by Alan Veale
Out of the shower, trailing wet footprints across the kitchen tiles to the fridge. She needed a distraction and a drink, preferably in the form of a horny male carrying a bottle of something around forty percent proof. Where was Brad Pitt when you needed him? She had the ice. Now where was the gin?
Shit. Out of gin… out of men.
She found the TV remote and turned up the volume. More politics. Conservatives falling out among themselves. Labour pointing proverbial fingers—we told you so. Same old, same old. A familiar face. His face! Shock running through her again like a hit of pure cocaine.
“…once one of the loudest critics of the current administration, Baron Gris had voiced his dissent over the call for a referendum in a speech in February. His death yesterday after a short illness came as a surprise to members of his party. He was just a month short of his eighty-third birthday.”
Muting the sound, she played the words back in her head. It couldn’t be true. He could not be dead. But if he was… what now?
The girl who’d taken the name of Emma Dearing retreated to a darker place. Light streamed through the window of her apartment but she was not aware of it. A deep darkness had taken over, a cloud of paranoia holding her captive, besieging her brain with familiar aggravation. She slumped naked against a chair in a corner of the room, hair tangled and unkempt, sweat and saliva staining her chest. A scratched and chipped toenail marked the limit of her vision; a purplish bruise on the other leg balancing any physical discomfort. Their presence a minor irritation, like the pixelated colours on the screen opposite.
She sniffled quietly. Eyes unfocused. Oblivious to the cold.
Has it all been for nothing? Has he won in the end? By cheating me?
She didn’t hear an answer. But deep inside a fire still burned.
I won’t let him win! There’s more than one rotten apple on that tree!
Then the fear surfaced.
He’ll still come after me. He’ll still have Meredith and… and God knows who else. I’ll see him in hell.
But Emma’s demons were familiar friends. Death was a close neighbour. Perhaps aware of that mortal proximity, she brought her palms up in front of her face. Scarring on one wrist a reminder of a life after extreme pain. The menace of the man had filled her adult life. A public face full of falsehoods. A wielder of power reaching for her throat, lusting for control and sex in equal measure.
I know what that feels like. Especially with a sharp knife in her hand.
Somewhere nearby, at the very edge of consciousness, a small vibration.
Piss off. Whoever you are, just piss off.
But the smartphone on the chair behind continued to probe her conscious state until it got a physical reaction. Flying through the air in the vague direction of the television, it missed the screen by little more than an inch.
Silent and invisible now. How she liked it. How she needed it. She closed her eyes in triumph at scoring one very small win.
*
Also in a dark place that night, a personal preference to assist his interaction with the screen, Eric Vinke was reading his online newspaper. The announcement of the death of Peter Gris nearly escaped his attention. He’d been amusing himself over the political fallout following the Yes vote in the referendum and the resulting scramble by the Tories to show some unity. Then he had found an article referring to the sad loss of a Conservative peer and former Cabinet Minister from the Thatcher and Major era, who had passed away peacefully at his home in Coventry at the age of eighty-two. He learned that Gris had survived the Brighton bomb at the 1984 Tory conference and two further attempts on his life, one as recently as 1999. He had never married, left no family and had been cared for by close friends during the last few weeks of his life. Death was thought to be the result of pancreatic cancer.
Vinke blinked, refreshing the page, then focused on a button at the top of the screen and blinked again. Another newspaper. He made a search [GRIS, DEATH] and found a similar column with almost identical wording. He wondered if he should tell Helen.
Far away he could hear the doorbell chiming, then a female voice below.
‘I’ll get it, dear!’
Vinke would have smiled if he could get the muscles to work. As if there was any chance of him opening the door. Whoever it was, it would not be good news at this time of night.
Twelve
Billie had been enjoying a chat with his daughter Tina via WhatsApp. He was in the Mitchell archives, officially to continue a long-term cataloguing project under the subject of Victorian Bridge Building. The ranks of plain grey shelving set apart from the public areas had long been a refuge for his moments of privacy. Here were the rarer tomes and treasures, the forgotten deposits of yesteryear, or the duplicates which no one had yet authorised for destruction. Happy to volunteer for duty in what he termed his ‘holy of holies’, Billie considered it return payment for his many hours of unpaid deputising over previous years.
Brooding now on Tina’s request for funds for a summer camp in Perthshire, he was not surprised when his phone pinged a second alert after concluding their conversation. Only it wasn’t Tina.
I hear you’re still on duty so have you got time for a cuppa downstairs? “M”.
He didn’t recognise the number, and he knew several people who might sign themselves M, but in quotes? He chanced an open reply:
Yes and yes but who with?
Back came an immediate response:
Former shipmate. 1912. See you in the galley.
Billie read the message again and made the connection. He recalled a series of emails from several weeks before when his elusive author contact had shortened her signature to just two letters: Em. Now it seemed she’d economised even more and used a phonetic connection. He smiled in anticipation and headed for the stairs.
Emma was sat near the edge of the crowded cafeteria on the ground floor. She looked composed and dressed to kill, with a skirt short enough to catch Billie’s eye the moment he turned the corner. He made a determined effort to ignore the distraction, focusing instead on his guest’s immaculate hair and make-up. She remained seated, making plenty of eye contact, conscious of the effect she was having. He approached and hesitated, noting the lack of any vacant chairs nearby.
‘Hello M! It’s been a while. Did you er… want to talk privately?’
‘Thank you, Billie. That’s very understanding of you.’
‘Okay. I’ll just get a key. Back in a moment.’
Billie spoke to a colleague at the information desk before leading the way up the stairs towards the older part of the building. He couldn’t help reflect on the last time he had seen this girl. It may only have been a couple of months, but he sensed something was different. Despite her outward appearance, relaxed she wasn’t.
‘Are you okay?’
‘Of course. Where are we going?’
‘To the Stirling Room. Where you gave your talk?’
‘That’s good.’
They left the carpeted walkway behind and Emma’s heels made sharp tapping sounds on the tiled corridor as they approached the small function room. As soon as Billie closed the door behind them, he found himself wrapped in a fragrant embrace, his lips surrendering to hers as long slender fingers applied light pressure to the back of his neck.
She drew back from the clinch, but Billie was almost too stunned to speak. A deep breath helped him to find his voice.
‘What was that about?’
‘I was taught to always get my attack in first. Helps establish the rules.’
‘What rules?’
‘Ah-ah. Later. Shall we sit down?’
She led the way to a small wooden table near the raised platform and pulled up one of the light beechwood chairs populating the dark-panelled room. Perching with her knees together, Emma made no attempt to adjust the hem of her skirt, placing her bag on the table before looking up at her perplexed host.
Billie’s senses were struggling to cope. I’m not good with women, bu
t God that felt good! Making a determined effort not to look at the expanse of naked thigh in front of him, he grabbed another chair and drew a deep breath as he sat down. Emma didn’t waste any time.
‘I’d better start with an apology.’
He focused on her eyes, green like the top she was wearing under a white bolero jacket.
‘You got my emails?’ asked Billie.
‘Yes, but that’s part of the problem. There’s been a development.’
‘With Eric Vinke?’
‘No. Someone else.’ Emma hesitated, her focus flicking to the door, and then back to Billie. ‘Have you heard of someone called Peter Gris?’
‘No. Oh, you mean the politician? Yes, of course. He was quite a big noise in the eighties, wasn’t he?’
Emma nodded, letting her gaze drift around the room before crossing one leg over the other. Billie glanced down automatically and wished he hadn’t. His concentration was needed elsewhere.
‘He was. And until recently, quite influential in the present government. He has fingers in several pies. Or, he had.’ She looked directly at him. ‘He’s dead. Died two weeks ago of cancer.’
Billie wasn’t sure how he was supposed to react. Emma seemed upset, but not tearful. What was her connection to the deceased politician?
‘I’m sorry. I’m not sure—’
‘I need someone to help me, Billie. I need your help. Peter Gris… he killed someone. He’s not a very nice man. Not what you think. Sorry! Sorry… oh shit.’
Billie saw that tears had gathered beneath those green eyes, and he rose to his feet in alarm as Emma reached into her bag for a tissue.
‘It’s okay! Sorry. I was determined I wasn’t going to get upset… I’m angry more than upset. You don’t know what it’s like to… sorry.’ Feminine dexterity repaired most of the damage, and the glamour was soon back in place.
‘Would you like a drink? I could bring you some water.’
Emma put the tissue back in her bag. ‘Thanks, but no thanks. Offer me a gin and I’m all yours.’ Then she added, ‘Just joking. It’ll cost you more than that. Right. So tell me where you’re up to with Titanic?’
Billie blinked. This was turning into the most bizarre encounter with a female he could remember. The woman opposite him was undeniably attractive, and apart from the amount of leg on show there was also a further distraction moving under her top. But her eccentric behaviour was the dominant issue. He felt out of control and out of his depth, so he sat down again.
‘As I said in the email—’
‘No more emails!’
‘What?’
‘I mean it, Billie! Don’t use email any more. That’s why I haven’t replied. Emails can be hacked too easily and you don’t know these guys like I do. Use WhatsApp in future, okay?’
‘Okay, but—’
‘But me no buts! Oh yes, something else. I brought you this.’
She removed a slim envelope from her bag and placed it on the table in front of him.
‘What’s this?’
‘It’s a sort of clue. Go on. Open it.’
He picked it up, noting that while the envelope itself was probably a recent purchase, the papers inside had history. He unfolded the three sheets and examined the top one. Recognising it as a photocopy of a much older document, his curiosity was piqued by the words Harland & Wolff, Pirrie, Morgan and Ismay near the top of the page. He was looking at handwritten notes taken in 1911 at a meeting of those illustrious gentlemen.
‘Be careful what you do with that. Peter Gris has already killed members of my family to stop this document going public. This is just the first part, for now. Read it later, and if you want to know more, you’ll have to come to mine. I have to know I can trust you, Billie. Now listen to me. The man needs to be held to account for what he did, and I can’t do it on my own. I need an ally. Question is: are you up for it?’
*
Later that night Billie still wasn’t sure what to make of his clandestine encounter. Emma had come across like any other writer when they first met in May—friendly, but focused on the work. All that stuff about helping with research for a new book… was that for real? He glanced at his copy of The Tragic Sister by the bed. The book had fascinated him, and he considered it well written. The conclusion pointed blame for the disaster squarely at the directors of the White Star Line and the politicians of the day. While Emma had initially been elusive, and then today displayed some weird behaviour, there was no doubt in his mind that the original of the document she had given him was the genuine article. But then what was he to make of her amazing claims about Peter Gris?
He had Googled information on the politician and found nothing incriminating or suggestive online. His personal memories of Gris had been of a man with a bush of hair and a fixed smile while canvassing for votes in the 1983 election, contrasting sharply with a blood-soaked suit after the Brighton bombing the following year. What evidence was there for him to be described as a killer?
Billie had been surprised to learn Emma was currently living in a new development at Salford Quays near Manchester, not far from his own birthplace of Irlam. When she had left the Mitchell earlier, he had promised to avoid texting or emailing her, but she had confirmed he could show the 1911 notes to Ed.
He considered calling him now, then remembered his friend was in the States for a few days with Robin, his partner. Which also meant he was with his sister, Chrissie. The thought made him turn again to the vintage photocopies at his side.
The notes of that October 1911 meeting contained familiar names: American entrepreneur J. P. Morgan was in the chair, while Lord Pirrie, chairman of Harland & Wolff was also present. Bruce Ismay too, and the Titanic’s captain. The subject under discussion was an inquest into the collision between Olympic and a Royal Navy vessel. A significance not lost on Billie but, intriguing as it was, he had yet to understand what in these pages could drive someone to murder.
Thirteen
Belfast, 1911
‘Well, gentlemen, I don’t need to tell you what I think of that. Back home we’d call it a regular frame-up!’
No one queried the expression. The door had closed behind the last of the engineers and legal advisers to exit the boardroom, and only four men and one woman remained to face the simmering fury of J. P. Morgan. At seventy-four he was still a powerful presence, accusing eyes glowering above a bulbous purple nose and a ragged walrus moustache. His bulky six-foot frame overwhelmed the bentwood chair he had claimed at the head of the table, while his personal assistant, Irving, seemed unfazed as he prepared to take further notes at his right-hand side.
‘To summarise,’ he continued. ‘Out of the three new ships that were supposed to shape the whole future of this shipping line, I have a once-active vessel banged up for an expensive repair caused by your own navy’s partisan antics, another still under construction that will now be substantially delayed from entering active service, and a third yet to even start construction!’ He paused for effect. ‘Any observations?’
Three of the men sitting round the table shifted uncomfortably in their seats, but only two recognised that Morgan was expecting a response from either one of them. The honour fell to the senior figure, an aristocratic gentleman sporting an even tan beneath a neat grey beard. Ten years younger than his American host, Lord William James Pirrie drew in a sharp breath as he observed Morgan reaching to light yet another of his foul-smelling cigars. Hurriedly quashing his distaste, Pirrie prepared to counter the pessimistic atmosphere that had dominated the meeting thus far.
‘It may not be an entirely bleak picture.’
‘Why not? You aren’t the one looking at a piss-poor figure on the balance sheet!’ Morgan dropped his voice a little. ‘Strike that remark, Irving.’
‘No sir, I’m not,’ continued Pirrie, 'but I do at least have confidence that certain figures within the Government will continue to support us.’ He ignored Morgan’s facial reaction and pressed on. ‘I deplore the actions of the Royal
Navy in absolving themselves from blame, but I would point out that this verdict is likely to be overturned when the full inquiry is held next month. We will be allowed to present our case at that time, and in the short term I will press my authority wherever necessary to ensure White Star is treated favourably.’
Morgan looked down at a handwritten note. ‘Your friend in the Home Office, I presume?’
‘I have the ear of Mr Churchill, yes. And in that regard, I should remind you that he has been Home Secretary for twelve months, a position second only to that of Prime Minister.’
‘You don’t say? So, what are the chances of this secretary fellow pitching in for us?’
Pirrie ignored the jibe and instead played his trump card: ‘Because he has just been appointed First Lord of the Admiralty.’
Morgan blew out a long stream of cigar smoke before responding. ‘Pirrie, you never cease to surprise me. I’m just not sure I share your confidence in the people you sleep with. Ismay, you’ve been sitting there like a fish out of water for long enough. What have you got to say on the matter?’
The pale-faced man opposite blinked nervously and cleared his throat. ‘I er… I agree with Lord Pirrie that there may be room for optimism in the hearing next month, but for different reasons.’
‘Go on.’
‘Well, the case the Royal Navy is making is that the White Star Line is at fault for the course followed by Olympic while under the command of Captain Smith here.’ He nodded in the direction of the ship’s officer, sitting impassive on the other side of Ismay’s secretary. ‘As you will appreciate, it is normally the captain who takes ultimate responsibility for his ship, but it can be argued that there is an exception to the rule.’