite swish office beat sitting at home wondering what was going to happen next. That something was going to happen, she was sure of. Whoever nobody was, they weren’t going to be content with letting her know they knew, they’d do something more, or perhaps ask for something. Blackmail. It had been in the back of her mind since she’d first seen the email. It would, she thought, account for why whoever it was had waited this long. As a partner, even a junior one, she was set to make seriously good money. Someone wanted their share, to make her pay for what she’d done all those years before.

  Her new office was on the second floor. It was small and simply furnished with a desk, two chairs, a tall filing cabinet and a strangely ornate coat hook on the back of the door. A square bay window overlooking the street to the front of the building provided maximum light. Through the side panels of glass on the left of the bay, she could see the front door and watch the coming and going of staff, briefcases either clasped under their arms or swinging casually from their hands. A great place to people-watch if she had the time.

  She’d been invited to her first meeting with the senior partners at ten; she had time to spare but things she could be doing rather than staring out the window. There were a few personal belongings remaining in her old shared office, she collected them, put them away and looked around the room with a sense of pride. Here she’d continue the work she loved, the intricacies of mergers and acquisitions, the complexities of due-diligence reports and the simple, but necessary, background checks that were part and parcel of her job. She swung around in her chair to look at the window again. It needed a plant; she’d get one at the weekend.

  With everything sorted, she switched on her computer and checked for any new reports or emails. There were a couple of each, easily and quickly dealt with and she was about to switch off when she saw there were still twenty minutes remaining before the meeting. Almost of their own volition, her fingers flew over the keyboard and typed the name Hugo Field into the search area.

  She’d thought about doing it the day before but, although she knew people did it all the time, she’d resisted, almost nervous about checking him out, afraid she’d find out he was married or wasn’t who he said he was. Her friend, Caitlin, said she never went on a date without doing a thorough background check first. ‘It’s simply a new tool in an old battle,’ she’d said when Melanie had raised an eyebrow. Now, here she was with Hugo’s name in the search field, about to do what she’d silently criticised her friend for doing. With only a slight hesitation, she pressed the return key.

  It was, to her surprise, a common name. She discounted the first few; the estate agent, jazz musician and the gardener, scrolling down, her eyes peering at the information and flicking to the time on the corner of the screen. Still ten minutes to spare but there were sev
eral pages to scroll through. It was on the third page that she found him, eyes narrowing to peer at the thumbnail photo at the top of the screen above the beautifully calligraphed Hugo Field, Architect. There was no mistake. It was a simple website detailing his qualifications, showing photographs of finished commissions and inviting people to contact him for terms and conditions. No personal details at all which was a little disappointing but not, she supposed, unexpected.

  She stared at his photo, feeling her pulse race a little. He was so handsome, and even in this small business photo she could see his eyes were kind. With an eye on the time, she took a screenshot, edited out the text and sent the photo to her phone.

  It was time to go. She switched off the computer, slipped on her jacket and checked herself in the small mirror she kept in the drawer of her desk. Not a hair out of place and, apart from the hint of sadness she saw lurking in her eyes that even looking at Hugo’s photo hadn’t managed to dispel, she looked fine. She fixed her expression into one suitable for a corporate lawyer and hurried from the office.

  The structure within Masters followed what they liked to refer to as tradition even though the company had been formed a mere twenty years before. There were three senior partners, ten junior partners, and senior and junior associates whose numbers were dynamic, mainly because many quickly discovered that the generous salaries came with long hours and the high expectation that Masters came before everything else.

  Moving up the ranks was a slow process as people rarely left Masters of their own accord. Six weeks earlier, when one of the senior partners passed away following a short illness, the shocked silence that followed his death was quickly filled with speculative muttering as to who would be promoted from the junior partner ranks, and in turn who would be promoted to junior partner from among the senior associates.

  Melanie wasn’t the longest-serving senior associate but she had worked hard over the years, always first in the office in the morning and last to leave at night. She was also diligent and uncomplaining and if there were envious eyes turned her way when she was promoted, the same people acknowledged the decision was a good one.

  It had been a good one, Melanie was excellent at what she did. Meeting Hugo was the cherry on top of it all. She tried to push the thoughts of nobody from her mind as she waited for the lift to take her to the top floor where the senior partners had offices.

  It was also where the conference room was situated and it was here that the meeting was to be held. Melanie hesitated in the corridor outside before she went in, nervously smoothing a hand over her hair, straightening the sleeve of the jacket, adjusting the collar of her shirt. It wasn’t a large room and it was dominated by a square mahogany table with a matching, incredibly uncomfortable-looking chair at each side. The fours chairs were identical but she knew if she sat it would be in the wrong one, so she stayed standing, moving over to the small window to stare out at the puffs of cloud that skittered by in the bright blue winter sky.

  Her fingers tightened on the windowsill. This should be her moment, payback for the years of hard work she’d put in, a chance to move on and put her past well and truly behind her. She should be feeling pride and satisfaction but, instead, her head echoed with that name from her past.

  She pushed it away and focused on memories of Hugo’s amazing brown eyes. It was surprisingly effective and she was in a calmer frame of mind when the partners arrived five minutes after the hour. They strode in, their jackets left behind in their offices, shirtsleeves rolled up, ties loosened, but she wasn’t fooled by their artfully casual appearance. These men, she knew, had balls of steel.

  Within seconds, she was sorry she’d put her jacket on. The room was warm and the sun, low in the sky, was slanting her way. Even worse, the seat she was directed to was only several inches from a tall, modern radiator that was pumping out heat. Trying not to let her discomfort show, she sat with both feet on the ground and her hands resting one on top of the other on the table in front of her as she waited to hear what they had to say.

  Richard Masters, son of the founder William Masters and as such considered the more senior of the senior partners, sat in the middle position. He was a thin man with stylishly-cut thick white hair and a remarkably deep voice. Melanie had always found him intimidating. ‘We’d like to offer you our congratulations on your promotion. You’ve impressed us all’ – he inclined his head towards each of his colleagues – ‘with your dedication, commitment and attention to detail.’ Clearing his throat, he reached for his water glass and took a sip before continuing. ‘We’re not the only ones either. You did some work for Fanton’s Investment Management last year and they were so impressed that they’ve asked for you, personally, to handle their upcoming merger with CityEast Investment.’ He stopped to allow this news to sink in.

  Stunned, Melanie felt excitement bubble. She’d expected to be given more high-profile clients but this exceeded everything. These were two well-regarded investment institutions. ‘That’s excellent news,’ she said, trying to keep her voice professionally neutral. ‘I’m honoured to be offered such high-profile clients and I assure you I will give them one hundred per cent.’

  Richard smiled slightly as if one hundred per cent was the least they’d expect. ‘I’ll have all the necessary information sent to you, and of course you may co-opt as many associates as you think you’ll need.’

  She’d need a couple, at least; there was going to be mountains of documentation to check, negotiations to manage, reports to complete. The rest of the meeting went by in a blur. When she realised the room had fallen silent around her, she dragged herself back, looked from expectant face to expectant face and wondered what it was she’d been asked. ‘Sorry…?’

  ‘I merely commented that it was a shame your mother couldn’t be here to see your success,’ Richard said patiently.

  Her mother. Melanie pressed her lips together and looked down to shield her lying eyes, hoping he’d see her reaction as sorrow. When her mother had died, several years before, she’d taken the opportunity to reinvent their relationship, mentioning to colleagues how supportive her mother had been over the years, making her past sound happy and normal. Melanie had told the same lie when she’d been promoted to senior associate, telling the senior partners then how proud her mother would have been, the lie almost sticking in her throat because she knew her mother would have said exactly what she’d said at every single success, big and small, a variation on the same belittling, soul-destroying words she always used.

  ‘Yes,’ she said now, looking at him. ‘She would have been very proud.’

  ‘If that’s all?’ Richard said, with a glance at his colleagues who both inclined their heads in agreement.

  ‘Before I go,’ she said, quickly, ‘I’d like to take this opportunity to thank you all for your faith in me, I promise you I will do everything in my power to ensure it is warranted.’

  ‘I have no doubt,’ Richard said with an enigmatic smile.

  And that was it. She stood and made her exit, her head buzzing with excitement. On the second floor, she passed her office and continued along the corridor to the staffroom, grateful to find it empty. She took off her jacket and opened the small window that looked out onto the side wall of another building only a few feet away. A slight breeze carrying the scent of spices from the Indian restaurant next door drifted in. Cool and aromatic, it chilled her body and calmed her mind. This merger was exactly what she needed. Making plans and devising strategies were her forte. It was what made her the perfect corporate lawyer.

  Taking a coffee back to her office, she sat and switched on her laptop to find that Richard had already sent the relevant details of the proposed merger and over the next few hours she read through them, taking copious notes and scribbling ideas as she went. It was going to be all-consuming, she decided when she finished. Luckily, her other cases were almost finished, merely requiring a few formalities before completion.

  By the time she decided to finish for the day, s
he’d organised several meetings, chosen a couple of associates who weren’t bogged down in their own cases to give her a hand and had drawn up a plan of what needed to be done.

  It wasn’t until she’d opened the door into her apartment later than usual that evening that she realised she hadn’t given either Hugo or nobody a thought since early morning. She suspected she’d blown both up out of proportion. For goodness’ sake, she’d only met Hugo once and she’d turned him into a knight in shining armour and as for those silly emails, a quiver ran through her as she attempted a brave, dismissive, ‘Pshaw’. She’d forget about them, this merger needed her undivided attention, there was no room for romantic nonsense or worrying about her past. Fixing herself some dinner, she sat at the kitchen table to eat, half watching the news, half thinking about her day. The senior partners had put a lot of trust in her, she was determined not to let them down.

  She rarely drank during the week but she felt a celebration was in order. There was a bottle of Chablis in the fridge; she opened it, poured a small glass and took it through to the living room. It would have been pleasant to sit outside but heavy rain pattering against the glass told her that wasn’t to be. Instead, leaving the lights out, she pulled a small sofa nearer to the French window and sat with her glass of wine listening to the almost hypnotic sound of the raindrops.

  It wasn’t her wine glass falling to the carpeted floor that woke her, gasping from a dream where something was trying to grab her, blocking her path no matter which way she ran, something with long feelers and gaping drooling suckers. It had been a scarily creepy dream but it wasn’t the reason her eyes snapped open. It had been a noise. Fear swept over her in a wave and she stood, moving away from the windows, her eyes searching the room. Was there somebody here? But there was enough light drifting in from the hallway to show her that she was alone. Holding her breath, she listened but if there was someone in the apartment, they were being as quiet as she. It took a few seconds for the truth to hit her and she dropped onto the sofa behind her. Of course there was nobody in the apartment. Her dream had momentarily disorientated her. The sound that had woken her, she knew what it was now, her mobile alerting her to a new email.