Death in London: A Nightshade Crime Thriller (Emma & Nightshade Mystery Series Book 1)
Page 22
After diverting to avoid roadworks and finding every shortcut in London, Neil drove them across Tower Bridge. It looked extra imposing today, with its brick towers seeming to hold up a blanket of heavy grey clouds that threatened to unleash rain at any moment.
At the end of the bridge Neil made an illegal U-turn, ignored protesting horns and flashing lights, and drove down St Katharine’s Way. At the end, Neil took a hard left. They passed through a tunnel and across a small lifting bridge.
Once on the other side, Neil slammed on the brakes and they slid to a halt.
“Want me to come with you?” he asked as Emma threw open her door.
“No, it’s fine. Thanks.” She hurried along a brick path next to an enclosed marina filled with yachts of all shapes and sizes, and finally came to a metal walkway that led to a giant houseboat: a converted steel barge on two levels, 130 feet long.
Emma pointed at the name on the hull:
Boundless
As she stepped onto the foredeck with Nightshade, Emma looked about, every one of her senses on high alert. “Where are all the guards?”
Emma raced to a set of sliding doors and, followed by Nightshade, slipped into a vast, modern kitchen. She remained frozen to the spot, listened for a few seconds, but all was quiet. Too quiet. No signs of life. When she’d visited before, there were two guards posted on the dock, and one outside the boat.
Heart thumping, Emma motioned to a set of open-plan stairs, and they crept down to the lower deck.
To the right were three doors, all of them closed. To the left was Asher’s office door, which stood ajar.
Now I wish I’d asked Neil to accompany us, Emma thought as she tiptoed to the door, with Nightshade close behind. Emma peered in.
A desk dominated the middle of the room. In a high-backed chair, facing away from them, Emma made out the top of Asher’s head, and his unmistakable red hair.
She took a juddering breath, then with every ounce of bravery she could muster, edged toward him. Emma eyed a silver letter opener on the desk, and with an encouraging nod from Nightshade, she picked it up and held out it in front of her. “Asher, where’s Dad?” He didn’t respond, so she rounded the chair. “Please, you have to—” Emma’s voice choked in her throat.
40
Asher Hayes stared out across the marina. Blood soaked his white shirt, his beige trousers, the office chair, and dripped to the carpet at his feet. It flowed from a gaping wound to his neck, and a cut-throat razor lay on his lap, near his right hand.
Asher held a blood-stained note with his other hand, which read:
Thou hast the strength of will to slay thyself
Emma’s world turned grey, and she fought to catch her breath.
Nightshade moved round the desk. She studied Asher, as though she too struggled to comprehend the fact he was dead.
“Where’s Dad?” The letter opener slipped from Emma’s hand and tumbled to the floor. “Is this a setup? Is it real?” She groaned. “When Olivia finds out, she is going to be so . . .” Emma cupped her head in her hands. “I feel sick. Should I call her?” She paced, frantic. “Do you think Eliza has helped get Olivia out of jail yet? I—” Emma shook her head. “We can’t let her see her dad like this. It’ll destroy her.” She glanced around the office, desperate, looking for a sheet or a blanket to cover the body with. “What should we do?”
Nightshade continued to stare at Asher, now appraising.
Emma swallowed a dry lump in her throat. “Is Dad— Did Asher kill him?” Her voice cracked as her thoughts drifted back to the closed bedroom doors. “Dad’s here somewhere, isn’t he?”
Nightshade shook herself and stepped to Emma’s side. “Darling, get a hold of yourself. We must—”
Emma raced out of the office. She reached the first of the three closed doors, and, with her heart hammering in her chest, she grabbed the handle. “Please don’t be in here. Please don’t be in here.” Emma opened the door.
Beyond was a master bedroom with a double bed, wardrobes, and en suite. No sign of her father.
Emma rushed to the second door and threw that open too. This room was smaller than the first, with only a single bed, but also stood empty.
With trepidation, Emma approached the third and final door. She reached for the handle but stopped herself and pulled back.
Nightshade joined her. “I’m right here,” she whispered.
“I know. I’m glad you are.” Emma held her breath, and with trembling fingers, she opened the door.
The two of them stared into a utility room with several laundry baskets on the floor, and shirts hanging from hooks, ready to be pressed, but that wasn’t what drew their focus.
Emma took a tentative step over the threshold. “What is all this?”
To the right stood a further two closed doors with printouts stuck to the wall around them, and on the left side of the room Asher had laid a board across a washer and dryer, creating a makeshift table.
On the table sat a dollhouse: three open-plan floors of pink and purple plastic, complete with matching furniture, and a spiral staircase to the side.
A sheet of green baize covered the rest of the table. On that, next to the house, was a deep baking tray, crudely slathered in blue paint and filled with water. To complete the nightmarish scene, a male plastic doll floated face down in the pool, while a female doll, her hair in a pixie crop, watched. Someone had bent her legs into a kneeling position and glued her hands to the sides of her melted face, her mouth formed into a grotesque scream reminiscent of an Edvard Munch painting.
Nightshade murmured, “Well, that’s not at all creepy.”
Emma stared at the dolls, the one floating face down and the other screaming, and knew exactly what they represented.
Her legs wobbled and she staggered backward but managed to grab the doorframe to stop her fall.
“Darling?” Nightshade glanced between Emma and the dollhouse. “What’s wrong?”
“Alice never told me that she was the one who found him,” Emma breathed. “I always thought it was Asher.”
“Found who?” Nightshade asked. “Liam? Are you talking about Asher’s son?” Her eyes locked on to the doll in the pool. “Oh. He overdosed and drowned.”
Emma’s head swam. She took deep breaths and fought against the memories she’d worked hard to suppress.
Nightshade stepped in front of her.
“I’m okay.” Emma held up a hand. “It’s just— It’s a shock.” She composed herself and walked over to the printouts that surrounded the closed door.
They were emails, and the first read:
Alice,
I had a great time last night, apart from making an absolute idiot of myself. I can’t believe I knocked that drink over. I was nervous. I’m sorry. My offer still stands to pay for your skirt to be dry-cleaned. If you can forgive me, I hope we can do it again soon. Not the drink-spilling part, but go to a pub and chat.
Liam.
Taped below this email was the response:
Liam,
Don’t be silly, it was an accident. I never liked that skirt anyway :) Of course I’d like to go out again. How about next Friday? My shift at the Blackfriar finishes at eight and I’m free after.
A.
The answer to that was a simple one:
Sounds perfect. See you then!
Emma moved along the wall. She read emails and copies of text messages detailing other arrangements to meet, a building relationship between her sister and Liam Hayes, with pronouncements of love, and deepest desperation when Richard and Maria divorced and banned them from meeting each other.
The reason given was that neither wanted their private business dealings shared with the opposing family. Alice Greco, always closer to her mother than her father, was on the Hernandez side of the fence, while Liam, son to the second-in-command of the Greco family, stuck with them.
And on it went: their clandestine meetings, and the last messages and emails filled with talk of elopi
ng to America. They were desperate. Neither family would see sense. Neither would yield.
When Emma reached the end of the printouts, she turned back around and stared at the female doll. An image of Alice popped into her mind, her face overlayed the melted plastic scream. “It’s not fair.” Emma wiped away her tears and forced herself to face the first of the closed doors. “What’s in there?” Her voice broke. “Dad?”
Nightshade joined her.
Emma composed herself, took a deep breath, and then opened the door.
The room beyond stood six feet square, plastered floor-to-ceiling in more printouts. Each wall had their own quotes attached, with photos and printouts below.
Emma and Nightshade turned to their right.
The quote there read:
Ask for me tomorrow,
and you shall find me a grave man.
“Another line from Romeo and Juliet,” Nightshade said.
Below were several pictures of Uncle Martin, and next to them, hanging like a vertical banner, in letters almost as large as the quote, was a handwritten transcript of a telephone conversation dated over a decade before:
Rings.
Answers.
M: Hello?
R: Martin? It’s Ruby.
M: What’s up?
R: Sorry to bother you, but I thought you should know.
M: Know what?
R: About what we discussed before. *Pause* You were right. Alice asked if she could meet up with Liam at the warehouse. She said it was the only place left where they could be alone. Where they both felt safe.
M: And you agreed?
R: Of course. I put up some resistance, made it look like I wasn’t sure it was a good idea, but caved in the end.
M: Good. Are you still seeing Jacob?
*Pause*
M: Ruby?
R: Yes. I’m seeing him.
M: Here’s what I want you to do. Purchase a Chinese artifact as soon as you can. When the time is right, during one of Alice and Liam’s visits to the warehouse, have Jacob tell Sophie about the artifact.
R: Of course. She’ll want to see it, and catch them in the act. She’ll then tell Richard.
M: Let me know when everything is in place. Don’t do anything else without my say-so. Keep me informed.
R: Will do.
Hangs up.
Emma could not believe her uncle had plotted something so horrible against his own niece. Alice had always held Uncle Martin in such high regard, as did she.
In a state of shock, Emma turned to the next wall.
The quote here read,
My life is my foe's debt.
A single picture of Ruby sat underneath, with a transcript of another phone conversation. This one was dated a couple of weeks later.
Phone rings.
M: Yes?
R: It’s me.
M: Everything in place?
R: I bugged the office like you told me and recorded Alice and Liam’s conversations. Two so far, but it’s enough. We can show Richard that confidential information is passing between them. They talk about everything; nothing’s off limits, just as he feared. Now he’ll be open to your plan of removing Maria and joining the businesses back together.
M: Excellent. When Richard finds out he'll go crazy. We’ll let Sophie tell him, then when he comes looking for more proof, we’ll hit him with it.
R: I’ve got a catfish pendant ready, just the type of thing Sophie likes. I’ll leave it in my office and tell Jacob on Wednesday. That’s when Alice and Liam are meeting next.
M: Let me know when it’s done.
Hangs up.
Emma’s stomach twisted with anger. She faced the third and final wall.
The quote read:
He heareth not, he stirreth not, he moveth not
Below was a picture of Jacob in his security uniform. An image of the last time she’d seen him shot into Emma’s mind; how Asher had suspended his body from ropes, like a puppet.
Below the picture was a single sheet of paper with a text message exchange:
Jacob: Hey. There’s a pendant here. Not sure what dynasty. You’re the expert, so you’ll know when you see it. Anyway, it’s here. Not for long, though. Can you come tonight?
Sophie: Amazing! Yes, I can. Richard has a meeting. I will get there by nine.
Jacob: Cool. See you then.
And that was it, Emma thought. That was the text message that had sealed Alice and Liam’s fate. Sophie would catch them there, tell Richard, and all hell would break loose. The ensuing rift, along with demands that the young couple stayed apart, would drive Liam to take an overdose, then accidentally drown. Overcome with grief, Alice would leave for New York, but never arrive.
Sick to her stomach, Emma returned to the main room with Nightshade and stared at the dollhouse. “Now we know why Asher murdered them,” she said in a low voice. Emma’s eyes drifted to the second closed door. “I don’t think I want to know what’s in there.”
“We have to find your father,” Nightshade said in a low voice. She glanced around the room. “This is still Asher’s game.”
With trepidation, Emma opened the second door.
The next room was also not much bigger than a walk-in closet. On the wall facing them, printed in large letters spanning several sheets of paper, was the phrase:
Death’s the end of all.
Among the printouts below were thirty or so images of Sophie: some showed her outside restaurants or her house, other pictures were of her shopping, visiting the doctor, getting her nails done.
Nightshade scanned some of them. “It would appear that Asher hired someone to watch our princess.”
Emma stepped into the room fully, and read the nearest email printout.
Sophie,
I’m sorry you had to find out like that, and I’m really sorry it’s put you in such an awkward position. It’s all my fault. I promise it won’t happen again.
Please don’t tell Dad.
A.
Emma ran her finger over the letter A. “Alice.” She turned back to the door.
An old tube-style television sat on a rickety stand in the corner, with a video player above it. A note taped to it read:
Press play.
41
With her heart in her mouth, Emma pressed the play button on the video recorder, and a fuzzy image sprang to life on the screen: a dimly lit restaurant. People sat at tables and chatted while they ate. Candles flickered, cutlery clinked, and soft music played in the background.
The camera panned to Richard Greco and Sophie, sat at a table in the corner. Emma edged toward the screen.
Her father and Sophie both looked a decade younger. Richard had fewer frown lines and no grey. Sophie appeared not much older than Emma. She wore an elegant black dress, with her hair pinned back.
The shaky image zoomed in.
Richard ate steak and new potatoes, while Sophie hadn’t touched her Caesar salad. She glared at Richard, then leaned forward and opened her mouth, but a server appeared and topped up their wine glasses.
Sophie drummed her fingers on the table, and when the server left, she said in a hushed voice, “Richard, there’s something I need to tell you.”
Emma increased the volume on the TV.
Her father didn’t look up. “Whatever’s bothering you, it can wait.”
“No. It can’t,” Sophie said in a firm tone. “You should hear this. And if something happens, you’ll blame me if I don’t tell you right now.”
Richard set his knife and fork down, wiped his lips on a napkin, and met her eyes.
“It’s Alice,” Sophie said.
Emma’s breath caught in her throat. “Don’t do it,” she muttered, screwing up her face. “Please don’t.”
“What about her?” Richard said.
“She’s still seeing that boy,” Sophie said. “You know. Liam Hayes.”
Richard’s eyes narrowed.
Sophie nodded. “They’ve been meeting up.”
Sophie sighed. “A bullet to Liam’s head. Clean, simple and effective.”
Emma gasped.
Richard’s eyebrows rose. “And how do you know about their meeting up?”
Sophie leaned back. “A friend. I had it checked out. It’s all true.”
Richard stared at her for a few seconds, then stood.
“Where are you going?” Sophie asked.
Richard marched out of the restaurant and the image faded to black.
Emma stared at the blank screen, her eyes unfocused.
The image flickered to life again. “A bullet to Liam’s head,” Sophie said. The picture jumped. “A bullet to Liam’s head. A bullet to Liam’s head. A bullet to—”
“Okay, Asher, I get it.” Emma switched off the television and faced Nightshade. “She still didn’t deserve to die. No one did.”
Nightshade shook her head.
“Why did Asher kill himself?” Emma asked. “If he wanted revenge, why did he go through all this trouble just to end it like that?”
“We weren’t the ones who were supposed to be investigating this,” Nightshade said in a low voice.
“Mum,” Emma said. “Asher thought she would be the one tracking down the killer.”
Nightshade kept her gaze locked onto Emma’s. “Asher wanted to show her what happened to Liam, what Martin and Ruby did, and then redirect that newly built rage toward Richard.” She sighed. “Asher wanted a war to end both families.”
“But with us investigating, we helped to keep the peace,” Emma said.
Nightshade clasped her hands in front of her. “I believe the theft of the Droeshout casket was a ruse to put pressure onto your mother and force her to make a mistake.” She gestured through the door. “All those emails, photos, text messages . . . It took people with a lot of power and influence to gather that intel.”