by Seb Kirby
“I’m sorry, Bill. I’ve nearly finished the story. Just another hour to get comments from Downing Street is all that’s needed.”
McLeish is unforgiving. “Nearly! That’s not good enough, Emma. You know that.”
“Just another hour.”
He gestures towards Angela Smith. “Can you leave us for a moment, Angie.”
She nods and, as she turns to make her way to the door, gives me one of her knowing looks.
McLeish points to the now vacant chair in front of his desk and I sit down. He doesn’t mince his words. “Emma. I’ve warned you and you’ve made promises you haven’t been able to keep for whatever reason. And now this.”
“I can still put this right.”
McLeish turns his computer screen towards me. “Just look at this.”
It’s the train strike story, ready to go, complete with interviews with passengers and comments from the employers, unions and Downing Street. I’m perplexed. “How did you get this?”
“You left the office in the middle of working on the story. I had no choice but to put Angela on it. She did a good job, as you can see.”
“That was my work.”
“And we had no idea when you’d be able to complete it. It’s serious, Emma. That you couldn’t deliver on time is one thing. That you broke our agreement and you continue to do so is quite another.” He puffs out his chest. “You were still working on the Cooper story, weren’t you? After you’d promised to give it up and concentrate on what you’re being paid to do.”
“I didn’t leave to do anything on Cooper.”
“Then why?”
My voice has become almost a whisper. “I was following through on a personal matter.”
“And you think that’s good enough?”
I shake my head and remain silent.
“When I’d expressly demanded that you work with us here as a team?”
I shake my head again.
“Then you’ve left me no choice. I’m suspending you for five days. And I’m removing your security clearance, so don’t try to come into the building. There will be a disciplinary committee meeting held with senior management and me. They’ll discuss terminating your contract. You’re welcome to bring along representation. And, if you’d like my advice, you’ll need it.”
I’m about to leave when he calls me back. “One more thing. Don’t expect to be involved with the late night TV paper review until this is sorted out. As it stands, you’re in no fit position to represent the best interests of this newspaper to the wider public.”
“That’s nothing to do with you. It’s between me and the TV Company.”
McLeish smiles. “Watch this space.”
As I collect what I need to take with me from my workspace, Angela Smith comes up to me with a concerned expression.
“Emma, I’m so sorry to hear what’s happened.”
I don’t look up. “Don’t give me that. You’re more or less responsible.”
“It’s not my fault. Since you weren’t here, McLeish told me to cover the story. What else could I do?”
“You could never have started spying on me in the first place.”
“If that’s what you think, I don’t know why I’m bothering to speak to you.”
“The feeling’s mutual.” I look over what I need to take with me. Laptop. Phone. Notebooks. The attributes of a working life don’t amount to much.
I turn to face Angela. “Now, if you’ll let me pass, I’ll make my way out of the building. Just as you’ve always wanted.”
Angela steps aside. “You’re making a mistake about me.”
“Try telling that to anyone else around here. They’ll laugh at you.”
How can this woman pretend to be the injured party when all along she’s been running tales to McLeish?
My phone buzzes. A new message. I curse as I read it. McLeish has been proved right. It’s from the TV Company telling me I won’t be needed for tomorrow night’s newspaper review. The powers at work behind the Editor are doing their best to close me down, that much is clear.
I brush past Angie and make my way out of the office and downstairs to the lobby.
A grey-suited man and a uniformed security guard are waiting for me. The suit introduces himself as Graham Andrews from personnel. He hands me a letter marked confidential. Andrews says it will tell me about the suspension and what arrangements are to be made for the disciplinary hearing. It says I’m not allowed to enter the building again until the results of the hearing are known.
Andrews scrutinizes what I’m carrying. “You have to leave the laptop and the notebooks here. They’re company property. Same goes for your phone.”
I’m shocked. “But these are all my contacts. I can’t work without them.”
He smiles. “That’s the point. You’re no longer being asked to work here. Not until the hearing. In fact you’re explicitly forbidden from representing yourself in any way as being connected with this company. Any attempt to do that will also be taken into account at the hearing. So, you won’t need whatever information you have stored or written down. That’s company property too. You must hand it all over.”
When I begin to protest, the guard intervenes. “I’ll take these.” He pulls the laptop and the notebooks from my hands and places them in a locker beneath the reception desk.
Andrews holds out his hand. “And the phone.”
“It’s mine. It has all my personal contacts.”
He pulls out a document from the file he carries. “Here’s a copy of the paperwork showing when the phone was issued to you and that it’s company property. You need to hand it over, too. If you refuse, we can call the police.”
As the security guard approaches once more, I’m left with no choice. I pull the phone out of my bag and hold it out for the guard to take. “Anything else?”
Andrews gives a smug smile. “No that’s it. Just read the letter carefully and don’t attempt to enter the premises until you’re requested to do so.”
I turn on my heel and head for the exit.
When it comes to telling truth to power, this is a bad day.
CHAPTER 39
When Ives and Lesley arrive at the Finch house, Andrea Julienne has been at work there for over an hour.
“Same MO. Same result. But this time he’s made a mistake.” Julienne uses her laser pointer to indicate the trail of blood spots that lead to the doorway of the master bedroom and out onto the carpeted landing.
Ives is briefed about the complex crime scene before them. Miriam Finch awakes to a sea of blood as her husband lies mutilated beside her in the bed. As she attempts to flee, she stumbles over the body of the security guard hired to protect them. She has no time to make an emergency call before descending into trauma. It’s late morning before she comes round, surveys the horror around her and makes contact. A doctor prescribes medication, and she is now under observation in a nearby private hospital, unavailable for interview. Barry Finch lies prone on the bed where he died. Besides knife injuries to his neck and abdomen, his chest reveals two long horizontal slashes between the nipples, the same calling card as in the Cavendish and Bishop killings. A guard lies dead on the floor beside the bed, shot through the temple. Another guard lies killed out in the compound.
Lesley points at the markings on the dead man’s chest and says nothing.
Ives nods. “Peter.”
Julienne concludes. “I think the killer was hit and the DNA analysis of the blood track will tell us a lot about him.”
Ives turns to Julienne. “How long before you can get the results?”
“Give it twenty four hours.”
“You say he was hit?”
She holds up the gun, now secured in an evidence bag. “I think we’ll find it was with this.”
Ives rejoins Lesley who is busy inspecting the scene. “Well, Steve, the blood patterns around the side of the bed where the victim, Finch, was sleeping indicate a struggle. My guess is the guard interrupted Pet
er during or just after the attack on Finch and they struggled.”
Ives interrupts her. “So, how did the killer get shot?”
“Difficult to say. One possibility is the guard fired first but was then overpowered. We’ll know if that’s a realistic scenario once we recover the bullets. There are two shots missing from the clip. If we find just one bullet in the guard’s skull and confirm there’s no sign of any other bullet in the room, which at first sight appears to be the case, then we can assume Peter left with the missing bullet inside him.” She pauses. “We should also establish the ownership of the gun. If we’re right, it will be the guard’s weapon.”
“You’re saying it was used against him?”
“I think so. You see, the MO is so different to the earlier kills. Our man is not one to need to carry a gun. He’s physically strong, agile and effective with a knife. He depends on stealth and the shock of his sudden presence. And he’s been selective, taking out the victim and no one else. But here, he’s been forced into something quite different. Unstructured compared to his preferred method. And if Julienne is right and we have DNA results that lead us to him, it would count as a critical mistake.”
Ives rubs his chin. “But that concerns me. The fact he chose to act in a situation like this, against a household with armed guards, means he’s being driven by an increasing sense of desperation, or whatever the hell it is that drives a man like him. And there’s a further question.”
Lesley waits to hear the DI’s thoughts. “What could have led Finch to protect himself like this? Armed guards? Not exactly legal in London. So, what had he to fear? Was he expecting some sort of attack? And if so, why?”
Ives pauses to give out the instructions. “June, it’s even more crucial we discover what links these three men, Cavendish, Bishop and now, Finch. I can’t accept they’ve been chosen at random, not after looking over the scene here. If Peter was doing that, why get drawn to such a well-protected target? Why not go further down the street and choose someone with no protection? I want to know everything about the three men and anything, no matter how trivial, that they hold in common.”
He turns to the pathologist. “And, Julienne, it’s crucial we hurry with the DNA analysis. There’s every chance he’ll kill again.”
CHAPTER 40
Sitting at a table overlooking the Thames, I take deep breaths.
I’ve never felt this low, so stripped of everything that belongs to me. All the certainties I’d taken for granted just a few days earlier are now an illusion. My identity. My job. And my phone, laptop and notebooks confiscated. How can I function? How can I carry out the simplest tasks?
Of course, it’s easy to admit I should have backed up my laptop and phone contacts. But how could I ever have expected these all so essential props of my life would be taken away?
There must be a way of fighting back and I have to find it.
A waiter comes out to take my order. I don’t want anything, but to justify my position here I ask for an espresso.
If only I could recall some of those phone numbers, enough to make a start. The more I try, the more I realize I’ve been rendered powerless by the technology itself. Why would I have ever wanted to remember those numbers when they were always available at a stroke of a finger? What can I remember? Sophie’s number? And, even if I recall some of them, I have no phone.
That’s the place to start.
I don’t pause long over the coffee when it comes, downing the thick, dark liquid in a single gulp and leaving money on the table before heading towards Borough Market. I find the phone shop on the High Street and buy a pay-as-you-go phone. It makes me feel like a criminal, knowing that before I load it with data, it’s untraceable. But that’s what it is. Untraceable because it’s empty. I need to fill it with what’s been taken from me. In this moment, this is nothing less than a metaphor for my life.
I order a scotch and water at the bar of The Feathers, a pub just down from the phone shop, find a seat and settle down with the phone. The pub’s wi-fi signal is strong enough here. And, at least I can remember my social media logins. As I scroll through my posts, here is a snapshot of the life of Emma Chamberlain as it had been. Before I discovered it is a falsehood. I feel like a stranger to myself as I flick through the messages and selfies of myself and my few friends.
Here is a photo of Sophie looking beautiful and confident. We need to talk.
I send Sophie a personal message.
Can we meet? I’m in The Feathers on Borough High Street.
Will she respond? The courts should have closed by now. She should be available, but will she check her messages?
I take a long gulp of the drink before me and wait.
When Sophie comes in and sits beside me, it’s clear that she’s had one of those days. “I didn’t think the prosecution case was ever going to come to an end. It was a relief when the judge called an adjournment.”
I give her a welcoming smile. “Thanks for getting here so soon.”
“I was back at the practice working on upcoming evidence. Simple to walk over here.” She pauses. “Now, what’s happening? You look like you’re going to tell me the world’s about to end?”
I come straight to the point. “I’ve been sacked. Suspended, really. But I expect that will amount to the same thing once the disciplinary panel meets.”
I tell Sophie how I missed the deadline on today’s story. “They’ve taken away my laptop and phone. I can’t function.” I hold out the new mobile. “It’s a blank. Just like me.”
Sophie throws her hands up into the air. “I won’t hear a word of it. Since when did Emma Chamberlain let herself be ground down by someone like McLeish? You must fight this. I’ll help.”
“But that’s the problem. I’m no longer sure who Emma Chamberlain is.”
“You are the same wonderful person you were yesterday. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.” She gives a reassuring smile. “Now, what else is troubling you.”
“Where do you want me to start?”
I tell her about the visit to Montago clinic and about the message left for me by Dr. Kautek.
“Why would they expect you to call?”
“I don’t know.”
“You have the message?”
The envelope is still in my bag but I don’t want to open it. I point to the bag. “It’s here. I plan to read it tonight.”
“You’re sure?”
“I need time to prepare myself.”
Sophie doesn’t press the point. “OK. There’s news. I’ve found contact details for Marsha Kent. She’s stayed in Southampton. Working in a nail bar. I’m free tomorrow morning. We could travel down there.”
“OK.”
“Meet me at Waterloo Station at nine.”
CHAPTER 41
Evan Cargill knows better than to use the phone. Yet there is little choice. The pain in his shoulder where the bullet entered is intense. He’s still losing blood and it won’t be long before he’s so weakened he’ll collapse. Then the game will be up and he’ll be unable to see it through to the end.
He dials the number and waits.
A familiar woman’s voice. “Yes.”
He remembers the code name. “It’s Angus.”
“You’re calling from somewhere secure?”
“I’m in a phone box.”
She waits.
He continues. “I’m hit. I need help.”
“How bad?”
“Can’t drive. Had to leave the car. Came here on the train. Took me all day to get here. I could have just a few hours.”
“Where are you?”
“Close to the train station.”
“I’ll need time to reach you.”
“Make it fast.”
She closes the line.
He shuffles away from the phone box, keeping his head down to avoid recognition by the security cameras all around, and heads for the coffee place to wait.
It’s difficult to stop the blood soaking thro
ugh his sweatshirt from showing. Enough to attract unwanted glances he turns away with a stare.
CHAPTER 42
At home that night, I sit down with a large glass of whisky. Before me, I have the envelope I’ve been given by Dr. Fuller.
I turn it over in my hands. It isn’t heavy. A short message. Maybe I don’t need to open it after all. Perhaps that’s for the best. But that kind of rationalization doesn’t work for long, not when the first warming gulp of scotch hits and sends a wave of reassurance through me. Better to find out what the message says.
I open the envelope and pull out the folded pages inside. Just two pages, typed.
I take another shot of whisky and start to read.
Emma
I hoped you would never be reading this. That you would be leading the happy, contented life you so much deserve. But since you are here, there are things you need to know.
Before you start, I want you to promise you will think no less of me once you have heard what I have to say.
I apologize from the outset if some of this is painful. My sincere hope was that this could be avoided. But at this point it is better that you are told.
You came to me as a broken thing in trauma so great you were unable to function. No matter how I sought to find some means to allow you to understand how and why you had been brought to such a low and tragic place, I failed. And not for applying everything I had learned from my Freudian and Jungian training. I tried for four months and your symptoms simply became worse. What had happened to you was so destabilizing, so dehumanizing that there was no way to remake you as the happy, carefree young girl you once were.
Before I explain where this search took us, I want you to understand the danger you must be facing since you are reading this. The temptation to go back, to seek to recover your self as it once may have been must be overwhelming. But I need to warn you not to take that path. And if, in the end, this is what you decide, I ask you not to attempt this alone. Take the best advice. I am old now and if I am not to be with you, please make sure you find a guide for your journey.
I will not be telling you about the past that brought you to me as a broken personality. Just to say it once more. Please don’t go back. Only pain and suffering awaits.