by Heleen Kist
‘You’ve done all you could.’
He kissed me on the forehead and twiddled with my hair, while I sank further into him, into a sense of home that was new to me. I reached for his cheek and with a gentle stroke finally dared to lay myself bare.
‘Please don’t die.’
A large grin spread across his implausibly perfect teeth. ‘Why Miss Grace McBride, is that you admitting you love me?’
‘I guess it is.’ I smiled and pulled his face towards my mouth, our lips finding each other.
Chapter Forty-Six
A muffled buzzing filled the room and recalled me from a shallow slumber. The sheet lay tangled around my leg and I unwrapped myself, careful not to pull it off Dave too. I slid out from under his bare thigh and wormed off the bed, the thud on hitting the floor rousing a snore from the sprawled-out nude.
On all fours, I searched for my jeans among the trail of clothes we’d teased off each other earlier. What time was it? It was still light out, but that didn’t mean much in June. My stomach’s rumbling told me dinner was overdue.
By the time I retrieved my phone out of the back pocket of my trousers, the caller had given up. The missed call notification showed Alastair’s number, and I waited two minutes for the tape reel symbol to pop up, while gathering my undies. But there was no message, and I went to freshen up before checking what he wanted.
Once clean, I closed the door to the bedroom and dialled. Was he always as dedicated to his clients? Calling so late didn’t fit the stereotype of the nine-to-five accountant.
‘Hi, it’s Grace. Sorry I missed your call.’
‘No problem.’
‘What’s keeping you working so late? It’s eight o’clock.’
‘I’m going on holiday at the end of the week and I prefer to be on top of things. The reason for the call is that I found something in the café’s post you’ll want to know about. An invoice.’
Nerves tingled in my neck, on high alert, having discovered that surprises from the café were never good. Had Sascha passed on the disputed invoice from Excelsior? I hadn’t had a chance—or a desire—to return to Mike for a new one, not wanting to rock the boat of freedom. But if I wasn’t careful Alastair might discover the fraud.
I hopped onto a stool, crossed my legs and braced myself for the news.
‘What is it?’
‘It’s an invoice for a monthly insurance premium. Key man insurance. I contacted the company—we do a lot of business with them—and they confirmed that Glory took out insurance for one hundred thousand pounds recently.’
‘What is key man insurance?’
‘It’s like life insurance for a business, to protect itself in case one of their key people dies. Hence the name. The sum is meant to cover loss of income for the company. I’m not sure why Glory took out such a high cover, it feels disproportionate given the café’s turnover. But here we are.’
‘You’re telling me the café is getting one hundred grand?’ Incredulous, I’d struggled to get the last three words to pass my lips, blowing each syllable out like a dart I didn’t truly believe would hit the bulls-eye.
‘Well yes and no. You see, the insurance was only taken out six weeks ago. This is only the second premium. After we make a claim, it is very likely that the insurer will want to run an investigation because Glory’s death came so soon. Depending on the small print, they may deem the pay-out to be invalid.’
The word ‘investigation’ landed in my stomach like a brick and my earlier high alert flicked to a full-blown siren in my head. What would it entail? I couldn’t afford to have some claim handler crawling over the café. Would they need to dig into the books?
I wondered if there was a way to stall it. Or would that make it even more suspicious? I was pleased I’d gradually learnt to control my anxiety again, as this would’ve had me over a bucket.
‘Grace? Are you there?’
‘Yes, yes, sorry. I’m just a little shocked.’
‘They’re sending over the policy documentation, and I’m happy to review it. Chances are, it will be fine because her death was an accident and we can get a police statement to confirm that. But I don’t want to get your hopes up.’
‘No, of course. Thanks very much for letting me know. I guess I will sit tight.’
‘You also asked me about transferring the ownership back to Glory, and therefore to Stephen…you need to think about the timing of that if they do pay out.’
‘I don’t understand.’
He cleared his throat and I sensed his discomfort.
‘Well, the cash can be kept in the business, or whoever owns the shares can take it out. In some circumstances, it will be tax free, you see. So even though I said you needed to act quickly for the café to count as part of Glory’s assets, you may choose to…um…not hurry too much with the transfer.’
Bless him, always looking out for me.
But what did he mean? Then it dawned on me. Always looking out for me…but not Stephen. Could that get him into trouble? Or was he just uneasy because he was suggesting I redirect cash away from a widower?
Not wanting to embarrass him further, I said, ‘Thanks Alistair. I understand. It sounds sensible. I’ll think about it.’
As I hung up, Dave walked in semi-naked, his gelled hair ruffled into random spikes. He roamed to the fridge, kissing me on the head as he passed, emanating the odour of a contented man.
‘Who was that?’
‘The accountant. It’s nothing.’
A pang of guilt sprang up, demanding that I share. But I didn’t think our relationship could stand more complications, more conflict. We’d only just made up. More than made up…I wondered if he’d sensed it, earlier. My shift. My jump into the unknown. With him.
He pulled out a beer. ‘Drink?’
‘No thanks.’
He grazed on whatever snack he found, hunched in front of the open fridge door, as I tried to shake off my fixation with the cold escaping, to concentrate on Glory’s latest clue.
I jumped as Dave held his chilled bottle against my bare arm.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Trying to get your attention. I said, what do you want to do for dinner?’
‘Nothing. I mean, I don’t care. Whatever.’
Dave turned away. ‘Fine. I guess that means beans.’
I vaguely heard him open the cupboard and rummage in the drawer for the tin opener.
Did you know you were going to die, Gi?
Well, did you?
Chapter Forty-Seven
Sascha teased me when handing over her charity friend Oliver’s number the next morning.
‘He’s single.’
I smirked in reply.
‘At first I suspected he was gay; but turns out he’s merely well groomed. My partner and I have been out with him a few times and he’s actually really shy with girls. It’s so cute. We keep trying to set him up.’
‘Well that’s not why I want to reach him. Besides, I’m way too old.’ I dismissed her crazy idea with a wink.
‘So why then?’
‘Oh, I was reading about Invisible’s work and I thought it was interesting. You know, those stories of human trafficking are heartbreaking.’
‘You’re right. They are. Often, it’s migrants and we see with SAFR how hard it is to keep track of them. How quickly they can fall off the radar.’
For the rest of my shift, at every opportunity, she bored me with her activities to help refugees. Not that I didn’t care, but I had enough misery to deal with. As soon as I could escape, I did, leaving her to clean up.
On the way home, I took advantage of the lack of passers-by to scan the many newspaper billboards dotted along the road. They decried the evil Tories in unison, but parted ways when it came to the beautiful game. Glasgow would always be a city divided: Celtic and Rangers, Catholic and Protestant, Yes and No.
I skipped aside as two sisters on micro-scooter
s whizzed past me, pink ribbons streaming from the handles as a visual clue to their speed. The littlest one—no more than a helmet on legs—strained to catch up with the elder, while the mum walked behind, engrossed in her smart-phone. I admired her certainty they would stop at the corner and wait. They did.
One billboard heralded a new smacking ban, and I glanced at the mother wondering if that’s how she got her kids to be good. Whether corporal punishment was counter-productive—as the poster claimed—I wasn’t sure; but one thing I knew: this kind of discipline brought the children close together. My thoughts wandered to Glory and me, huddled in our room, her blue eyes pleading as she confessed to whatever misdemeanour it was that had Mum stomping up the stairs. I’d grown adept at defusing the situation when tensions rose, which thankfully happened with reducing frequency as we learnt to toe the line.
Why didn’t you confide in me?
How many times had I posed this question to the heavens since her death? It was still the thing that made the least sense to me. Still the thing that hurt the most.
The slip of paper in my pocket gave me new hope. If Glory had been looking into modern-day slavery, she would surely have turned to the one guy she knew who worked in this field. Once I reached my car for my next client appointment, I settled in the driver’s seat to make the call. But my phone rang just as I wanted to use it.
Sascha was calling from the café.
‘Marius was here, unexpectedly. He was asking for a box of napkins you were meant to give back?’
My heart skipped. I said nothing.
She continued, ‘Bloody cheek. Asking for stuff when they haven’t even sorted out a new invoice. Anyway, that’s nothing to do with him—he’s only the messenger—so I gave him one from the store room. And guess what? That didn’t seem to be what he was looking for. If it had been anyone else, I’d have told him to get lost—I’m really busy with customers right now—but he looked so nervous, so I showed him it was the only one here. He asked where you were. He gave me a message. To remind you about a box of napkins. So here you go. But this is all pretty weird. Grace, what’s going on?’
Shit.
I’d been so distracted by all the commotion with his bleeding hand, his revelation about forced labour, that I’d forgotten to return the cash like Mike had instructed. I wondered if Marius had gotten into trouble because of it. And what Mike would do to me. Is that why I’d been followed? Or was that before? The timings were all a jumble.
‘Hello Grace?’
Quick. A story. Any story.
‘It’s nothing. When I stacked the last delivery away, I found one of the napkin boxes was wet. Soaking. So when I phoned about the invoice, I asked for a refund for that, too. But they didn’t believe me, so I said I’d send it back for proof. They’re a real pain. I’ll be glad when we’re rid of them.’
Chapter Forty-Eight
Four hours later, I waited for Oliver at Costa by the Gallery of Modern Art. On the phone, he’d apologised for not having an office, explaining that Invisible’s HQ was in Bristol, and as a regional project coordinator, he worked from home. Owning only a rudimentary machine, he enjoyed treating himself to a nice coffee when meeting people.
My latte was served in a tall glass, which revealed how little actual coffee it contained. I remembered reading somewhere that they put an extra shot in the take-away drinks due to the bigger volume, and that you should therefore order a paper cup even if you sat in. It was the equivalent of a free extra shot. But I preferred the glass, with its dinky handle and the way you could generate a dynamic brown and white storm with a gentle stir.
All the outside tables had been taken as the square hosted swarms of students, tourists and retail workers, encouraged by a rare cloudless sky. It appeared to be ‘skirt day’, that widely recognised first day of the year when all the women have—in a sudden, miraculous synchronisation—stored their trousers and tights away to expose their bare legs in tribute to the sun. From my spot inside, I watched the baristas keep a cool head serving a seemingly endless self-replenishing queue.
At last, Oliver strode in and waved as he saw me. He rushed over and placed his rucksack on the chair.
‘Sorry I’m late. Do you mind if I fetch a drink? It’s a little busy.’
‘It’s fine. I’m in no hurry.’
‘Shall I get you a fresh one?’
‘No, but some water would be lovely, thanks.’
While he stood by to place an order, I pulled Glory’s phone from my bag. Good. It had charged properly. I hadn’t made up my mind on whether to share the photos yet.
Her boys’ grins glowed from the lock screen’s back-lit portrait, dark pixels accentuating the missing teeth. They were so alike physically, but with such different personalities. Like us. Gorgeous Noah was Glory, always excited and into something new. Whereas Adam, the older one, like me, had a more reasoned temperament. What was it someone had said about sisters? One is the dancer, the other the watcher? But as Stephen’s almond-shaped brown eyes looked at me under Adam’s youthful eyebrows, I snapped out of the fleeting folly that this had anything to do with me. These cautious traits were from his dad.
I put the device down, my conscience giving me an internal kicking. Why hadn’t I handed it to Stephen like I said I would?
‘Here we go.’ Oliver took our drinks off the tray and sat down. ‘I saw you the second I walked in. The same memorable hair as your sister.’
He spotted my awkward smile and changed the subject to the weather, the necessary preamble to any British meeting. When we’d completed comparing our delight with the current heatwave, and agreeing it would not last, I brought the conversation to his job.
‘We operate the Modern Slave Phoneline where people can get advice and report suspected instances of human trafficking or forced labour.’
‘Does it happen a lot?’
‘Oh yes. There is a common misconception about trafficking being about sexual exploitation of young women. But even though that happens and it’s horrible, the reality is that most of the victims of modern-day slavery are men, being made to work without payment or means of escape. To give you an idea: in less than a year we had over one hundred reported cases of forced labour in car washes alone. We helped nearly seven hundred folk. Two of those cases were in Scotland, and I got involved.’
‘Is it usually the victims that call for help?’
‘No, that’s rare. Only about fifteen percent of our cases are self-reported. Usually it is a member of the public who has noticed suspicious behaviour. That’s why awareness raising is such an important part of what we do. To stay with the car wash example, there had been radio and media campaigns to look out specifically in that sector before we got a spike in reports.’
‘So how do you then check it out?’
Oliver smiled and shook his head as if to clear it. ‘It’s strange. Almost a déjà vu, you sitting here asking the same questions as Glory.’
At the mention of her name, a chill ran up my spine. She’d grilled him, too. But how much had she shared? I swithered whether I should confess why I was here, about the pictures. But I’d had enough men dismissing my instincts of late that I decided to check what he knew first.
‘What can I say? Same genes,’ I joked. ‘What else did Glory ask?’
‘Lots! I wasn’t really sure why, but I enjoyed her company, and her friends had made donations to the charity, so I was happy to meet with her whenever she wanted. I suspect I disappointed her a bit when it became clear I didn’t participate in the actual catching of the baddies.’
‘You don’t?’
‘No, we don’t do the investigative work. We pass on any reports from the helpline to the appropriate authorities, mostly law enforcement, or the local authority safeguarding teams for minors.’ He held his hands up in mock surrender. ‘I’m only the conduit. No dashing knight in shining armour.’
The phone had laid on the table upside down the whole encounter, and
I was about to store it away, resolving he wasn’t the right guy, when something he said next made me buzz.
‘She seemed keen to find out what was needed for the police to take a report seriously, and what they would do. At one point I thought she’d identified a case, the way she was talking. All these detailed hypothetical scenarios. Then the last time we spoke she hinted she might have a gift for me soon. She was being quite mysterious about it.’
‘When was this?’
‘Now there’s a question…two months ago, maybe? It’s hard to tell. I didn’t hear from her again and of course, found out about what happened to her the night you and I met.’
The timing fit.
‘You said she asked what it would take to get the police to look into a report. What did you tell her?’
A puzzled expression crossed his face, my enquiries probably more probing than he was used to. ‘I told her a tip-off tended to be enough for the ward officer to go sniffing, but that pictures of the working and living conditions—and of the culprits—would speed things up.’
Now.
Now I was sure that’s what Glory had been up to. Now it was time to share.
‘Oliver, I have a theory and I would appreciate it if you hear me out.’
He shuffled forward in his seat with an air matching the seriousness of my tone. ‘Okay.’
‘I believe she was gathering extensive evidence of real slave labour to bring to you.’
He jerked back in shock. ‘That’s crazy. Why would she do that?’
‘There’s a chap who delivers the goods to the café. He’s Romanian, Marius. He told me Grace had recognised he and some others working at the wholesaler were being exploited, and that she’d promised to help.’