Wish Me Dead

by Malcolm Richards

  Emily’s gaze shot to the letter opener on the desk.

  “Tell me, Emily, what do you intend to do with the information you’ve learned?”

  Emily pressed herself against the desk. Her fingers fumbled for the letter opener.

  “Nothing,” she whispered. “Just tell me what happened to Becky. Tell me where she is and I promise I won’t say anything.”

  Eriksson smiled. “And what if I can’t do that?”

  Her fingertips glanced against the filing tray. “Please. If she’s hurt, she’ll need help. Or if she’s...”

  “Or if she’s what? Dead?” The Vice Chancellor laughed. “Is that your theory? That Councillor Beaumont and I conspired together to commit murder? To silence our blackmailer for good? What an overactive imagination you have. Perhaps you should forgo a career in teaching for one in private detection!” He moved closer. “You’re a smart girl — think about it logically. Do you honestly believe the councillor and I would put our careers and reputations at further risk by committing murder?”

  Palming the letter opener, Emily dropped her hand to her side.

  “Perhaps you had someone do it for you,” she said. Someone like your son. The realisation that Becky could be dead hit her square in the stomach, knocking the breath from her lungs. She stepped back, colliding with the bookshelf behind.

  The Vice Chancellor leaned over the desk. Emily’s fingers tightened around the letter opener.

  “You want to know the truth?” he said. “I have no idea where Rebecca is. Councillor Beaumont wasn’t lying. She came to his house that night asking for money. What he omitted to mention was exactly how much, and what she was prepared to do if he didn’t give it to her. He also excluded the fact that he wrote her a cheque. But he told the truth – his wife called a cab and Becky left in it. The Beaumonts haven’t seen her since.”

  Emily was unmoving, her eyes fixed on his. “And Bill Creed? What did he have to do with it?”

  “You’ll be pleased to hear that Bill is blissfully unaware. You saw him at Beaumont House as a friend of the family expressing his concerns. Nothing more, nothing less.” Eriksson let out an exasperated sigh. “Rebecca Briar collected her money and then she did what was best for everyone. She left town.”

  Confusion filled Emily’s mind. She loosened her grip on the letter opener, but only slightly, and eyed the door.

  “Say if you’re right,” she said, “Say if Becky really did leave. What’s stopping her from coming after you for more money?”

  “Nothing. I imagine I’m at her mercy. But I have the strongest feeling we won’t be seeing Rebecca Briar again.”

  “What about the police? Surely it’s a question of time before they discover you’ve been allowing your son to sell drugs on campus.”

  Eriksson leaned forward again, eyeing the letter opener still in Emily’s hand. “That will depend entirely on you.”

  “Me?”

  “Damien may be ignorant but he’s not stupid. He knows to say nothing without a lawyer present. He knows I have the power and the connections to get him out of this mess. Friends in high places will always do right by you if you do right by them. Quid pro quo, as they say. If only Miss Briar had adhered to this rule. The question is, will you? You can go to the police, tell them everything you’ve learned. Hell, you can even wheel out Michael Nowak so he can wave his crippled hands. I’ll be investigated. My friends in high places will do what they can, but it may not be enough to prevent the story reaching the press, or worse, the university trustees, who will request my immediate resignation.”

  He leaned in closer, his eyes growing dark and fathomless. “Or you could be the wise owl that Bill Creed claims you are and focus on your finals, which I might remind you are two weeks away. You wouldn’t want to ruin your chances now that you’re so close to qualifying, would you? Not after four years of hard work and a slew of good results and glowing recommendations. It would be a tragedy to throw away a promising career because of someone else’s indiscretions, don’t you think?”

  He smiled then, his eyes unblinking, the threat in his words all too clear. For someone who had just spent the last ten minutes lambasting the vehement act of blackmail, Vice Chancellor Eriksson, it turned out, was a grand master.

  An angry fire burned in Emily’s stomach, shooting through her veins.

  “Yes,” she said, her voice low and trembling, “it would.”

  Eriksson nodded. Then, as if they had been discussing the weather, he shrugged, picked up the polystyrene cup of coffee, and took a sip.

  “It’s gone cold,” he sighed.

  Emily couldn’t move.

  The Vice Chancellor nodded to the wall clock. “Well, if that’s all, you and I both have a lot of work to do. Goodness, on a Saturday, too! It’s true what they say: no rest for the wicked.”

  Emily dropped the letter opener on the desk. She moved in one direction, Vice Chancellor Eriksson in the other.

  “Try not to worry too much about Miss Briar,” he said, sitting down at his desk and placing the letter opener inside the top drawer. “She’s a very resourceful young woman. I’m sure wherever she’s ended up, she’ll live to fight another day. Now run along, Emily. Time to knuckle down with your studies. I have high hopes for you. Very high hopes indeed.”

  Slowly, Emily made her way to the door. The Vice Chancellor did not look up again.

  Only when Emily had exited the Administration block did she let the tears come. But they weren’t tears of sadness or worry. They were great, shimmering globules of pure rage.

  Vice Chancellor Eriksson had forced her into a corner. Her feelings for Becky were conflicting and confused. She was risking everything for a person who had lied and cheated and stolen, and who didn’t care.

  Scrubbing her wet face with the back of her hand, Emily strode away. She checked the time—1:04 p.m. – and quickened her pace. Charlotte would be leaving in less than an hour. That’s where her loyalties should lie from now on, Emily thought. With friends that mattered. With friends who cared.

  So why was doubt still eating away her insides, making her want to scream?

  19

  DECIDING IT WOULD not be in her best interests to greet Charlotte with a face full of anger, Emily decided to skip the bus and walk home. She would still get there in time to say goodbye to her friend, but first she needed space to process her encounter with Vice Chancellor Eriksson, who had effectively blackmailed her into silence. If she shared what she’d learned with the police, her teaching career would be in ruins before it had begun. Emily had no doubts the Vice Chancellor had the power to make it so, whether he was investigated or not. He had talked about friends in high places. How would she stand a chance if she chose not to keep silent?

  If she didn’t go to the police, would she be able to live with the consequences? What if Eriksson was lying about Becky? What if he knew exactly where she was, or worse, was responsible for her disappearance?

  Emily wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe Becky really had taken the money and run; that she was in a swanky hotel room somewhere, drinking champagne and laughing at them all.

  These thoughts assaulted her mind as she wandered down the high street and across the square. The same bunch of teenagers were lurking on the benches, hoods pulled up despite the hot weather. Shoppers had increased their numbers.

  Emily waded through the crowds and entered a winding side street, passing an arcade of shops. Her phone began to ring. Much to her dismay, she saw that it was her mother calling. She let the phone ring out, pouring more guilt into the well.

  Halfway down the alley, she came to an abrupt halt. A brightly coloured shop sign had caught her eye.

  Rifling in her shoulder bag, she pulled out her wallet and extracted the small roll of receipts she’d taken from Becky’s jewellery box. Her gaze moved from the receipts to the shop window as a strange feeling washed over her.

  Her pulse quickening, Emily marched up to the shop door, pushed it open, and step
ped inside.

  ***

  Rockin’ Roy’s Pawn Shop was a hoarder’s heaven. Cramped aisles brimmed with miscellaneous items whose previous owners couldn’t afford to reclaim them or had sold them on for a pittance. Emily strode past old television sets, vacuum cleaners, video game consoles, washing machines and musical instruments, making her way to the counter, where an overweight man with thinning hair sat reading a newspaper.

  “Hi,” Emily said. The man looked up, half surprised to see a customer. His eyes took a leisurely wander down to Emily’s breasts. “Are you . . . Rockin’ Roy?”

  “The one and only.” The man sat up and folded his newspaper in half, offering Emily a lecherous smile. “What can I do you for?”

  Emily refrained from rolling her eyes as she placed the receipts on the glass counter. “A so-called friend of mine brought in some items a few weeks ago. Some of them didn’t exactly belong to her. I was wondering if you could locate the items she brought in — if they’re still here, of course.”

  Roy regarded her for a few seconds, rubbing his stubbly chin.

  “It’s not my responsibility to make sure everything that comes in here is legit, you know what I’m saying? It’s up to people to be honest. If your friend brought in things that don’t belong to her, that’s between her and whoever she took them from. I’m not breaking no law.”

  “I’m not suggesting that you are. I’m simply asking if you can locate the items she pawned.”

  The shop owner pulled his lips together. His gaze dropped down again, just for a second, but long enough to make Emily clear her throat.

  “If there’s something belonging to you, you’ll have to buy it back. I pay good money for every item that comes in, fair and square.”

  “But if it’s stolen?”

  “You’ll have to prove it. I run a business here, not a charity.”

  Emily bit down on her lip, residual anger left over from her encounter with Vice Chancellor Eriksson still alight in her chest. Rockin’ Roy was only adding fuel to the fire.

  She forced a smile. “Fine.”

  Picking up the receipts with thick fingers, Roy sifted through them. He muttered to himself, shot a glance at Emily, and disappeared through a curtained doorway to the right of the counter.

  While she waited for him, Emily turned and stared down the aisles. Sunlight illuminated the glass storefront, making the gloom of the pawn shop somehow more miserable. Her gaze fell upon a shelf of soft toys sitting forlornly like abandoned children. Turning back to the counter, she eyed its contents. An array of jewellery was locked inside. Rings of silver, gold, and platinum. Bracelets, necklaces, a pair of diamond earrings.

  Emily heaved her shoulders. Rockin’ Roy’s Pawn Shop wasn’t helping her mood. How could she have been so wrong about Becky? Yes, she knew she was troubled, but to know she had deliberately set out to hurt people — even if some of those people had deserved it — made Emily question her own judge of character. And what was she doing here anyway? The only answer she could come up with was good, old fashioned instinct.

  The curtain slid back and Roy returned, carrying a large red folder.

  “Inventory,” he muttered, this time barely making eye contact. Dumping the folder on the counter, he opened it up, licked his finger and thumb, and began leafing through the enclosed documents. Occasionally, his gaze shifted to the receipts. After two minutes of uncomfortable silence, Roy looked up.

  “So?” Emily said, leaning over to observe his handwritten scrawl.

  Roy pulled the inventory folder away. He regarded her for a second, his brow folding into several creases.

  “You’re not the cops, are you? Because I told you, it’s people’s responsibility not to bring in stolen goods. I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  Emily told him she was a mere student and resisted snatching the folder away from him to find out for herself what Becky had pawned.

  “Fine then,” Rockin’ Roy said. He cleared his throat and began listing the items. “One HP Windows 10 laptop. Black. Eight gigabytes of RAM, five hundred—”

  “Got it. Next.” The laptop was Becky’s. Emily had noticed it missing from her room.

  “One silver charm bracelet with four charms. The charms listed as follows: a cat, a love heart, a skull, and—”

  “A serpent.” Also Becky’s. It was her favourite piece of jewellery, one that she’d worn all the time. “What’s next?”

  “A man’s wristwatch. Armani. Black and gold. A very nice piece indeed. I remember that. Sold it on eBay for a pretty penny.”

  Emily leaned forward, mouth dropping open. “You sold it already? Exactly how long do you give your customers to pay back their loans?”

  “Ninety days,” Roy said, returning her glare. “Except your friend didn’t pawn it. She sold it outright. See?”

  He waved the receipt under her nose. Emily dreaded to think how the watch had come into Becky’s possession. The same thought passed through her mind as Roy reeled off the next two items: one unused patent leather wallet and a pair of Tiffany pearl earrings.

  “Last one,” the pawnbroker said, waving the final receipt. His finger scrolled down the inventory list. “Ah yes, here we go. . .”

  As Roy read out the item’s description, Emily’s breath caught in her throat. “What did you say?”

  Roy read the description again. He glanced up from the folder, frowning. “Yours, is it?”

  Emily was lost in a collision of confused thoughts. It couldn’t be.

  “So, will you be wanting to buy that back, then?” Roy stared down at the counter and tapped the glass. “I’ve got it right here.”

  Emily followed his gaze. The room spun around her as she spied the familiar object. Seconds passed before she managed to speak.

  “How much for it?” she asked.

  20

  EMILY HEARD THE shouts and grunts of the removal men as she entered the street. She had run almost the entire way, leaving her breathless and perspiring. Darting past two men in matching blue overalls, she hurried down the garden path and into the house. Another man was inside, grappling with a heavy looking box.

  Charlotte was in the kitchen, last-minute packing the contents of her food cupboard. When she saw Emily, she straightened and flashed her an angry glare.

  “You said you were going to be here,” she growled. “It’s after two. You know I didn’t want to be left alone in the house with these guys.”

  Emily stared at her. Behind them, two of the men entered the hall and headed towards the living room.

  “Just the red armchair in the corner, please!” Charlotte called out to them. “The one with the label!”

  The men nodded and disappeared. Charlotte returned her focus to Emily.

  “Honestly, Em, I’m really annoyed. What are you doing going to see Michael Nowak? I thought I was about to say goodbye to an empty house. What did he say, anyway?”

  She turned to put more food items in the box.

  Emily watched her, remembering Vice Chancellor’s warning. “Not much.”

  Charlotte hefted the box onto the counter. Out in the hall, the men had emerged from the living room and were now carrying the red armchair to the front door.

  “Careful, please!” Charlotte snapped. She stared at Emily, catching the expression on her face. “What? It’s a family heirloom.”

  Emily nodded.

  She produced the silver necklace from her pocket and held it up. “You mean, like this?”

  The colour drained from Charlotte’s face. Her mouth fell open. The crucifix dangled from the chain, reflecting light into her pupils.

  “New era, new you; that’s what you said.” Anger was rising from the pit of Emily’s stomach. “You told me you’d put it away in your keepsake box, a memory to always treasure, but not to wear around your neck like a stone.”

  Charlotte’s fingers touched the empty space where her collarbones met. She swallowed. Hard.

  “I . . . I did,” she said. “Where did you
find it?”

  She reached for the crucifix. Emily snatched it away.

  “Rockin’ Roy’s Pawn Shop. It was there along with a bunch of other items that Becky sold.”

  “And you bought it back for me?” Charlotte’s gaze met Emily’s and she tried to smile. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “How about you tell me what happened between you and Becky,” Emily said, all trace of patience vanished. “How about you tell me where she is.”

  Charlotte shook her head. Her brow crinkled. “I don’t –”

  “Don’t lie to me, Charlotte! This necklace was the only thing you had belonging to your mother. You told me you’d worn it every day since she died, that you’d never take it off. Becky took it from you, didn’t she? She made you give it up and she sold it to a pawn shop. She didn’t even get that much for it! I thought it was strange when you’d stopped wearing it. Now I know you’ve been lying to me this whole time, pretending that everything’s okay.”

  Charlotte’s face had turned a strange colour. Her gaze shot to the crucifix still dangling from Emily’s hand, to the hall, where the removal men were milling up and down. Tears stung her eyes. She blinked them away.

  “Becky must have taken it from me,” she whispered. “She must have taken it from my memory box.”

  “You’re still lying!”

  Emily saw it in the wideness of Charlotte’s eyes, in the way her fingers twitched and her chest heaved.

  “I have to go,” Charlotte muttered. “I don’t have time for this nonsense.”

  She moved towards the door. Emily moved to block her path.

  “You’re not leaving until you tell me what happened. Where’s Becky?”

  “I don’t know anything. Let me go!”

  The anger Emily had been trying to contain suddenly erupted. “For God’s sake, Charlotte! Stop lying! What is it? Was Becky blackmailing you, too?”

  Charlotte stopped in her tracks.

  “She was, wasn’t she? Along with Councillor Beaumont and Vice Chancellor Eriksson, and God knows who else.”