by Pip Drysdale
And then he hung up and I sat there staring at the wall.
He was being so lovely. So concerned. But he was also lying. I’d heard him talk about Machado too many times to believe he didn’t recognise that name. So the question was why was he lying?
I was in the middle of one of those situations that no movie can ever prepare you for, that no textbook in school ever covers.
And I needed to pee.
So I took my phone and went through to the bathroom, flicking through Instagram as I sat there. It was jarring how the rest of the world was just going on like nothing had happened. Mine was the only universe in disarray. I scrolled down through my feed, shaking my head at how unfair it seemed, when I caught sight of something even more concerning.
Josh’s most recent post.
Gatwick airport.
Him and the blonde girl.
Waiting for the shuttle.
I stared down at the picture: it’d been posted over an hour ago. So, not only was he back in London but he was probably almost back at his flat by now. I grabbed for the loo roll, flushed, and ran through to the sitting room. I scooped up my computer without even turning it off, grabbed both cereal bars and threw any evidence of my being there in my handbag. There was a black baseball cap on the counter by the door. I reached for it and put it on. And then, with my heart a muted thud in my chest, I rushed to his front door, slammed it behind me and ran down the stairs to the building foyer.
When I got to the bottom, I looked through the peephole. I needed to make sure the police weren’t parked out the front. They weren’t. But something equally bad was about to take place: Josh and the bronzed limbed blonde were making their way up the front path towards the front door.
My breath caught in my throat: how could I explain being there?
Behind me was the nook beneath the stairs so I crouched down against the inside wall, hiding myself behind the neighbour’s bicycle. A moment later, the door opened and I saw legs: one set was wearing pale blue jeans, the other set were newly shaved and brown.
‘Here, let me take that,’ came Josh’s voice. ‘Why don’t you just go open the door.’ I held my breath and all I could hear was the jangle of keys being passed to her, footsteps making their way up the creaking stairs. Ba-boom, ba-boom, ba-boom. Then came Josh’s footsteps. And soon, they were gone.
I stared at the front door. I needed to get out of there before someone saw me. But I realised that I had no idea where to go next. The police would be watching Tess’s place and Grace would be in the shop, and what did that really leave me with?
Now, if you’re thinking I should have just gone to the police, that I should have let DCI Holland do her job and sort it out for me, well, I can tell you right now that (a) you’re wrong. It’s really damned lucky I didn’t go to the police like a good girl. And (b) that’s nice. But let’s see you hand yourself over to the authorities when you’re the one who could end up in an orange jumpsuit or a blue jumpsuit or whatever the fuck they wear in British prisons. It’s not as easy as you’d think.
2.04 pm
The atmosphere outside was thick and stifling, like I was stuck in a jar and someone had screwed the lid on too tight. I pulled open the heavy glass doors and went inside. I was hit by the combined smells of coffee beans, cinnamon and sweet vanilla syrup, by the layered sounds of pop songs and clinking ceramic mugs, milk being frothed and teaspoons being dropped onto tables and into sinks.
So where was I? Think: where would you go if you were wearing a black baseball cap and carrying a laptop? If you needed anonymity and free wifi?
Yes, I was in Starbucks.
The first thing I did was head up to the counter and order a coffee: black. But when the barista asked my name I didn’t say ‘Charlie’ I said ‘Annabella’, just to be safe. God knows who I thought would be there looking for me, but that gives you an insight into where my head was at. Everyone was a potential threat.
A few minutes later I was collecting it and finding a seat far, far away from the smudgy window and the darkening clouds outside. It had been sunny that morning and already it looked like rain.
I put down my coffee, reached into my bag just beyond the headshot and script from my audition a few days before, pulled out my laptop, connected to the wifi and opened a search browser: Machado, South America.
If Justin wasn’t going to help me, I’d figure it out for myself. If I knew exactly who Machado was and who he worked for, maybe I could find something to show DCI Holland in Oliver’s files.
I pressed ‘Enter’ and 4,120,000 results appeared.
A couple of hours and a lot of clicks links later, I was on the verge of tears again. Because as quickly as hope had filled my veins with every click of a new lead, it had been replaced by icy disappointment – none of them were him. They were either too young or the photo looked nothing like him. There was nothing on social media. Nothing on LinkedIn. No mention of him in journal articles or the news.
It was as though he was a ghost.
A ghost I’d seen.
But all this made me even more certain he was somehow involved.
My phone started ringing from my bag – people on tables nearby were looking at me now, giving me that put-it-on-silent look – and I pulled it out into view: No Caller ID. It would be DCI Holland again. My face flushed hot as I flicked it to vibrate and let the call go to voicemail. It felt like I was close. She’d have to wait.
So I was holding my phone when it buzzed with a reminder:
CALENDAR
Pilates
13 June 2018 at 8am
I thought of Brooke, lying on her Pilates reformer bed on Wednesday morning, water bottle beside her, waiting for me yet again. And my throat tightened as I thought of the story I’d told her of how perfect my marriage was. I thought of her in our flat: me crying, black bags, gin. My flimsy story about moving to a new place that was so fucking fab. What would she think if she saw me now? If she knew how things had gone in the last 48 hours? If she knew the truth of my marriage in comparison with the us-against-the-world version I’d peddled?
I bit my lip and stared at the screen.
There had to be someone out there who could point me in the right direction. Someone who knew what had happened, about Justin and Oliver’s business dealings. Someone else who knew Machado existed. The first person I thought of was Meredith, the woman who answered the phone. She was the team assistant after all. She’d have been instrumental in creating the paperwork for most of their deals. Would have read most everything that came in and out of their office. All the financials of every business they invested in. And so it stood to reason that she might know something. But there was no reason for her to part with that information and she might lose her job if she did.
Which left only one other person who might possibly know something.
She wouldn’t be thrilled to hear from me, that much was certain, and there was no way of knowing whether she’d be able to help. Maybe Oliver had shared no more with her than he had with me. But she’d lived side by side with him for over a year so perhaps he’d mentioned Machado before he became a threat. And the police wouldn’t have called her yet so there was no real danger in trying …
I pulled up a new browser window and typed in Alyssa Shaw.
It was a name I hadn’t googled in a very long time, not since I followed Oliver to that hotel, realised I was wrong and promised myself I’d stop.
Which is how I didn’t know the truth before now.
Because the first few results weren’t her at all. It was easy to discard them one by one because I knew all too well what she looked like. I could still see her there in Sainsbury’s with her long, lank hair. Her jaw gripped to stop the tears. And I was hoping I’d find out that life had worked out well for her in the 365-odd days that had passed since then, that she’d landed her dream job or started posting pictures with #couplegoals on social media. I needed her happy, and not just for altruism’s sake. Happy people are more willing to help.
But I couldn’t find an email address, nor a phone number. I already knew she wasn’t particularly visible on social media, but she did have a Facebook page. And so, for the first time in over a year, I went to the search field and entered her name.
Up came a page of profiles.
The first three weren’t her.
Hers was the fourth one down. I recognised her immediately.
But as I stared at it, the world seemed to warp around me. A real-time Snapchat filter.
Because it had changed.
Now it read: Alyssa Shaw Memorial Page.
You know what that means, right?
Alyssa Shaw was dead.
The air remained filled with the smell of coffee and the sounds of clinking cups and spoons but all that was muffled by ba-boom, ba-boom, ba-boom. I clicked and up came her page. There she was, smiling back at me. She was sitting on a navy and white checked picnic blanket and the light on her face had that red glow it always does in summer when the sun is going down. My pulse sped up and my throat grew tight.
Did Oliver not know she was dead, or had he actively hidden that from me along with everything else? What about Justin? Had he known when he called her batshit crazy? Or was that before she died?
And how did she die?
The earth began spinning double time. I sat perfectly still as I tried to get my head straight. There were so many moving parts to my life I hadn’t been aware of before now.
I needed one of those corkboards they use in TV shows to catch serial killers to make sense of it all.
Alyssa. The dating app. @lover7. Lucamore. Machado. DCI Holland. Whatever documents Justin was looking for.
Who the hell had I married?
Tears pricked behind my eyes as I stared at my screen, trying to control any sobs so that I didn’t draw attention to myself. I thought back to my phone call with Justin. He was lying. I knew he was lying, but why? Was he scared of whoever did this? That if he said anything, something might happen to him too? Maybe if I was sitting there in front of him, not worried about who might be listening in on his call, maybe then it might be different. I needed to try. But thinking back to our conversation, he kept mentioning the police. I needed to talk to him without the police. And so I picked up my phone and dialled his number for the second time that day.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
‘Hornsby Private Equity, this is Meredith,’ came her singsong voice once again.
‘Hi Meredith, it’s Charlie again,’ I said, my voice stronger this time. ‘Tell Justin I think I’ve found what he’s looking for. I’ll come meet him outside the office in an hour.’
‘Ummm, okay,’ Meredith said. ‘I think he has a meeting in an hour.’
‘It’s important, Meredith, he’ll want this.’
5.57 pm
I stood across the road for about five minutes watching Justin pacing back and forth in his overpriced suit, lingering outside his building. I was checking for signs of the police. Had he called them? Were they waiting for me? But by now, I was pretty sure it was safe. Whatever documents Oliver had taken mattered to Justin far more than his civic duty. I waited for the lights to turn green and crossed the road. He looked up just as I got to him.
‘Hi,’ I said, my voice flat.
‘Charlie,’ he said, looking at his watch, ‘I don’t have much time.’ His eyes were on my bag now. He was wondering whether what he wanted was in there. I needed to bluff so I held onto my bag like it was full of valuables, not just old cosmetics and a big manila envelope I’d bought at a post office on the way over here, now filled with the script from my failed audition and my headshot.
It’s always good to have a prop, something to do with your hands.
‘I think we need to go somewhere to talk. It’s important.’
Justin had never seen me in command like that and I think it took him by surprise because he did what I said.
‘Why don’t we go to the place we usually go,’ he suggested.
The black walls, black ceilings, chalkboard menus place I’d gone to just a week before with him and Oliver. The place beneath his building.
‘Sure,’ I said, and we headed there quickly, both of us hurrying, neither of us speaking. Then it was down the stairs, through the heavy door and over to a free table in the corner. There was a candle that had been lit and it felt like a betrayal to be sitting there with him instead of Oliver, even after everything. I took off my jacket, hung it over the back of my chair and sat down. Justin did the same.
‘What can I get you, Charlie?’ Justin asked, calling over the waiter.
‘Just some water.’
‘Sparkling water for the lady and a Glenfiddich for me,’ he said, fiddling with his signet ring.
The waiter left and it was just me and him.
‘Now, Charlie, Meredith said you found the missing documents. What a relief,’ he said with his smarmy smile.
I looked at him. Took a mental snapshot of his expression. Then I pulled the manila envelope out of my bag, laying it on my lap. ‘Yes, it was only after we hung up that I thought of it.’ So far: true.
‘Well, thank you so much, Charlie,’ he said, reaching out for the envelope.
‘Not yet,’ I said, patting it. ‘I have some questions first, Justin.’
‘Of course, shoot,’ he said with a smile as the waitress delivered our drinks.
I took a sip of sparkling water, the wedge of lime touching my upper lip, and his eyes followed my movements.
‘Who’s Machado?’ I asked, my gaze on his features. I watched his face change. It was incremental. The flicker behind his eyes flamed up. The muscles in his jaw tensed, his pale blue eyes opened just a fraction, and the pupils got small – very, very small. He knew exactly what I was talking about. No matter what came out of his mouth next, he knew.
‘Why are we going through this again?’ he asked gently. Like I was torturing myself with unnecessary trains of thought.
My eyes remained on his. ‘You can’t say you don’t know who he is, Justin. I heard you on the phone to Oliver loads of times when his name came up. So why are you lying to me? Do you think he had something to do with this?’
‘No,’ he said, taking a sip of his Scotch, his eyes darting to the envelope then back to me. ‘Look … If you must know he’s someone we do business with. However,’ he said, lowering his voice to a whisper as if to impart how big a deal it was, ‘it’s pretty bad form for me to even tell you that.’
My mind swirled. Was he telling me the truth? I mean, I’d heard of doctor–patient privilege and lawyer–client, but I wasn’t entirely sure private equity guys had to swear a similar oath.
‘Now,’ he said. Smile. ‘Can I have those documents, please? Oliver shouldn’t have even taken them home. We could get into big trouble if anyone found out.’ He was looking at the envelope on my knees. ‘It was a total breach of privacy.’
‘What’s in here?’ I asked.
‘Haven’t you looked?’ he asked. What was that in his eyes? Relief?
‘I did, but I couldn’t really make head or tail of it.’ I could all but see the tension flow out of him. What was he looking for that would make him so worried? ‘Don’t you want to know who killed Oliver?’ I continued.
Justin let out a big sigh.
‘Of course I do. I’m still in shock. But like I said before, I really think the best thing you could do would be to go to the police. You’re not helping things by running around like this. You need to go talk to them and try to help them figure out what happened.’
I nodded. Small.
‘But I’m scared.’
‘Oh Charlie,’ he said, reaching across and touching my hand; he’d never done something like that before. ‘Of course you are. But you can always call me if things get sticky.’ Something panged in my chest.
Maybe he was right. I mean, what had I discovered so far? Nothing. Maybe Machado really was just a client. Maybe I was making a big fuss over nothing. Seeing red flags where there were none
. But I knew I hadn’t killed Oliver. There had to be another answer out there so now I was wondering whether I should ask Justin about the dating apps, about what Oliver meant when he said ‘We have a problem’. But for all I knew the police were on their way and I had other questions that were far more pressing.
‘What was Lucamore?’ I asked. I did it just like that, with no warning shot.
‘What?’ Justin asked, his face contorted now.
‘Lucamore,’ I repeated. The air around us grew thick with tension. ‘Oliver mentioned it a couple of times.’
Beat.
‘What did he say?’ Justin asked, his eyes narrowing just a tad. I was onto something.
‘Not much, I just wasn’t sure what it was,’ I said, trying to play it down.
‘Right, well, that too is a confidential business thing and he shouldn’t have been talking to you about it,’ he said slowly, enunciating his words. ‘That’s all I can say.’
‘Oh, so it’s not something that will be in Oliver’s will then? Not something I might inherit from.’ You see what I was doing, right? I was asking him outright if Oliver had a stake in it. I was just doing it in a sneaky way, giving him the chance to lie. Disguising it as my wanting to know what cash was coming my way.
‘Lord no, it’s a Hornsby project,’ he said, tangible relief in his expression.
So there it was: he’d tried to lie about Machado existing, and now he’d lied about Lucamore too. Something very strange was going on. The only reason Justin would lie would be to cover something up. So what was that ‘something’?
Shit, did he have something to do with Oliver’s death? But why would he do that? I looked around the restaurant, reminding myself of the nearest exit.
‘Can I have that envelope now?’ Justin asked and my gaze snapped back to his.
What were the documents he was so keen to get his hands on?
‘I have one more question.’ I didn’t want to ask it, but I knew if I didn’t I might never know. ‘Did you know Alyssa Shaw was dead?’
He was quiet. Stationary.
‘Oliver’s ex,’ I continued, as though to jog his memory.
His eyes moved down to the table then flashed back up at me.