The One You Trust: Emma Holden Trilogy: Book Three

by Paul Pilkington

  The One You Trust

  Paul Pilkington

  www.hodder.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain in 2014 by Coronet

  An imprint of Hodder & Stoughton

  An Hachette UK company

  Copyright © Paul Pilkington 2014

  The right of Paul Pilkington to be identified as the Author of the

  Work has been asserted by him in accordance with

  the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,

  stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any

  means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be

  otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that

  in which it is published and without a similar condition being

  imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance

  to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

  ISBN 9781444784879

  Hodder & Stoughton Ltd

  338 Euston Road

  London NW1 3BH

  www.hodder.co.uk

  For my family

  Contents

  Let the final act begin . . .

  Prologue

  Part One

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Part Two

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Part Three

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Part Four

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  The Emma Holden Trilogy

  Let the final act begin . . .

  Prologue

  ‘Wake up.’

  Peter Myers hadn’t been asleep. Before he turned over to face the prison guard, he tucked the photograph that he had been gazing at into the waistband of his tracksuit, covering it with his top. If they knew he had it, they would take it off him straight away. There was no doubt about that. All the effort to which he had gone to keep the photo secret would have been wasted. And that photograph was one of the only things keeping him going in this place. Without it, he didn’t know what he would do. It was the one thing that lifted him above the filth and the degradation of the life that festered within the prison walls, threatening to consume him.

  ‘Come on, Myers, up!’

  He climbed off the creaky, uncomfortable bed, with its damp odour, paper-thin mattress and unforgiving springs.

  Without saying a word, he faced up to the guard with his bright green eyes. Despite the warder being half a foot shorter than him, their faces were only a matter of centimetres apart. Myers could smell stale tobacco on the man’s breath.

  ‘Look lively, Myers.’ The guard liked to act tough, play the bully.

  Peter Myers scratched at his greying beard, and continued to stare at the guard. He could sense his discomfort. No matter how well he tried to hide it, the man was afraid. He probably came to work every day with a sense of terror that someone would puncture the false bravado and show him up for what he really was.

  But no matter how much Peter Myers wanted to be that someone, he knew he had to behave.

  The guard watched from the doorway of the cell as Peter Myers brushed past him and moved along the corridor towards the washroom.

  There was only one other prisoner in the cramped washing area – a man by the name of Carl Jones, who was awaiting trial for attacking his wife with a knife after he found her in bed with his best friend. Jones liked to think of himself as a bit of a joker; sometimes playing the fool, and at other times trying to make a fool out of others. Myers just found him annoying. He wanted to swat him away, like a persistent fly.

  He didn’t acknowledge him as he entered the room. Bending over the sink, he splashed his thin, angular face with ice-cold water.

  ‘Hey, Myers, is this your girlfriend?’

  Peter Myers, his face dripping, glared at Carl Jones in the mirror.

  The man was holding up the photograph. It must have fallen from his waistband.

  ‘Hey, she’s a real looker!’ he said. ‘Nice pai—’

  The word was cut off by Peter Myers’ hand, which he had thrust out and wrapped tightly around the man’s throat, pressing his thumb deep into his Adam’s apple. ‘Give me the photograph back, now.’

  Jones relinquished it immediately, grabbing at his throat, gasping. His face was blood-red. Peter Myers tucked the photograph back out of sight. He stared down at Carl Jones, as he crouched, hunched over, still gasping for breath, and wanted to hurt him some more. But he had already done more than was sensible. He needed to stay out of trouble.

  His plan depended on it.

  Part One

  Chapter 1

  Lizzy paused as she arrived outside Dan and Emma’s apartment building. The weather was that of a typical early December morning – sunny but bitterly cold. She had her hands buried deep inside her winter coat, her strawberry-blonde hair covered by a woolly hat. She liked this kind of weather – it was Christmassy, and she loved the festive season.

  Lizzy took a deep breath as she considered the events of the past two weeks, a feeling of dread rising within her, but she entered the apartment block anyway, glancing over at the post trays where the postman deposited the mail for each resident.

  There were several letters in the trays, including a variety of Friday’s newspapers. Hesitating again, nerves tightening, she shook off the feeling of dread, knowing she had to face up to things.

  She leafed quickly through the mail. Thankfully, there was nothing to be worried about there.

  Not like nine days ago.

  The first letter had been waiting for her three days after her best friend, Emma, and her new husband, Dan, had left for their honeymoon in Mauritius.

  Emma had asked Lizzy if she would mind the flat while they were away. She had only asked Lizzy to pop around once in a while, just to check that all was well, but Lizzy had found herself drawn to the place every day. Maybe after all that had happened, she just felt the need to be extra vigilant. Even though the nightmare was over.

  Or so they had all thought.

  The grey envelope containing the letter had been the only thing in the post tray that third morning.

  It had been addressed to Lizzy, sent externally, first-class po
st. Inside had been a piece of lined paper, with just a single, taunting, typed sentence, in a Gothic font, centred on the page.

  Who can you really trust, Lizzy?

  Lizzy had never considered herself easily intimidated: she had always been somewhat thick-skinned, a trait she’d developed during childhood years of being playfully taunted by two older brothers, and which had further hardened by surviving in the sometimes catty world of theatre. But this had certainly got to her; for the rest of the day it had remained uppermost in her mind. Who sent this? And why?

  Whoever had sent it must have known that Emma and Dan were away, and that Lizzy was visiting the apartment building. She had found herself looking over her shoulder, wondering whether the person was watching, following.

  But she had refused to be intimidated.

  Defying her fears, Lizzy returned to the flat every day, making the post trays her first port of call. And, each day, she had expected to find another letter for her. But it had been another seven days before the next communication arrived. The modus operandi had been the same: a single typed sentence, in Gothic font, posted first class, addressed to her.

  The one you trust is the one to fear. Who do you trust, Lizzy?

  Lizzy had no idea what that was supposed to mean. It wasn’t a threat, as such; it was more like a warning. But it was not a friendly warning – it was designed to unsettle her.

  Again, the question is who . . .

  The suspect was obvious: Sally Thompson. Two months before, Sally, masquerading as a girl called Amy, had planned to kill Emma’s brother, Will Holden. A qualified skydive instructor, she had met and dated him, all with the intention of tandem-jumping out of a plane with him – and sending them both to their deaths. The motive had been revenge on the family: Sally blamed Emma for the death of her fiancé, Stuart Harris, who killed himself after his advances towards Emma, to whom he had once also been engaged, had been spurned. But, ultimately, Sally hadn’t carried it through: she’d pulled back from the brink and hadn’t, in fact, committed any crime. Which was why the police had only given her an official caution.

  Maybe she was too obvious a suspect.

  But if not Sally Thompson, then who?

  Lizzy hadn’t told anyone about the letters. She certainly wasn’t going to let it spoil Dan and Emma’s honeymoon. There was no way that she was going to let this individual ruin things. And she hadn’t told Will, because she wasn’t convinced that he would be able to keep quiet if Emma happened to get in touch. She knew he probably wouldn’t say anything, but it wasn’t worth the risk. Lizzy had considered contacting the police, but it was probably just some loser with nothing better to do, who had been attracted to the case following the press publicity.

  Lizzy climbed the stairs to Emma and Dan’s top-floor flat. She entered, glancing back down towards the staircase as she closed the door. There was – of course – nobody there.

  Once inside, she did her daily check of each room, moving quickly. Everything was as it should be. But being in the place, devoid of its owners, unnerved her, and she never stayed for more than a minute or so, always glad to leave.

  Lizzy peered around the bathroom door. Again, nothing. But, inside her head, she heard Will’s voice.

  It’s Richard. I think he’s dead.

  That image, of Will emerging from the bathroom, blood all over his hands, having found the battered body of Dan’s brother, Richard, still haunted her – even though she knew Richard was safely up in Edinburgh now, getting on with his life.

  She always left the bathroom until last.

  Lizzy shivered, locking the door and turning to go back down the stairs. It wasn’t getting any easier, but she was going to come back every day until Dan and Emma returned. She wasn’t going to let her fears get the better of her.

  By the time she reached the hallway, she was feeling better. But the sight of a grey envelope in Dan and Emma’s post tray stopped her dead.

  She looked across at the external door. There was no one. Moving over to the tray, she took hold of the letter. It was the same type of washed out grey envelope as previously but, this time, no stamp.

  It had been hand-delivered.

  Lizzy gripped the envelope. ‘They’ve been here, just now.’

  She was startled by the sudden sound of the outside door swinging open. It was Emma’s elderly downstairs neighbour.

  ‘Oh, hello.’ Mr Henderson looked surprised to see her, although she’d seen him a few times over the past few days and had explained that she was looking after the flat. She wondered whether he, like his wife, was starting to lose his memory.

  ‘Did you see anyone leaving the apartments just now?’ Lizzy asked.

  He looked confused, clutching onto a couple of shopping bags.

  Lizzy tried again. ‘Did anyone pass you, just now, as you were coming in?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, his face brightening a little. ‘A man, I think.’

  ‘You think?’ Lizzy bit her lip with frustration. ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘He was wearing a hat. A cap, one of those peaked caps. Seemed to cover his face. He was looking down. I didn’t see his face.’

  ‘Do you know which way he went?’

  ‘Towards Euston Road. Is he a friend of yours?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Lizzy said. ‘What colour cap?’

  Mr Henderson thought for a moment. ‘Blue.’

  Lizzy pulled open the door, still holding the letter. ‘Thanks, Mr Henderson.’

  She stepped out onto the pavement and peered down the road. There were a few people walking towards her, and another several walking in the direction of Euston Road, some way up the street. One of them looked like they might be wearing a cap, but it was too far to tell.

  Lizzy set off up the road after the distant figures, walking at a pace just short of a jog. She wasn’t sure what she was going to do if one of them turned out to be the person in the cap, but she wanted to do something.

  She passed two people – a twenty-something girl listening to music through headphones, and a businessman texting on his mobile phone. And then, further ahead, she saw someone else. Striding purposefully, wearing a blue cap.

  ‘Hey, you!’

  Lizzy wasn’t sure why she shouted, but it certainly got their attention – and confirmed her suspicions that this was the person who’d left the letter.

  They turned their head at a low angle, just enough to see Lizzy, but still shielding their face beneath the cap.

  And then they ran.

  Lizzy gave chase, but the individual in the cap was just too fast and rapidly increased the distance between them. If she had been Emma, Lizzy thought, then maybe she would have had a chance. But Lizzy, although relatively fit, wasn’t naturally sporty, and didn’t run for fun.

  She didn’t give up, though, and pursued the person up towards the busy Euston Road, sure that the traffic would slow their speed. But the person in the cap just sprinted straight across the road, dodging buses, taxis and cars, and carried on across into Regent’s Park.

  Lizzy could only stand by the kerb and watch from the other side, punching the crossing button repeatedly in a vain attempt to stop the traffic.

  She leant against the roadside railings to catch her breath and only then remembered she still had the sealed letter in her hand. She tore it open.

  This time it wasn’t just a message.

  ‘What the hell?’ she said to herself.

  Chapter 2

  ‘I can’t believe that tomorrow is our last full day.’

  ‘Me neither,’ Dan said, as they sat down for dinner on the hotel’s restaurant terrace. They were looking out over the stunning beach and a huge expanse of the Indian Ocean, bathed in a glorious sunset.

  Emma closed her eyes and enjoyed the feel of the mild, strengthening breeze, which in the past hour had taken the edge off the humidity. Her skin had tanned a lovely golden colour since their arrival, bringing out the warm honey highlights in
her dark brown hair. She reopened her eyes as Dan continued.

  ‘It seems to have gone so quickly,’ he said, subconsciously touching his dark hair, which he had cut shorter just before the trip. Emma liked the new style. ‘Cheers to a wonderful honeymoon, Mrs Carlton.’ He smiled and raised his glass of champagne to meet Emma’s.

  They’d come down early for the meal, before the later rush, so the restaurant was quiet, with only two other couples, seated some tables away. This dinner, in the smaller, Indian-themed restaurant, was a special treat arranged by Dan for the Friday night. Unlike the larger eating places in the hotel, he had had to book ahead, and the setting – for open-air dining by candlelight – was idyllic.

  But, Emma thought, although this was an extra-special meal, in truth, everything about the holiday had been a treat. The hotel was amazing; it was a luxurious complex right by the best beach on Mauritius’ east coast, complete with a number of swimming pools, several restaurants serving a vast array of food from around the world, and rooms that seemed palatial in their size and décor. And then there was the island itself. A real paradise, bathed in sunshine, and offering an intoxicating mix of cultures, sights and landscapes.

  It was certainly the holiday of a lifetime.

  ‘Em, are you okay?’

  Emma snapped out of her daydream, releasing that she was absentmindedly twirling her hair around one finger. She smiled at her husband. ‘I was just thinking, on Sunday we go back to reality. Back to London, the flat . . .’

  ‘It’s not that bad, you know,’ Dan joked, his attention taken for a second by one of the small sparrows that spent each day squabbling over the crumbs that fell from the tables.

  ‘No, it’s not bad at all.’ She tried to smile.

  ‘Everything is going to be all right,’ Dan said, reading her mind. He reached across the table top and took her hand. ‘Everything is going to be absolutely fine.’

  Emma went to say something, then paused.