Something suddenly puzzled her and she sat back and stared out the window. Whoever was responsible had made up a scandal to disgrace Cherry, but they didn’t need to make up one to destroy her. It was there, waiting. So why didn’t they use it? Or, she frowned, was that the next step? Were they torturing her by dragging out the inevitable disclosure? Maybe she’d arrive at the meeting tomorrow, or the more important one with the two CEOs on Friday and see strained faces and a disgusted, disappointed look in eyes that refused to meet hers. There’d be nudges, whispers, conversations that died when she walked into a room and barely disguised sniggers. Her belly knotted at the thought of going through it all again. Last time, she’d been a child, she didn’t think being an adult would make it any easier.
She pulled out her mobile and checked her emails again. Nothing.
With a gulp and a frustrated shake of her head, she tried once again to concentrate on the reports and managed to get through most of them before the train pulled into King’s Cross.
She’d have liked the comfort of a taxi to take her home but she settled for the speed and efficiency of the tube. It was a mere ten minutes’ walk from the nearest station to her apartment, a short walk on a dry day, a long, long way when the rain was coming down in a deluge that darkened the day, blurred the edges of the city she knew and soaked through her coat within seconds. By the time her damp fingers fumbled with the key to her front door she was wet, weary and more than a little anxious.
In the hallway, she kicked off her shoes and padded into the kitchen, leaving curiously-shaped patches behind her on the pale wooden floor. Her coat was wet through, she peeled it off and threw it over the back of a chair before eyeing the dark patches on her shirt in disgust. Her showerproof coat was most definitely not British rainproof. She took a step towards the doorway, stopping to turn and slip her laptop from her briefcase, setting it up on the kitchen table and plugging it in to charge. It would be ready to go whenever she got back to it. Unable to resist, she checked her phone again. One email from one of the associates, acknowledging her earlier email. Nothing else.
She’d half-expected one from Hugo. Friday. It was only two days away, wasn’t he going to contact her to… how had he put it… firm up arrangements. His last email had given her so much hope, had she been fooling herself? She gave a dismissive shrug that developed too quickly into a defeated slump as that thought took hold. It would crush her if she let it.
Deciding that being cold and hungry didn’t help her mood, she rang her local Italian restaurant and ordered a takeaway. She hung up on the promise it would arrive within fifteen minutes and headed into her bedroom to change into a brushed jersey sweatshirt and leggings. Comfortable but still feeling miserable, she found it impossible to resist the temptation to check again for emails. This time, to her surprise, there was one from Hugo. The earlier defeatist thought was still ringing in her ears and she hesitated. Was he emailing to cancel? Only one way to find out. She tapped the email icon and watched as the words appeared, blinking in pleasure when she read, Looking forward to Friday. I can pick you up, if you like.
She read it twice, her mood instantly lifting. And then more doubt piled in. If he picked her up wouldn’t it follow that he’d take her home? So, did the offer come with an expectation? She hadn’t wanted to play games but it seemed like she’d been co-opted into this will he/won’t he, should she/shouldn’t she tango.
It wasn’t a good time to waste energy playing mating games. On Friday, she had the meeting with the CEOs of the two financial institutions involved in this merger. It was a key meeting; and likely to be a stressful day. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to meet Hugo that day, she would cancel.
She tapped out a short message. Unfortunately, I’m very busy, maybe we could make it another night? and pressed send before she could change her mind.
The phone clasped in her hand, she waited for him to reply. She was caught between conflicting desires, one that he would accept it as a brush-off and leave her alone and one that wanted him to insist, to say how much he’d been looking forward to it, to ask, What about Saturday or Sunday or any day, he had to see her. She was giggling at her childish ridiculousness when the phone pinged, dragging her eyes to the screen.
You still need to eat, and we could be home early if you want.
It wasn’t even close to what she’d hoped to read, and the we could be home early almost made her groan as she wondered exactly what he meant by it. Okay, bottom line, did she want to see him or not? She shook her head, it was a silly question, of course she did, even an email from him had sent her heart racing. Doing a quick internet search on her laptop, she tapped out an answer. True, I do need to eat. It’s easier if I meet you. At the Spanish restaurant, at eight. She added the postcode and sent the email with a faint smile.
Standing waiting for his reply, her attention fixed on the phone, the sound of the doorbell startled her and she spun around, eyes wide, heart beating, fear a painful lump in her throat. Only when it rang a second time did she remember the takeaway she’d ordered. ‘Idiot,’ she said, picking up her purse and heading to answer the door.
Returning with the bag, she put it on the countertop before checking her phone, smiling in satisfaction as she read his reply. Fine, see you then. It was, she knew, stupid to be so elated by his emails and she was annoyed with herself at his ability to affect her mood. It would have been better to have stood her ground and cancelled dinner, but as she ate the food she’d ordered, her mind was on what to wear for their second date.
After dinner, she settled down to finish reading the reports, but found herself distracted by thoughts of Hugo and Friday night. He wasn’t picking her up, but might he want to drop her home? Was she reading too much into the we could be home early? With her mind constantly wandering, it was nearly midnight by the time she was done with the reports. Then, exhausted, she climbed into bed and fell instantly into a heavy sleep, not waking until her alarm went off the next morning.
To her intense satisfaction, her hard work paid off and the meetings arranged for the day went as she’d planned. There was no question she was unable to answer; no issue arose that she couldn’t discuss. By the end of the day, she was exhausted but completely satisfied with how everything had gone. ‘Well done,’ she said to the associates who’d been so diligent. ‘We make a good team.’
But it had been a long day. It was nearly seven before she was ready to leave and she still had to read some reports that had been sent to her during the day. Her eyes were gritty, she didn’t fancy another few hours staring at the computer screen so she printed them out, sighing when she lifted the sheaf of papers. More than she’d expected, it would be another late night.
She stopped at a deli on the way home to get something to eat, then settled herself at the kitchen table with the reports in front of her, a sandwich on one side and a mug of tea on the other. An hour later, she rubbed her eyes wearily and stood to get a drink of water. She had turned on the tap and was holding the glass underneath when her phone pinged to tell her she’d another email. She stood staring at it, water spilling over the rim of the glass and running down her arm to wet the sleeve of her shirt.
A slight flicker of optimism – maybe it was Hugo – was quickly brushed aside. She knew who it was. She picked up a towel and dried her hand, dabbing the wet sleeve, her eyes fixed on the phone. Finally, she picked it up.
If there’d been a shadow of a doubt in her mind that Cherry’s death was part of someone’s idea of revenge, it disappeared when she read the short email. Your friend died too quickly.
‘Bastard!’ she cried, dropping the phone on the table, and turning away from it to pace the room. It was one thing, to suspect that someone had deliberately driven Cherry to her death, another entirely to be faced with the truth. Too quickly. Was that the reason for this campaign of torture? Terror dug its sharp claws into her head. She stumbled to the chair, rested her elbows on the table and dropped her face into her hands.
It
was a few minutes before she moved, and only then because she remembered a gift she’d been given a few years before. She went into the living room and rummaged in the cupboard until she found it – a bottle of whisky she’d never opened. She splashed some into a glass and sank onto a chair. It wasn’t as smoky or smooth as the whisky she’d had in York and she coughed as it hit the back of her throat. But when the glass was empty, she felt calmer. There was no need to stop at one, she wasn’t going anywhere. After the third, she stopped counting, the fear and gut-spasming terror fading with every sip.
When she woke in the morning, it was to a mind-blowing headache that made her groan before opening her eyes to see a stretch of cream carpet in front of her. She blinked, disorientated as she struggled to sit. The chair she’d been sitting on was on its side, the half-empty whisky bottle still upright beside it. Whimpering, she straightened the chair and used it to get to her feet, immediately dropping onto it and shutting her eyes as the room spun. She allowed a few minutes’ wallow in self-pity before struggling to her feet again and heading to the kitchen. There was nothing in her limited supply of medication to effect a quick remedy for a hangover so she settled for a couple of painkillers, hoping to take the edge off the pounding headache. She swallowed them down with a glass of water and forced herself to drink another.
It was only seven. She had time to effect a transformation from a miserable wreck into something closer to a corporate lawyer in the middle of sensitive negotiations. She didn’t look at the email again. It wasn’t necessary. Your friend died too quickly. The words were seared into her soul.
She peeled off her clothes and stepped into the shower, running it cool in the hope it would clear her head. It was a slim hope that didn’t pay out. She stepped out and wrapped a towel around herself, avoiding the bathroom mirror as she did so. She didn’t want to see the fear that might twist her expression.
By the time she was dressed, the painkillers were beginning to dull the throb in her head. She applied her makeup, acknowledging the troubled look in her eyes as she did so. It would, she hoped, pass as understandable concern for the meetings that day but she needed to put the email out of her head until she’d heard from Rabbie and Henderson. She was pinning her hopes on Eric Thomas being the key. Either he was responsible or he’d know who was. When she got the information she needed, she’d plan her next step. Until then, she needed to focus on the job. She would focus on her job. She wasn’t going to let the crippling fear destroy her or ruin all she’d worked so hard for.
Whoever was doing this, they were going to learn she was made of tougher stuff than Cherry.
10
Had Melanie been a regular heavy drinker she’d have taken extra precautions. She’d have sucked mints on the way to work and would certainly have avoided meeting anyone important for the first hour or two. But she wasn’t, and when she saw Richard Masters outside their office building, she waved a greeting and fell into step beside him. Outside in the cool, rather breezy morning it was fine but in the close confines of the lift she quickly became aware of something she should have known – her breath still stank of alcohol. She stopped talking, kept her mouth shut and breathed in and out through her nose.
When the lift opened at her floor, she stepped out before turning. ‘Have a good day,’ she said, her heart plummeting when she saw him regarding her with narrowed eyes and a pinched mouth that said clearly he was disappointed in her.
In her office she shut the door and searched in the top drawer of her desk for the toothpaste she kept there. Squirting an inch of it onto her finger, she rubbed it around her teeth, licked it off, squished it around her mouth and swallowed. Afraid that her office would smell of stale alcohol, she pushed the window up the two inches security precautions allowed and wedged the door open to create a draught. Her first meeting, a simple catch-up with the two junior associates, wasn’t until eleven. It would be fine by then.
There was a chilled water dispenser in the staffroom. She filled a paper cup and drank it down in frantic gulps, sipped a second more slowly and took two back with her to drink while she worked.
Fear was never far from the surface and a notification that she had a new email made it spike and send her heart pounding. Her fingers froze on the keyboard and she stared at it unblinking for several seconds. Then with a dart of bravado she clicked on the email icon.
It was from Hugo. Her shoulders slumped with relief as she read the brief message. Looking forward to seeing you again tonight. The self-doubt that always haunted her faded, and a tingle of pleasure shot through her as she thought of the evening ahead. She was so glad she hadn’t cancelled. After a stressful night and the meetings planned for that day, dinner with a handsome, charming man was exactly what she needed. It was what she deserved. She hesitated over her reply, searching for the right words. With a sigh she settled for the simple, Me too, see you at eight.
She switched off notifications on her computer. If another email came, she didn’t want to know.
The afternoon meeting with the CEOs of Fanton’s and CityEast, John Backhoe and Deanne Sandler, was held in the conference room and went as Melanie had anticipated. It was a preliminary meeting, there were no surprises and no questions she couldn’t answer. In the end, she was satisfied with how things were going forward. Exhausted from the effort of concentrating, she hid her relief when each of the CEOs cited pressures of work for declining her offer of lunch.
‘Another time, perhaps,’ Melanie said, picking up the reports she’d been discussing with them and returning them to the file.
‘Perhaps we could celebrate when it’s all done,’ Deanne said, picking up her briefcase. ‘It all seems to be going very smoothly.’
Melanie made polite chit-chat as she walked with them to reception and waited until they’d left before returning to her office. She dropped the file on her desk before flopping onto her chair. It would have been nice to have put her head down and sleep… just for ten minutes… instead, she pulled her laptop towards her and concentrated on getting the details of the meeting on record. Her fingers were flying across the keyboard when her phone rang. One hand snaked out to pick it up without taking her eyes from the computer screen. ‘Melanie Scott.’
It was Rona. ‘There’s a Liam Quinn here to see you.’ Her voice was laced with curiosity. ‘He doesn’t have an appointment but he insists on speaking with you.’
Liam Quinn? Liam? ‘Ah yes,’ Melanie said quickly. ‘Yes, that’s fine, send him in.’ With a final glance at the screen, she exited and switched the computer off. It was almost five, she was exhausted. She’d see what this Liam had to say and head home. After all, she had a date.
‘Come in,’ she called when a knock signalled the private investigator’s arrival, her eyes fixed expectantly on the door as it was pushed open. An ex-policeman, Alistair had said, so the broad, muscular build wasn’t surprising. Neither were the sharp, rather cold, grey eyes that swept over her.
Then Quinn smiled and his stern expression instantly softened. ‘Hi,’ he said, shutting the door behind him.
Melanie stood and held out her hand. It was caught in his warm, surprisingly soft one and shaken once before being dropped. ‘Please, have a seat.’ She indicated the chair behind him.
He drew it closer to the desk, sat and shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket, his eyes never leaving her face. A lock of dark, curly hair streaked with grey fell over his forehead. He tossed it back with a jerk of his head. ‘You look like you’ve had a hard day.’
There was no sympathy in his voice, merely an assessment. It wasn’t the kind of thing any woman wanted to hear and irritation swept over her. ‘It has been a busy day. Now,’ she said, crossing her arms, ‘I assume you’ve come with the information I requested.’
‘Not big into pleasantries, are we?’ He reached into his inside pocket, took out a folded piece of paper and handed it to her.
‘Thank you.’ Melanie opened the note and stared at the words scrawled across it. Edgw
are Motors, Watford Way. ‘This is where Eric Thomas works?’
‘For the last six years.’
She folded the piece of paper again, smoothing the edges with her fingers. Eric was her last hope. Facing him after all these years… even the thought of it appalled her. The idea that he might be responsible for the emails horrified her because, if he were, how could she criticise him after what she had done? And yet, wouldn’t it be easier if it were him? It would be logical, understandable even. If it weren’t, it meant someone she didn’t know hated her and that unknown was even more terrifying.
Something of her dilemma must have been obvious because Quinn leaned forward, his grey eyes boring into her. ‘Are you all right?’
She managed a shaky smile. ‘Yes, sorry, it has been an unusually tough day.’ He said nothing and she felt herself relax. In a world that had seemed a little shaky recently, there was something solid and reassuring about his presence and she felt a lessening of the bands of tension that had been wrapped around her all day. This was what she needed, someone else’s strength for a while, a brace for her backbone until it mended.
No, she quickly corrected herself and lifted her chin. Her backbone wasn’t broken, just a little worn. She wasn’t a helpless female, dependant on a man to get her through the bad times, she never had been and she wasn’t going to start now. This madness would get sorted and everything would be all right. She stood and held out her hand. ‘Thank you again, Mr Quinn.’
His warm hand enveloped hers. He held it for longer than was customary as his eyes, harder now, seemed to search hers. She was about to object when he let her go and reached into his jacket pocket. ‘In case you need to contact me directly,’ he said, handing her a business card. ‘You can get me on that number, at any time.’
The Deadly Truth Page 6
