Trail of Poison

by M. J. Richards

  There had to be something here. Max Edwards couldn’t have disappeared into thin air.

  “What about the staff who were working that night? Perhaps someone saw Mr. Edwards after the gala had ended.”

  “Well, there are the night porters. . .”

  “Could we find out who was on duty?”

  “It was over a year ago, Ms. Swanson. Porters come and go.”

  “But it would be possible to find out? After all, a guest disappearing only to be found dead is unlikely to be forgotten in a rush.”

  “Unfortunately, I expect you’re right. . .” Mr. Singh rubbed his chin as he considered Emily’s request. “Very well. I shall make some enquiries. If I find anything of significance, I shall let you know. You have a card?”

  Emily shook her head, realized how unprofessional she looked, then quickly wrote her number down on a piece of notepaper. Her embarrassment was still in full bloom as she left the hotel and headed back home.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  RUSH HOUR WAS in full-swing across the city. Millions of people filled platforms and pavements, and squeezed in and out of trains, buses, and cars. As Emily pushed open the door to The Holmeswood, she felt grateful for the sudden quiet. Once inside her apartment, she kicked off her shoes and headed for the bathroom. She stopped. Laughter rang out from the living room. She heard Jerome’s voice, followed by Daniel’s. And then she heard another voice—one that instantly made her hands clench into fists.

  “Emily!” Jerome sat at the dining table, wine glass in hand, his chair turned to the guests on the sofa. “Look who’s here!”

  Emily’s gaze shifted from Daniel, who smiled and said hello, to the dark-haired young woman sat next to him.

  “Emily Swanson! How the hell are you? Jesus, don’t look so pleased to see me!” Helen Carlson raised her glass. Her lips spread into a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

  Max Edwards’ paperwork was no longer sitting in neat piles on the table. It was now by Helen’s feet, with his diary resting on top. Emily’s eyes grew round and wide.

  “What a great surprise, isn’t it?” Jerome said, slurring his words.

  “It’s certainly a surprise.” Emily remained standing, feeling like an uninvited party guest. She glared at Helen. “Why are you here?”

  Helen laughed, splashing wine over the edge of her glass. “I see your welcoming charm hasn’t changed a bit. After everything we’ve been through together, I thought you’d be pleased to see me. And to think I nearly died as well!”

  She threw her head back and laughed again.

  “But you didn’t.” Emily’s gaze returned to Jerome.

  “Isn’t it funny?” he said. “I was talking to Daniel about your case, and he said, ‘Why don’t you call Helen?’ Which was a great idea, wasn’t it? Because Helen’s just moved to the city and she’s writing for the London Truth.”

  “Never heard of it.” Emily’s angry eyes swung from Jerome to Daniel, who’d found something interesting at the bottom of his glass.

  “Actually, it’s a new current affairs fortnightly, featuring exposés, investigative journalism, that type of thing,” Helen said, swinging her wine glass.

  “I’ve looked everywhere for Anya Copeland,” Jerome said. “Social media, phone directories, business directories. . . But it’s like she doesn’t exist.”

  “Which is why I’m here.” Helen set her glass down on the floor, close to her foot. Emily watched it with mounting anxiety.

  “Helen’s going to help,” Jerome explained.

  “Yes, I can put two and two together, thank you.” Emily turned to Helen. “But I’m sure I’ll manage fine on my own. Sorry that Jerome’s wasted your time.”

  She stooped down and swept Max Edwards’ paperwork into her arms, then turned to the living room door.

  Helen stopped her. “Come on, Emily. Don’t you think you’re being a little ridiculous? What’s the problem? You didn’t like my story? I thought it was very respectful. I mean, I could have written about all of that business with Phillip Gerard, but I didn’t.”

  “And I’m supposed to be grateful?”

  Anger churned Emily’s insides as she glowered at Helen. The last time she’d seen the journalist, she was being stretchered to a waiting helicopter, her skull fractured by a blow from a hammer. Of course, Emily had been relieved to hear Helen had survived the attack, but she had been less pleased about her subsequent stories in the newspapers.

  “I thought I made you look heroic,” Helen said, sounding wounded.

  “‘Withdrawn introvert, Emily Swanson, overcame her own battles with mental health and crippling anxiety to reveal the killer’s identity,’” Emily quoted. It was one of several extracts from Helen’s article that were now burned into her mind.

  The journalist shrugged a shoulder. “What can I say? I report the facts.”

  “Well, here’s a fact for you: I don’t need your help.”

  Emily marched to the door. She was furious—with Jerome for involving Helen without any discussion; with Daniel for suggesting they contact Helen in the first place; with Helen for being Helen. And although she hated to admit it, she was angry with herself.

  “Come on, Emily!” Helen’s voice sang out behind her. “Stop behaving like a spoiled brat. You know I have access to resources that could help you, so let me help you!”

  Emily turned around. “Why would you want to help me?”

  “Emily Swanson, I’m offended.” Helen pressed her hand against her chest. “Are you accusing me of having an ulterior motive?”

  “You’re a journalist, aren’t you?”

  “Touché. Okay, fine. When Jerome called me today and told me about your case, it caught my interest. And I suppose I owe you for sort of saving my life.”

  “For giving your career a boost more like.”

  Helen stared at her shrewdly. “I’ll help you find this Anya Copeland woman. I owe you that much. But if there is a story there, I want an exclusive.”

  The two women locked eyes. Emily tightened her grip on the paperwork. “I see that hammer to the head did nothing to soften you. Thanks, but I’ll be just fine on my own.”

  Before Helen or anyone else could argue with her, she darted toward her bedroom. It was a childish decision, she knew. Childish, stubborn, and stupid. But she hadn’t agreed to help Diane Edwards to gain further public attention, and she was sure Diane wouldn’t want her name in the news either.

  Dumping the paperwork on the floor, Emily threw herself onto the bed. What had Jerome been thinking? No doubt the three of them were in there laughing at her right now.

  Well, let them laugh!

  A soft knock on the door made her sit up. Before she could answer, Jerome appeared.

  “Can I come in?” He swayed in the doorway, brow pulled down over his eyes.

  Emily shrugged. “Do what you like.”

  Jerome entered, coming to a halt at the foot of the bed. Neither of them spoke for a full minute. Then he said, “So, I guess it wasn’t a good idea calling Helen.”

  “No. It was not.” Emily pushed herself up against the headboard.

  “I don’t see what the problem is. Okay, so you didn’t like what she wrote about you, but she has connections. She can help you find Anya Copeland.”

  “You don’t think I can find her by myself?”

  “You asked me to help you find Anya,” Jerome said, his eyes narrowing. “Well, this is me helping. I know you’re not a fan of Helen but think of the resources you’d have at your disposal.”

  “I don’t care about that, Jerome. You should have asked me first. I don’t need Helen Carlson getting in my way.”

  Jerome moved closer. Emily could smell the alcohol seeping from his pores.

  “You’re being ridiculous,” he said. “If Helen can help you find Anya Copeland, you’d be stupid not to put up with her for a couple of days. I’d do it.”

  “I don’t trust her.”

  Jerome’s frown grew deeper. “Your pr
oblem is you don’t trust anyone.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Emily winced, feeling the sting of his words. When he didn’t answer, she said, “What is going on with you? You’ve been acting strangely ever since you told me you were moving out. Where’s all this anger coming from?”

  “I’m fine,” Jerome snapped. “Maybe you should worry about yourself. You should be busy figuring out what you’re actually going to do with your life instead of running around thinking you’re Nancy Drew.”

  Emily stared at him. “You sound just like Harriet.”

  “Well, maybe Harriet has a point. All this playing detective without stopping to think you might be putting the people around you at risk. Or maybe you do think about it, but you just don’t care.”

  His voice was raised now. Emily folded her arms and stared at the bed, trying to contain her anger.

  “Of course I care. What’s going on? If I’ve done something to upset you, then you need to tell me.”

  He looked away, channelling his anger into the carpet. There was a long, painful silence. Then he said in a low voice, “You know what? Take Helen’s help, or don’t. Do what you like. Either way, I don’t care.”

  Emily watched Jerome back out of the room and close the door. Tears stung her eyes. What the hell had just happened?

  She sat on the bed, feeling guilty and shocked. A minute later, she heard footsteps and murmurs out in the hallway, followed by the front door opening and closing. Silence smothered the apartment. Emily waited a minute more, then made her way to the bathroom. She took out a sleeping pill from the bathroom cabinet, spent a minute trying to convince herself not to take it, then swallowed it down with water.

  As she lay in bed, waiting for the chemicals to take hold, she stared into the shadows of the ceiling. Was she really putting the people around her at risk without a moment’s thought? Her eyelids grew heavy. Her thoughts were extinguished like candle flames, until only one remained, flickering in the dark: perhaps Jerome was right.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  SATURDAY PASSED QUIETLY. Jerome stayed away, leaving Emily to skulk around the apartment, sinking further into a dark mood. On Sunday morning, she woke feeling groggy and disoriented; the aftereffects of taking another sleeping pill. Bored and restless, she thought about crossing the hall to visit Harriet, but her already fragile ego forced her to change her mind.

  Instead, she left The Holmeswood and walked through quiet streets, until she came upon St. John’s Garden. Perching on a bench, she looked around the tiny island of trees and fauna surrounded by rows of Georgian houses.

  Time passed slowly. Pavements began to fill with people, the roads with traffic. The pressure in Emily’s chest refused to ease.

  She needed somewhere bigger, quieter—a place where she could turn her back on the city and forget where she was, even if it was just for an hour.

  It took three buses to get there, but eventually Emily arrived at Hampstead Heath. The sky was a deep azure, spoiled only by a smattering of cloud. People milled about, some with excited dogs straining on leashes, others with towels slung over their shoulders as they headed to the bathing ponds. As Emily headed deeper into the Heath, green slopes of long grass rose up on her left. The path turned and she stepped off it, heading through a field of wild flowers where groups of people picnicked on blankets. By the time she’d reached the trees on the other side, the back of her neck was hot and sweaty.

  Entering the wood, she found the trunk of a fallen tree and sat down. The shade was cool against her skin. Above her head, birds sang out from the rusting canopy. Time seemed to slow down with each of Emily’s breaths. Gradually, her mind cleared of troublesome thoughts. Her lungs contracted and expanded in slow, fluid rhythms.

  You can do this. Forget Jerome for now. You need to focus on finding Anya Copeland.

  There had to be other ways of tracking her down that didn’t involve Helen Carlson. As Emily sat in the cool forest shade, the minutes floating away, an idea came to her. It was such an obvious idea that she berated herself for not thinking of it earlier. But her excitement was short-lived. For this idea to work, she was going to need help from Carter West.

  *

  Monday morning brought more sunshine. As the bus turned onto London Bridge, Emily gazed over the murky water of the Thames. On her left was HMS. Belfast, the once active Royal Navy cruiser that was now a permanently docked floating museum. Tower Bridge lay beyond, its iconic towers prominent against the cobalt sky. To her right, the Tate Modern’s chimney stack stood out like a flag pin on a map: here lay the body of Max Edwards.

  Arriving at Lost, Emily took a moment to straighten her outfit and go over her apology. Entering the call centre, she looked for Carter. He was not here.

  Her hopes sagged as she made her way to the archives. Collecting a new folder, she sat down at her desk. It was then that she noticed him.

  “Good morning.” Carter waved from Imogen’s desk.

  Words collided in Emily’s throat.

  “Imogen couldn’t make it today,” he said. “Something about being locked in her apartment. I was just finishing up, so the boss asked me to take her shift.”

  Emily continued to stare. Unlike the helplines, a shortage of volunteers in the archives wasn't going to cause any damage. She wondered if Carter had deliberately volunteered to take the shift. Emily felt flattered, which was better than the awkwardness currently prickling her skin. Then her mind filled with memories of their disastrous date.

  The database now open and ready for input, Emily opened the archive folder to the first page and began typing in the details of thirty-six-year-old Aidan Williams, who had disappeared from his home, leaving behind a wife and two young children.

  Carter cleared his throat. Emily looked across to see his curiously-coloured eyes were sad and puppy-like.

  “Listen, about the other evening,” he began. “I’m sorry if I upset you. I talk too much when I’m nervous. Perhaps I was asking too many questions, but I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  The muscles in Emily’s shoulders softened a little. There was nothing to forgive, really. After all, Carter had only been asking the questions that were always asked on first dates. It was just that most people tended not to be hiding a dark and anguish-filled past. How was Carter to know Emily wasn’t most people?

  “Dating makes me nervous, too,” she said. “I was rude to leave like that.”

  Across the room, Carter relaxed a little. His smile, warm and familiar, returned.

  “My sister always said I suffered from a case of verbal diarrhoea. I guess she was right.”

  Their eyes met. For a moment, she thought he was going to ask her out again. Part of her hoped that he would. The rest of her ran from the idea.

  Emily stared down at the open folder on her desk, into the blank eyes of Aidan Williams, who’d had a long history of depression and anxiety, who’d attempted suicide twice before.

  Think of something to say.

  “I’m sure, in this case, she’d say you were being too hard on yourself,” Emily smiled.

  “More like she would have told me I’m an idiot.” There was hesitance in his voice, as if he was momentarily lost somewhere inside a memory. “She would have also told me to try again.”

  Carter stared across the room with hopeful eyes, just as Emily realized he was talking about his sister in the past tense. Perhaps she was not the only one with a painful past.

  “What do you think?”

  She’d zoned out for a second. “Hmm?”

  “About coffee take two?”

  “Oh. I want to. . .” She did. Maybe. “But I can’t this week. I have a lot going on.”

  “The new job?”

  Emily hesitated. “Yes. It seems to be taking over my life.”

  Did she tell him? Why was she keeping it a secret? Was helping someone in pain come to terms with their past really so shameful? Because it was shame that was preventing her from telling Carter. Shame and embarrassment
. Because she didn’t want to use the words ‘private investigation’ for him to laugh in her face.

  “Another time then, perhaps,” Carter said.

  Emily watched him working at the computer for a few seconds, his disappointed eyes fixed at the screen. She tapped her fingers on the desk. Ask him.

  “Listen, I know it’s probably inappropriate, but I was wondering if you could help me with something.”

  Carter looked up.

  “I’m trying to find someone. Someone who for all intents and purposes has disappeared.”

  “A friend?”

  “Not exactly. I’ve tried everything I can to find her, but with no luck. I was wondering, seeing as how you’re the social media guru around here, if we could maybe post a shout out for her. . . Perhaps someone will know where she is.”

  She held his gaze with a hopeful smile.

  Carter leaned forward over the desk. His lips curled into a smile. “That’s a very mysterious request. This person who’s not exactly a friend, has she been reported missing?”

  The truth of the matter, Emily realized, was that she hadn’t even thought to check. Face heating up, she entered Anya’s name into the system and checked the results.

  “No, she hasn’t. At least, not to us.”

  Carter stared at her for a long time. “It’s not exactly protocol if she hasn’t been reported.”

  “I know.”

  “What’s this all about, Emily?”

  Just tell him.

  “The new job. . . I’m helping someone to find out what happened to her husband. This woman—Anya—she might be the only person who knows the answer.”

  “Her husband?” Carter’s stare was making her uncomfortable. “What exactly is this new job?”

  “Please, Carter. I know it’s a strange request, but I really need to find this woman.” She pleaded with her eyes, but she could tell he was wavering. “I promise to tell you all about it over coffee take two.”

  Carter stared at her for a second more, then returned to the computer. Emily did the same, entering the last of Aidan Williams’ details. After her behaviour at Bramfords Diner, Carter’s reluctance was understandable, she supposed. But knowing that didn’t stop disappointment sweeping through her.