“Not long after, I decided to step outside for some fresh air. I’m not a big drinker, but I’d had a few glasses of wine. As I went to leave, I saw Anya in the lobby. She was coming out of the lift, and she was crying. But before I could catch up with her, she ran out. At first, I was confused. Why had she lied to me? Then it all fell into place—the rumours were true. Anya had been upstairs with Max, in his room.”
As Emily absorbed Charlie’s words, she began to wonder how Diane might react to the news of her husband’s affair. Of course, there was still no definitive proof the affair had taken place, but Charlie’s story was certainly a persuasive piece of evidence.
“Did you confront Anya when you next saw her?”
Charlie stared at her desk. “I was too upset. We were supposed to be friends—not best friends, but still—she’d lied to me. I was angry, and she must have realized that I knew because the next morning, she barely spoke a word. To anyone. In fact, her behaviour that whole morning was off. Like she didn’t know where she was or what she was doing.” Charlie let out a heavy sigh. “Then we got the call that Max was missing. The next day he was dead. Anya didn’t show up to work again. We received her resignation in the mail.”
Emily jotted notes on her pad. The timing of Anya’s resignation could not be ignored.
Charlie continued. “I tried calling in those first two weeks. She didn’t reply to any of my messages. I was worried. Of course, rumour control saw her resignation as the behaviour of a woman grieving the death of her married lover. I didn’t know what to think. Then her mobile phone number suddenly wasn’t working. Her landline had been disconnected, too. I went over there, to see what was going on. The house was empty.” Charlie paused, worry paling her skin. “One of her neighbours told me a removals van showed up the week before. I haven’t heard from Anya since.”
“Why would she move?” Emily thought aloud. If Anya really had been having an affair with Max, it would explain the depth of her grief. But to quit her job and relocate seemed like an extreme reaction. “What about her family? Have you been in touch with them?”
Charlie, who looked lost in unhappy thoughts, shook her head. “If Anya wants to forget everyone and start over somewhere new, then let her.”
A hint of doubt crept into Emily’s mind. But doubt of what? She leaned in closer. “What do you think happened that night at the hotel? Why was Anya crying?”
Charlie shook her head. “I couldn’t say. Maybe things came to an end between them.”
It was highly possible, Emily thought, chewing her lower lip. Perhaps Max had ended ten years of sobriety because he’d just had his heart broken. It made perfect, tragic sense.
But that hint of doubt continued to taunt her long after she’d said goodbye to Charlie Jones and started toward home. There was only one way she could find out if the theory held any weight. She would have to find Anya Copeland.
CHAPTER TEN
“SOUNDS CUT AND dry to me.” Jerome swallowed a mouthful of beer and wiped his lips with the back of his hand.
They were sitting at the dining table, empty plates pushed to one side. Outside, the night sky was a smudge of charcoal and olive-green. The road below was quiet, interrupted by the occasional wail of sirens. Emily stared at her notes. Everything she had uncovered so far pointed to an illicit affair that had ended in the most tragic of ways. And yet that niggle of doubt continued to bloom, unfurling its petals to reveal a black hole. She glanced at Jerome, who’d picked up his phone and was busy texting.
“I’m not so sure,” she said.
“How come?”
“I accept that Max and Anya could have been having an affair. And I can understand her quitting her job. But to pack up and move out? It’s a bit extreme, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know. People do crazy things all the time. Especially when they’re grieving.”
Emily chewed on her lip, trying to put her thoughts in order. “But still. . .”
She got up and cleared the plates away, then returned to the table with her laptop. Done texting, Jerome leaned back and swigged his beer.
“You know, maybe it is what it is. They had an affair, it ended badly. The guy drank himself stupid and jumped in the Thames.”
“You think he jumped?”
“People have done worse things when they’re drunk.”
“Define worse than killing yourself.”
“Oh, I never divulge my drunken tales of shame. If you weren’t there, it didn’t happen.”
Emily had considered the possibility that Max Edwards had committed suicide, but until now, hadn’t given the idea much credence. She turned her attention to the computer and typed ‘Anya Copeland’ into the search engine. The results revealed a couple of links to E.C.G.’s blog, but little else of relevance.
“What about family? E.C.G. must have her next of kin on file.”
“Not anymore. She hasn’t worked there in over a year.”
Jerome took control of the laptop. “Well, everyone on the planet is on Facebook, right? Even you’re on Facebook.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Logging in, he stopped to check his notifications, then typed Anya Copeland’s name into the search bar. “This should be easy—there are just a few results. Which one is she?”
Emily examined the profile summaries. Two Anya Copelands lived in the USA, while a third was a teenager from Scotland.
“None of them.” Picking up her phone, she opened the browser and scrolled through her bookmarks. “This is an article about the Clean Water gala. That’s Anya in the picture with Max Edwards.”
Jerome examined the photograph with a raised eyebrow. “Oh yeah, they’re definitely hot for each other. But you’re right—none of these profiles belong to her.”
“Maybe her security settings are set to maximum, so she doesn’t show up in search results.”
“Who even does that?”
“Someone who doesn’t want to be found.” Emily took back the laptop and spent the next few minutes searching the rest of the major social media sites. Failing to find any trace of Anya Copeland, she tried searching online telephone directories. It was as if Anya hadn’t just relocated but vanished from the face of the earth.
“Weird,” Jerome said.
“It’s not just weird,” Emily replied. “It’s frustrating. Anya Copeland is my only real lead. How am I supposed to find her?”
“More importantly, how are you going to tell Diane Edwards that her dead, alcoholic husband was boning someone half her age?”
“I’m not telling her anything, not until I have a concrete explanation.”
“You know what else needs an explanation?”
Emily held up a hand. “I don’t want to talk about it. I went on a date. It didn’t end so well. I shouldn’t have agreed to go in the first place. End of story. Anyway, life is far too chaotic for that sort of thing right now.”
Jerome emptied his beer bottle and added it to the collection on the table. “Life is chaos, Emily. There’s no point thinking everything’s love and flowers when people are busy shooting each other in the face.”
He got up and went to the fridge for another beer. When he returned, his eyes were dark and angry. Emily stared at the empty bottles on the table, then back at Jerome.
“Wasn’t it your audition today?” she asked, realizing she’d forgotten until now. “How did it go?”
“Yeah, fine. Great, in fact. They want me back for round two.”
“That’s brilliant!”
“Yeah.”
The smile faded from Emily’s lips. On stage, Jerome was a fine actor. In real life, however, he was hopeless at masking his emotions.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. Everything’s fine. Besides, we were talking about you. Do you like this guy or not?”
“Actually, I thought we were talking about Max Edwards.”
Jerome took an angry swig of beer.
“We’re not teenagers, J
erome,” Emily said. “It’s not just a question of who likes who. It’s more complicated than that.”
“It’s as complicated as you want to make it. Look at me and Daniel. We enjoy the time we spend together, we have feelings for each other, but we’re not rushing to Ikea to buy furniture just yet. You need to stop turning everything into a drama. Just relax. You’re acting like a relationship is this huge, overwhelming thing that’s going to come crashing down on you like a tsunami.”
Emily glared at him. Tiredness was making her body sluggish and heavy. “My focus right now is Max Edwards. If you want to help me with something, help me find Anya Copeland.” She was about ready to give up for the evening. Perhaps she would have a hot shower to clear her mind, then grab an early night. But as she stared at Jerome’s glowering face, an idea came to her. “As a social worker, Daniel must have a lot of contact with schools, right?”
“Yeah, he works with a few schools in the borough.”
“So, he could gain access to class registers. . .”
“I have no idea. What are you up to?”
“Anya’s son, Josh, is about five years old—he would have just started school. . .”
Jerome put down his beer and stared at Emily. “No. You’re not getting Daniel involved in this.”
“I wouldn’t be getting him involved. I would be asking for his help. There’s a difference.”
“Absolutely not. It’s one thing having me running around forests in the middle of the night, dodging psycho-killers, but I’m not having Daniel anywhere near that kind of danger.”
“This isn’t dangerous. It’s nothing like Meadow Pines.”
“Anyway, I bet he doesn’t even have access to that kind of information. And where would he start? There must be hundreds of schools in London. You don’t even know if that woman and her kid are still in the city.”
“But still—”
“And have you thought about the ethics of what you’re asking him to do? He’d be breaking all kinds of child protection acts.”
Narrowing her eyes, Emily turned away and stared at the table. “Can’t Daniel speak for himself?”
“No. He can’t.” Jerome took another large gulp of beer. “I’m sorry Em, but you’ll have to find a different way. Or maybe you should just go back to Diane Edwards, tell her what you’ve learned, and call it quits. After all, it’s not like you’re some ace detective or anything.”
Emily clenched her jaw, sending pain up to her cheekbones. She loosened it, then shook her head. “What’s wrong with you tonight?”
“I haven’t had enough beer, that’s what’s wrong.” Jerome drained the rest of the bottle and shot her a challenging glare.
Emily was confused. Where had Jerome’s sudden hostility come from? But if he was unwilling to talk, she wasn’t going to push.
“I’m tired,” she said. “I’m going to bed.”
As she got up from the table, she placed a hand on Jerome’s shoulder. His muscles tensed beneath her fingers.
“I mean it, Em,” he muttered. “Don’t go asking Daniel.”
Leaving Jerome staring angrily at the table, Emily made her way to the bedroom. Max Edwards’ paperwork sat in piles on the bed, still waiting for a detailed analysis. Dumping it on the floor, she lay down and stared up at the ceiling. She wondered what had just happened with Jerome. She’d seen him in bad moods, but this was different.
Her mood sank lower until she knew she would have trouble sleeping tonight. Reaching toward the bedside table, she hit the play button on her CD player. Kirsten Dewar’s soothing voice floated over the room, her words whispering into Emily’s ears like a lullaby: “Imagine you are in a calm place. Somewhere you feel safe. A forest, or a beach. Take a moment to feel the warm sun on your face, a gentle breeze against your skin. . .”
She had heard the therapist’s words a hundred times, but their power had not diminished. Soon, she was no longer in her bedroom, or the city with its millions of people pressing down on her. She was lying in a forest glade, surrounded by bluebells and snowdrops, a spotlight of warm sunshine pushing back the shadows. Kirsten’s words echoed over the treetops like birdsong, like the wind.
Soon, Emily was asleep. Darkness stole through the forest, devouring trees, until only a thin sheathe of light protected her. Then darkness devoured the light, too.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
FRIDAY MORNING BROUGHT a blue sky dotted with clouds. Jerome had already left to work the breakfast shift at the café. Emily was glad—last night’s conversation had left her feeling waspish and confused. Jerome had no right to tell her who she could or couldn’t turn to for help. Daniel was an adult, fully capable of making his own choices.
And what was wrong with Jerome anyway? He’d been in a foul mood all night, spouting doom and gloom. It wasn’t like him at all.
Taking her usual position at the centre window, Emily sipped coffee and stared at the street below. Cars and buses, crawling bumper to bumper, choked the air with exhaust fumes. Pedestrians filled the pavements, pushing and shoving their way to work. Across the road, customers sat in the window of Il Cuore, the Italian café Jerome had worked in when the two of them had first met. Emily rarely went in there now.
She would find Anya Copeland herself. How difficult could it be? Besides, she had other avenues yet to explore that might shed new light on Max Edwards. His paperwork was one, and the Riverside Hotel was another.
Retrieving the hotel’s phone number from Max’s diary, Emily placed a call to the manager—Mr. Manik Singh—who agreed to a brief meeting at 5p.m.
Now feeling more motivated, Emily sat down with Max Edwards’ stack of paperwork and began the laborious tasks of sifting and sorting. After an hour, she had made several categorized piles, including one for household bills, which revealed nothing out of the ordinary, and one for bank statements. Max’s accounts appeared to be in order, and his role as Sustainable Development manager for Valence Industries came with an enviable monthly salary.
The other piles were concerned with his work, including annual sustainability reports for the last few years that detailed a gradual reduction in Valence’s GHG emissions, water usage, and hazardous waste, as well as a gradual increase in energy efficiency.
The rest of the papers were of little interest, but one thing was clear: Max Edwards had been dedicated to his job, and during his time with Valence, had played an integral role in transforming the company into a much greener one.
Emily let out a dissatisfied sigh and scrunched her shoulders up to her ears. Max’s paperwork had proved of little value. And why would it? The more she thought about it, the more she began to believe in the affair theory. Perhaps meeting Manik Singh might change her mind.
*
Although the Riverside Hotel’s contemporary glass exterior was indistinguishable from the office buildings lining this stretch of Grosvenor Road, its interior was a remarkably grand affair. The lobby was wide and high-ceilinged, with black and gold pillars and luxurious furnishings. The floor was buzzing with people. Business types milled about in groups or sat alone taking calls. Hotel staff dressed in matching black and gold uniforms went about their duties in a deliberate, aloof manner.
Emily approached the desk and introduced herself. Mr. Singh appeared a minute later. He was a short British Indian man in his late forties, with a shiny bald pate and a welcoming smile.
“Ms. Swanson, I presume.” He offered her his hand and a welcoming smile. “A pleasure to meet you.”
In his office, he ushered Emily toward a set of white leather armchairs. The view from the window was unremarkable—a street scene of cars and pedestrians.
“So how can I help you today?” Mr. Singh folded his hands neatly on his lap before answering his own question. “Oh, that’s right, you wanted to talk about the Clean Water gala from last year.”
“More specifically about the death of Max Edwards,” Emily said.
The manager’s face drooped into a frown. “Awful business. He didn�
��t die here, you know. Not at the hotel. He was found in the river. And the gala was a great success. My staff worked very hard that evening.”
Emily nodded. “Do you mind if I take a few notes?”
Mr. Singh eyed her notebook. “I suppose not. But I don’t know what I can tell you about that night, or about that man.”
“I’m trying to help Mrs. Edwards establish a timeline of events leading up to her husband’s death. We know he was at the gala all evening, then went up to his room at around 10 p.m. When Max didn’t show up for breakfast next morning, his colleagues alerted the concierge, who entered his room to find the bed unslept in and his belongings still there.”
“Which were all handed into the police,” Mr. Singh quickly added. “We were very helpful to them, as I hope we can be to you now.”
Emily leaned forward. “I was wondering if I could view the CCTV footage from that night. It might help if I knew what time Mr. Edwards left the hotel. Even if I could just see the footage from the lobby.”
“I’m afraid I can’t help you with that, Ms. Swanson. You see, regardless of the laws surrounding data protection, the footage no longer exists.”
“Why? What happened to it?”
“All of our CCTV footage is held for thirty days before being erased. It’s standard practice. If you’d come to me ten months ago, I may have been able to help you. I held onto the footage from that evening for the police, but they never asked to see it, and so it was deleted.”
Emily slumped in the chair. She’d been counting on the footage to reveal exactly when Max Edwards had left the hotel. Now it was gone; erased from time.
It made sense why the police hadn’t viewed the tapes. To them, Max was an open and shut case, so any time and resources spent on viewing the footage would have been a waste of precious funding.
“I don’t suppose you saw the tapes yourself?” Emily asked.
“No, I did not.” Mr. Singh glanced at the wall clock. “I apologize, Ms. Swanson, but overseeing the running of this hotel is more than a full-time job. Is there anything else I can help you with today?”
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