“Great. How about Wednesday evening?” he asked.
Her face was burning now, her heart protesting in her chest. She wasn’t ready. She was only now getting to grips with herself, never mind getting entangled with someone else. She would tell him she’d changed her mind. That it was too soon.
Emily opened her mouth to say something, anything, but no words came out. Just as the quiet became an unbearable roar, her phone began to ring. Mumbling an apology, she pressed the phone to her ear.
“Where are you right now?” Jerome was out of breath, his voice taut with anxiety.
“I’m at Lost,” she replied. “What’s wrong?”
There was a pause before he answered. “Nothing. Everything’s fine. Are you coming straight home?”
“You’re talking to the woman with no life.” Her eyes darted toward Carter. “You don’t sound like everything’s fine.”
“Okay, good. I’ll cook something,” Jerome said. “And there’s something I need to tell you.”
Cold crept over Emily’s skin. “Sounds ominous.”
“I’ll. . . I’ll see you later.”
Jerome hung up, leaving Emily to stare blankly at her computer screen. It took her a second to remember she still had company.
“Everything all right?” Fine lines appeared at the corner of Carter’s eyes.
Emily nodded. Realizing she was staring at him for too long, she quickly looked away.
“Wednesday evening, then?”
She went to shake her head. Instead, she said, “Can’t wait.”
CHAPTER THREE
THE OLD, RICKETY lift groaned to a halt on the fourth floor of The Holmeswood. It being a fine evening, Emily had decided to walk home. Now, her calves ached. Most Londoners of a similar age were getting ready for a night on the town, but Emily wanted nothing more than to slip into a hot, foamy bath and soak away the hours.
Jerome Miller had other ideas.
“What are you doing?” she asked him, as he met her in the hall and hurriedly guided her into the living room. Seated on the sofa, she watched his tall frame move over to a cabinet and grab a bottle of Jack Daniels from inside.
“Have you forgotten I can’t drink?” Emily said.
“It’s not for you.” Jerome ducked through the saloon doors that opened into the kitchen. When he returned with a glass and filled it with syrupy bourbon, Emily noticed his dark, reddish-brown skin was beaded with perspiration.
“What’s going on?” Tiredness was creeping into Emily’s voice. Everything had to be so dramatic with Jerome, on and off the stage.
He stared at the floor, then drained half the whiskey. Emily opened her mouth to speak, but Jerome held up a hand. She waited for him to empty the rest of the glass.
“Okay, here goes,” Jerome said. “I’ve been meaning to tell you this for a few days, but we’ve not really seen much of each other.”
“That’s because you practically live at Daniel’s. Wait, you’re not moving in with him, are you? Because you’ve only been together for a couple of months now, and not to sound judgmental or anything, but slow and steady wins the race.”
Jerome arched an eyebrow. “I’m not moving in with Daniel.”
“Oh. Well, good. Don’t get me wrong— I really like Daniel, but the circumstances you met in weren’t exactly conducive to the beginnings of a romantic relationship. You should spend some time talking things over, getting to know each other.”
“Thank you, Oprah.” Jerome stared at his empty glass. He took a deep breath, then let it out in a trembling stream. “I am moving out, though.”
Emily froze. She had expected this day to come. Jerome had been sleeping on her sofa for months now, and while the arrangement benefitted the two of them, the circumstances weren’t exactly ideal. Jerome rarely had any privacy, and unlike Emily, he didn’t have an OCD about keeping a tidy home.
Emily spied the pile of dirty clothes down by her feet and felt a sudden ache in her chest.
Jerome watched her, waiting for a response.
“Where are you moving to?” she asked him at last.
“You remember my friend, Mags?”
“The one with the tattoos?”
“Her tenant is moving out of her spare room. She asked if I wanted it. I mean, it makes sense for me to say yes, doesn’t it?”
“When are you moving?”
“In two weeks.”
There was an exchange between them: a pang of guilt, a flash of betrayal. Emily forced a smile. She knew she should feel happy for Jerome. After all, there had been a time when he’d almost had to quit London for good. And her sofa had always been intended as a temporary abode. So why did she suddenly feel so betrayed?
“Where does Mags live?”
“Well, that’s the thing,” said Jerome, refilling his glass. “She lives in Brixton.”
“But that’s—”
“South of the river. I know—the forbidden zone! But the room is cheap, and I can easily get another café job closer to home.”
Emily was quiet. The word ‘home’ sounded strange attached to somewhere that wasn’t her apartment. As for Brixton, it sounded so far away that Jerome could have announced he was moving overseas.
As if reading Emily’s mind, he said, “It’s easy to get to from here. You just take the Circle line to King’s Cross, then the Victoria line the rest of the way. It’s twenty-five minutes.”
“You know I don’t take the Underground.”
“So you take the bus—the 63 to Elephant and Castle, then the 415 direct to Brixton. Total journey time of fifty-two minutes.”
Turning away, Emily looked around the spacious living room. Perhaps it would be nice to have her home to herself once more. And she really did want to be happy for Jerome; after a run of bad luck, he was due some happiness.
“It’s exciting.” She reached out and squeezed his hand. “You can finally have Daniel over to stay, instead of spending every night of the week at his.”
Jerome moved closer. “And we’ll still see each other all the time. I mean, someone’s got to keep an eye on you. Make sure you’re not getting yourself into any more trouble.”
“It’s funny you should mention that. . .”
As Emily told Jerome about Diane Edwards’ unusual proposal, she felt a rush of curiosity. There must have been a good reason for Max Edwards to have given into temptation. And how had he ended up wandering the night alone, inebriated enough to have lost his balance and fallen into the Thames?
Beside her, Jerome raised an eyebrow. “That’s weird. Are you sure she’s not some sort of lunatic? Because Lord knows you’ve had enough crazy people in your life. You and me, both.”
“I’m pretty sure. She came across as . . . trapped, I suppose. As if she wants to move on, but she can’t. Not until she knows the truth.”
“It’s pretty wild—a stranger randomly tracking you down and asking you to do something like that.”
Emily shrugged. “I told her I’d think about it. I mean, it’s not like I’m the police or anything, is it?”
“What are you thinking about it?”
“I don’t know. I’d like to help her. . . And she would pay me. . .”
“Well, hello, it’s not like you don’t need the money right now. Especially now I’m moving out.”
Emily winced. She got up and moved over to the window. In the street below, Londoners sauntered by in suits and skirts as they headed straight for the bars. Above the buildings, the evening sun burned through the smog.
Jerome leaned forward on the sofa. “I don’t know, Em. What if it’s dangerous?”
“Then it would be perfect for me, wouldn’t it?”
She turned back to the window, hiding her glassy eyes. Out of the millions of people populating the metropolis, there was just a small handful that Emily could call friends. She and Jerome had been through so much together in the short time they’d known each other. What would it mean when he moved to the south of the city? She would see l
ess of him. London wasn’t like the village where she’d grown up. You couldn’t just walk down the street and see everyone you knew in the space of ten minutes; especially when you lived on opposite sides of the river. Miles lay in between. Londoners spent so much of their time travelling—to work and back every day, or to do simple chores like shopping for food—that having to then journey across the city to see a friend for a couple of hours was tantamount to trekking across the Himalayas. When friends moved away from your neighbourhood to another part of London, you inevitably said a gradual farewell.
As if sensing Emily’s melancholy, Jerome appeared beside her and slung an arm over her shoulder.
“You know, if you hadn’t given me a roof over my head, I’d be back in Nowheresville, slowly losing my mind. I owe you. But I really believe this will be good for both of us. Besides, now you can finally invite whatshisname over for dinner without me having to play chaperone.”
Emily’s sadness was momentarily eclipsed by embarrassment. “There is no whatshisname. We’re just friends.”
“Mmm-hmm. Carter West. . . What kind of name is that, anyway?” Jerome was quiet for a moment. He pulled Emily closer. “It feels like the end of an era.”
Feeling lead-like and sullen, Emily continued to watch the street below.
“That’s because it is,” she said.
CHAPTER FOUR
SUMMER CONTINUED TO make a last stand over the weekend. On Saturday morning, Jerome sloped off to Daniel’s, leaving Emily home alone with nothing planned. His news had left her filled with self-pity. She channelled her negativity into bursts of housework, then spent the rest of the day staring at the TV.
By Sunday, misery had turned to rejection, rejection to anger. Fine. Leave. What do I care? She had plenty of things to be getting on with, anyway—such as deciding whether to accept Diane Edwards’ proposal.
By the time Monday came around, bringing fresh bills in the mail and a growing sense of despair, Emily had made up her mind. After all, what did she have to lose?
Diane Edwards was overjoyed.
“That’s wonderful news, Emily!” she said over the telephone. “I can’t tell you how much this means to me.”
“I can’t promise anything,” Emily warned. “Other than to try my best.”
“No one could ask for any more.”
After hanging up, Emily felt better. Even if her investigation didn’t end in success, at least she now had something to occupy her mind. The fee she’d earn would take care of her bills for a while, too.
She didn’t have to wait long to make a start. A package arrived on Tuesday morning, which she opened with ravenous enthusiasm. Diane had sent her a stack of paperwork, Max’s old work diary, and a handwritten letter.
Dear Emily,
I’m so pleased you’ve agreed to help me. This package contains everything I could find. Apologies for the paperwork being in such disarray. I’m not sure how useful any of it is. As mentioned in our phone call, Tim Marsden might be a good person to talk to. I know what I’m asking is a tall order, and the chance of finding out what happened to Max is slim, but as my mother always said: if you don’t try, you’ll never know.
Please don’t hesitate to call with any questions.
Yours sincerely,
Diane Edwards.
A quick scan of the paperwork revealed a deluge of bank statements, invoices and receipts, and work-related data, most of which made Emily’s eyes glaze over. Flipping through the pages of Max’s appointments diary, she pulled Tim Marsden’s number from a list of contacts, as well as the number for Valence Industries’ processing plant in Mariner’s Port.
A quick skim of the rest of the diary revealed dates and times for work-related meetings. Appointments had been scheduled for up to three weeks after Max’s death. Nothing out of the ordinary presented itself.
Opening her laptop, Emily typed up the information she had already gleaned from Diane Edwards.
At the time of his death, Max Edwards, 49, had been in Valence Industries’ employment for six years. On Thursday, 28 May of last year, he’d attended a fundraising gala to launch the Clean Water Project—a charitable endeavour to aid those Third World Countries where purified drinking water was scarce.
The Clean Water Project was the culmination of a partnership between Valence Industries and Earth Conservation Group—more commonly known as E.C.G.—a non-government environmental organization. Proceeds from the gala were to benefit the project, which Max had played an integral role in getting off the ground.
The gala had been held in London at the Riverside Hotel. Max had stayed overnight. He’d failed to meet his colleagues for breakfast the following morning. His body had been discovered on the bank of the Thames just three hours after Diane Edwards had filed a missing persons report.
Sucking in a nervous breath, Emily picked up her phone. Here goes, she thought. She tried Tim Marsden’s mobile number first. The call went straight to voicemail and Emily hung up without leaving a message. Next, she tried Valence Industries’ plant in Mariner’s Port. A cheerful receptionist told her Tim Marsden would be in meetings for the rest of the day. Emily left her name and number, saying that she would try again.
What now? Ignoring the doubt whispering in her ear, she pulled up a web browser and found Valence Industries’ website. The company was American, but its plants could be found all over the world. In the UK, they had the processing plant in Mariners Port, Kent, and a performance test centre in Leicestershire. The plant was where Max Edwards had worked. It was a commutable distance from Epsom, but long work days, plus two hours of journey time, meant that he and his wife would have seen little of each other during the week.
Emily scanned the rest of the site but found nothing of interest. Partly out of curiosity, partly out of boredom, she hopped over to the Earth Conservation Group’s website. E.C.G. was heading several campaigns. Emily skimmed through them: climate change, fishing fleets in the Arctic, fracking, rain forest destruction, palm oil—the list went on and on.
E.C.G. also had a blog. Emily scrolled through the article previews. Feeling inspired, she clicked on the blog archives and began reading through entries from May of last year. It didn’t take long to find what she was looking for.
The headline read: Gala Raises Thousands As Clean Water Project Launches. It wasn’t a long article, just a few paragraphs detailing the night’s proceedings and the burgeoning relationship between E.C.G. and Valence Industries, stating that the companies were ‘leading the way to a cleaner, greener chemicals industry.’
With help from E.C.G., Valence was not only looking at ways to reduce their energy outputs, but they were also involving themselves in humanitarian efforts, such as the Clean Water Project. Max Edwards was mentioned as project lead for Valence. There was a photograph. Max was tall and broad-shouldered, handsome in a silver-fox kind of way, with eyes that were weary and knowing. In the picture, he was dressed in a tuxedo and shaking hands with a woman. The caption beneath the photograph read: Valence Industries’ Max Edwards and E.C.G.’s Anya Copeland have been working in partnership on the Clean Water Project for eighteen months. Emily jotted the woman’s name into her notebook.
Her eyes settled on the ominous pile of Max’s paperwork. She would need more coffee before she could even think of wading through it.
As she waited for the kettle to boil, her gaze wandered through the kitchen, past the saloon doors, and into the living room. The only sound was the hiss of heating water. Everything else was quiet and still. Emily thought about Jerome. She had spent the best part of four days alone. It was not his fault, she knew that. So why did she feel so upset with him? The more she thought about Jerome leaving, the more the apartment seemed to close in on her. A great heaviness weighed down her shoulders. She was craving people. Contact. Not to be alone.
*
“Sit yourself down. Go on! I’ll get the tea going.”
Emily did as she was told, pushing a pile of books to one side and flopping do
wn on Harriet Golding’s sofa. The elderly woman’s living room had always resembled a dishevelled library, but today it appeared that books had given birth to books, multiplying until there was barely room to move. Emily stared at the towers of novels, journals, newspapers, and magazines that covered the floor and every other available surface.
“Don’t say a word,” Harriet said, waving a papery hand. She was thin and frail-looking, like one prod of a finger would shatter her into pieces. “It’ll be gone by tomorrow, mark my words. Either that or he will.”
Emily nodded. She’d heard those words several times before.
“Anyway, let’s keep our voices down. His lordship is still asleep. Lazy bugger!”
While Harriet hobbled into the kitchen to make tea, Emily continued to survey the chaos. Andrew Golding was an odd man, she thought. An odd man who had reached middle-age without ever having left the family nest.
“Here we are.” Harriet emerged from the kitchen, the tea tray rattling dangerously in her hands.
Emily jumped to her feet. “Let me help.”
“You sit down, I’m fine.”
“Don’t be so stubborn.” Emily said, taking the tray from her and setting it down on the coffee table. “There’s no shame in letting others help out.”
Harriet huffed and puffed her way into her armchair, then grumbled while Emily poured the tea.
“I’ll do the rest. You mind your own,” she said, spooning a small mountain of sugar into her cup. She took a noisy sip, then set the cup down with a clatter. “Haven’t seen you for a while. Keeping busy, are you?”
“I’ve been doing extra shifts at Lost. They need more volunteers.”
“I don’t know why you bother with all that volunteering business,” Harriet said. “Well, you don’t get paid for it, do you? Bit of a liberty, if you ask me.”
“They’re a charity. They don’t make a profit.”
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