by Seb Kirby
I don’t have to speak. Sherif picks up the phone. “She’s here.”
His eyes direct me to a broken-backed chair in the corner of the tiny office. “Take a seat. He won’t be long.”
I run through the spiel I’ve worked on to convince Grant he should accept the offer McLeish has forced me to work with. I’m not optimistic. Will he play ball for a mere five hundred upfront and a promise of more later?
A bearded man dressed in a leather jacket and trousers comes in and receives a nod from Sherif. He turns and walks up to me. “We should go.”
I don’t move. “I was expecting Grant.”
“He can’t make it. I’ll have to do.”
“And you are?”
“Tony. Tony Galbraith.”
“Why would I want to talk with you?”
He gives a wry smile. “Well, you could try Terry but that might be difficult.”
“At least I’d know who I was talking to.”
“You’d need to call Hammersmith Hospital. Ask for the intensive care unit.”
I shiver. “What happened? An accident?”
He smiles again. “Oh, no. It was no accident. Someone beat him to within an inch of his life.”
“Who would do that?”
“What you should be asking is why?”
I know the answer, but I need to hear it from him. “Why?”
“Because he talked to you.”
I try to stop my hands shaking. “You still haven’t said why I should talk to you.”
He moves a pace nearer and whispers. “I’m the one in the video.”
He tells me to wait while he fetches his car before turning and walking back out to the street.
I wonder if I’ll see him again. As I stand to leave, Sherif holds up a hand to tell me to resume my seat. Precious minutes pass. I’m certain I’ve lost my man. But then Sherif gestures again, calling me on and pointing me to the exit.
Outside on the Commercial Road, a white SUV draws up. Galbraith leans across and pushes open the front passenger door.
There’s no time to make a decision or assess the danger. I climb aboard and the SUV races off.
I reach into my pocket to try to turn on the sound recorder. He sees what I’m doing and gives a loud slap on the dashboard with the palm of his hand. “No need for that.”
I begin to apologize but he waves that away. “Look, we don’t have long. Let’s get to what needs to be said.”
“You want to talk?”
“Work it out, Emma. Grant meets you and within hours he’s beaten to a pulp. Now, why would anyone do that?” He answers his own question. “To find out what he told you. And though Terry is someone I’d trust to the end, it’s a racing certainty that what they beat out of him was my name, who I am, where I live. Which makes me a marked man who needs to get a long way from here before they catch up with me. But before I do that, and so that the pain and suffering they put Terry through wasn’t a tragic waste, I want the truth out about what’s going down in this town and what they’ve been getting away with. And as far as letting the world know is concerned, that’s you.”
We reach the end of the Commercial Road. Galbraith takes the SUV into the outside lane of the roundabout and heads for Lower Thames Street and the Tower of London.
I’m trying to catch up. “You’re saying it was because of me that Grant is in hospital?”
“Forget it. They’re on your case and, as far as most people round here go, you’re toxic. But there’s no time to think about that.”
“You’re saying you’re the one in the video?”
“That’s it.”
“And you’ve been demanding money from Adam Stanley? Why would you do that?”
“Because he owes me.”
“Why video the handover?”
“Because it’s never been just about the money. I want Stanley to pay big time.”
“You want to use the video to bring him down?”
“How do you explain a prominent MP handing over a brown paper bag filled with cash?”
“So you must have something on him. Something damaging enough to make him take such a chance?”
“He really thought he could buy me off. He has no idea how much I want him to pay for what he’s done.”
“So you asked Grant to send the video to Margaret Hyslop.”
Galbraith makes a sharp left to direct us towards the Southwark Bridge crossing. “Yeah. To put a little distance between her and me. I chose her well. She has as many reasons to loathe Stanley as I do.”
“And so the tape ended up with me.” I take a deep breath. I sense the interview has come to a crucial stage. “So, tell me. What’s Stanley done to make you hate him so much?”
“It’s a long story.”
“I have time. All the time you need.”
“But that’s what I don’t have. Not right now. Give me your phone number. I’ll contact you when I’m ready.”
I give him my number. “Where?”
“You’ll hear that when I call.”
Galbraith pulls the SUV up in Holland Street, close to the Herald building.
A wave of fear runs through me. “You know where I work?”
“I always take care to do my homework.”
CHAPTER 24
Facing McLeish should be easier now it’s clear who is receiving the money in the video. This is my firm belief as I enter the Editor’s office.
“A breakthrough, Bill. I wanted to come straight in and let you know. I’ve interviewed the man who took cash from Stanley. And I didn’t offer any payment.”
McLeish looks up from his screen. “At last! When will you submit the copy?”
I hold up a hand. “I’m not there yet. But I am within touching distance.”
He gives a long-suffering scowl. “You’re telling me there are complications?”
“Nothing I won’t be able to work my way through, if I can call on enough support from the paper.”
I tell him about my meeting with Tony Galbraith. It isn’t long before McLeish interrupts.
“So, you’re saying that Tony Galbraith is the one in the video?”
“He admitted it.”
“He’s prepared to go on record?”
I shake my head. “I’m not sure.”
“And he’s told you what we need?”
“Not yet. I’m waiting for him to call.”
“You know why that is, don’t you?”
I wait for what McLeish is about to say next, fearing the worst.
He gives a wry smile. “Tony Galbraith is the name of one of the most prolific criminals in the East End. Cocaine mostly. They say he brings the stuff in a hundred kilograms at a time and that he’s the main man catering for the exotic appetites of our banking friends in Canary Wharf.” He pauses for effect. “Oh, and then there are the dodgy investment deals he’s rumored to be involved in that defraud unwitting pensioners out of their retirement incomes. Not to mention the Internet scams he’s supposed to be behind. Please tell me that the one you spoke to is not the Tony Galbraith?”
I’m lost for words.
McLeish turns to his computer and types in a few search terms. He turns the screen for me to see the head and shoulders photo he calls up. “Is this him?”
My heart sinks. “Yes, that’s the man I met.”
“And he’s the one in the video with Stanley?”
“That’s right.”
McLeish shakes his head. “Then we have nothing. You have no named informant to base a story about Stanley on. And that’s probably for the best because who would believe a wide boy like Galbraith? Stanley would make a laughing stock of us. All I can say is that at least you didn’t part with any money for what he might tell you because we can’t use any of it.”
“It’s the right thing to do to expose Stanley for what he is.”
“So, what if it’s a very serious accusation? Stanley would take us to the courts for libel. And with Galbraith not be prepared to come forward? We�
��d be eaten alive.”
“So, Stanley stays immune?”
“But we keep the Herald solvent.” He leans closer. “I’m sorry, Emma. I can see no reason to continue the investigation. The evidence of the video is unreliable, given who obtained it.”
“Once I hear from Galbraith again, I’m sure I can uncover the vital facts.”
“You said you needed support to do that. I take that to mean more resource. I just don’t have anyone available. Best to cut our losses. Wind this down. Put you on something you’re more able to deliver on.”
“You’ve never been one to run away from talking truth to power, Bill. Why start now?”
“Because our backs are to the wall. Sure, I want to expose a pompous prig like Stanley but I can’t let us fail and bring the whole paper down. I’m not running away. I’m being pragmatic.”
I realize I’ve gone too far. “I didn’t mean it like that. Forget the extra help. I’ll cope. Just allow me enough time. I’m sure I can now bring this story home.”
“I’m sorry, Emma. I have to close the investigation down.”
“Because of Tony Galbraith?”
“No, the writing was already on the wall.”
I’m struggling to understand. “What’s changed? This morning you were all for it. I bring you the first breakthrough in the story and now you’re walking away from it.”
“It’s just a business decision.”
“You mean someone’s got to you.”
He won’t look me in the eye. “There are things about being editor of this paper that don’t need to concern you.”
“Someone on the Board?”
“If you must know. Word direct from the owner. The man who says he never interferes in the editorial decisions. Lay off Stanley. That’s all I got told.”
“And you’re accepting that?”
“I can’t tell you I like it. But, as they say, it is what it is. If we both want to keep our jobs, we have to get in line. That’s what I meant when I said this was a business decision.”
I fight hard to conceal my anger. “You’re taking me off the story?”
“You’ll get a new assignment at tomorrow morning’s briefing. That won’t include the Stanley story. Understand?”
CHAPTER 25
I storm out of McLeish’s office feeling like I need to break something.
Anything.
As I return to my workspace, Angela Smith gives an enquiring glance.
I don’t hesitate. “You know, Angela. Why don’t you go screw yourself? Or, better, go screw McLeish. That’s going to be your best way to get the promotion you so desperately want.” I draw a deeper breath. “In fact, why not ask him to give you my job? I’m sure you’ve always wanted that.”
Angela Smith stands open-mouthed as I burst past.
A cold wind is blowing along the Thames as I walk away from the Herald building.
How could McLeish have been influenced like that? Why, he didn’t even have the courage to admit he’d been warned off until I dragged it out of him. Trying to blame Tony Galbraith for the binning of the story was shameful. Talking truth to power was always in short supply but I’d expected more of McLeish. I thought he had a backbone. So much for the great newspaperman.
I’m certain who is behind it without having to be told. It was Stanley, using his influence. A man able to pick up the phone to ask for a favor and expect to get a result. That’s the way the Establishment works. That’s how real power is exercised and maintained in this land.
I pull out my phone and call Sophie. There’s no reply. I send a text message: Urgent. Please pick up.
Where should I start when Sophie replies? My emotions are running wild. How could I begin to tell my closest friend what the past twenty-four hours has done to me? Or even mention Jenny without making it seem I’m losing my mind?
I dig my nails deep into my wrist. There is no choice but to tell Sophie everything.
Sophie comes on the line. “I was in court. Needed to go outside to answer your call.”
“You shouldn’t have rushed.”
“It’s no problem. Now what’s all this about this being urgent?”
I’m close to bursting into tears. I blurt out the first thing that comes to my mind. “I met a man. James Walsh. We had lunch.”
Sophie gives a knowing giggle. “That kind of urgent!”
I try to smile as the tears run down my cheeks. “He’s nice. Works at the Globe as a stage manager.”
“How did you meet him?”
“He was stalking me. Well, I was certain he was a stalker, so I challenged him and next thing he’d invited me to lunch.”
“You’re seeing him again?”
“Day after tomorrow.”
“Emma I’m so pleased for you. You’ve been moping about Mark for too long. You’re ready to let him go.” She pauses. “But you didn’t have to say it was urgent to find the time and place to tell me you were in love again.”
“It’s not love. Just an attraction.”
“Love or not, it’s wonderful, anyway.”
I wipe my eyes and stop walking. “That’s not the reason I wanted to speak to you.”
“OK. Hit me.”
Where to start? “I’m not sure if I exist.”
Sophie sounds confused. “What?”
“I found my death certificate. I drowned. Years ago. It says where I’m buried. The grave is somewhere in Brompton Cemetery.”
“This has to be some kind of mistake. You’re certain this isn’t because of the stress you’re under. The Cooper story. Your editor.”
“And all I’m left with is shame and guilt.”
“For what?”
“For nothing. Being a nothing. Fooling you and everyone that I’m Emma Chamberlain when all along young Emma is under six feet of earth.”
“You can’t believe that.”
I reach in my bag and pull out my copy of the death certificate, made out in the name of Emma Chamberlain. “I’m holding the evidence in my hand. Try telling me it isn’t real.”
“Must be someone with the same name.”
“No, it’s me.”
Sophie’s voice is reassuring. “Listen. You have nothing to be guilty about. I know you. You’re a dear friend. And I know my friends. You’re honest, caring and dependable. I’d give the earth to be as wonderful as you. Don’t let anyone or anything tell you otherwise. I won’t allow it, you understand? Now, talk to me. Tell me how you’ve got yourself into thinking like this?”
“I can’t explain.”
“You must try.”
“I’ll never be able to tell you about Jenny.”
“Who’s Jenny?”
“A girl who comes to me.”
“In what way?”
“At night. To my room. She told me she knows I’m not Emma. When I checked I found she was right.”
“The girl is someone you imagine?”
“No, she’s right there with me.” I pause to wipe my eyes once more. “You must suspect I’m mad. I was, too, until I found my death certificate. If what Jenny is saying is right, she might just as well be real.”
“But she can’t be real, can she?”
“I understand that. But when I’m with her everything seems so true. I’m not frightened of her. I want to see her again.”
“Don’t worry. You said she might as well be real. That means, deep down, you know she isn’t.”
I dry my eyes. The simple act of telling, of being believed, has lifted a little of the burden. “So, why do I still carry this dead weight of guilt?”
“Calm now. Those feelings will pass. I’m sure of it. Just so long as we face this together. And you promise to tell me everything. Now, what else?”
“The house.”
“Which house?”
“The one in Morden. Where the murders took place.”
“What about it?”
“I know that house. I’ve had a photo of it amongst my things for as long as I can remember.�
��
Sophie sighs. “We talked about it yesterday. I showed you a photo of the house when we looked through the material I have on Brian Cooper’s trial.”
“It’s on my phone. I’ll send it to you.”
“OK, I’ll send you the photo from the trial.”
I end the call and send a message to Sophie with the photo attached. I wait to receive the attachment from Sophie and then phone again.
“You have it?”
Sophie replies. “OK. And you have mine?”
“Yes, and now I can see them both together, I’m even more convinced it’s the same house.”
“Same kind of house.”
“No. The same. The hedges are different and my photo is from a different angle but it’s the same house, I’m sure. Yours is from the trial, eighteen years ago. Mine is a later version.”
“So, how long have you had this?”
“For as long as I can remember.”
“Take a guess at how many houses of this type there are in south London? Must be upwards of a hundred thousand. They all look the same because they were all built at the same time. A period between the Wars when London was the center of the trading world and they needed houses for all those office workers and middle class professionals who serviced it. It’s a childhood nightmare of mine. Getting lost in the street, looking around and not being able to tell the difference between the houses. Until my mother told me to look at the numbers. Then I could find my way home and the nightmare ended.”
“Except mine continues.”
“Let’s think about it. The two houses do appear similar. There’s no house number to be seen on either of the photos. From the transcripts from Cooper’s trial, the number of the murder house is forty-one. But we can’t see that on your photo. It could be another house. Looks the same. A typical semi-detached.”
“It’s the same place.”
Sophie tries again. “OK. If that’s so, why would you have had a photo of it in your possession all these years?”
“I don’t know. It’s where the fear and shame and guilt begin. That’s all.”
“So what would help?”
“Come with me to the grave of Emma Chamberlain. I need to see if that tells me anything more. And come with me to the house in Morden.”
“If you’re sure it will help. When?”
