Her face pulled into a scowl, Helen leaned forward on the sofa. “What if we don’t find that evidence? What if Valence try to stop us running the story? I say we make a move on it now, while we can. Maybe the story won’t take them down, but it will punch a hole in them—maybe even wide enough for the eco groups to do the rest. And who says a public outcry won’t force a change in exportation laws? It’s too great a chance to pass by.”
“But if we hold on for just a while longer, we could find out more,” Evan said. “We still have leads to chase. Max must have had help to get his evidence, so let’s find out who helped him. We look into his history as an environmentalist, specifically at his involvement with the more, shall we say, passionate groups. Plus, there’s still Anya Copeland. And I’m waiting on some intel from overseas that could prove useful.”
Helen’s eyes narrowed. “What intel?”
“I have a guy looking into Valence’s market competitors. I want to know why no unleaded alternative has tried to take its crown.”
“Maybe it’s because they’re sitting around waiting for something to happen instead of striking while they can.”
“Maybe if you had a little more experience under your belt, you’d see that waiting is sometimes your best weapon.”
As the journalists continued to argue, Emily slowly detached herself from the conversation. What exactly did Max Edwards mean to them?
For Evan, he was just an information source that could help him expose yet another corrupt company, while cementing his reputation as an investigative force to be reckoned with. For Helen, Max Edwards meant another step up the career ladder. More than a step. A story as shocking as the wilful poisoning of millions of children would win interest from the major media players—as would working alongside renowned investigative journalist Evan Holt.
But Max Edwards was surely more than just a helping hand. He was a man, a husband, a son, a friend—a passionate believer in right and wrong. And yes, he’d been flawed and he’d been troubled. And yes, his alcoholism had damaged Diane just as much as it had damaged him. But Max Edwards was whole and human. It hurt Emily to think he’d been reduced to nothing more than a stepping stone.
This was not why Diane had hired her. Not to further Helen’s career. Not to help Evan prove yet again just how toxic the world really was. And yet it seemed the only way to discover what had really happened to Max Edwards was for Emily to play her part in doing both these things.
The journalists had ceased arguing and now stood on opposite sides of the room. Amid the silence, Emily cleared her throat.
“I’m going home,” she said, scowling at them both. “I’ll visit Max’s wife tomorrow and ask her about his activist friends. I need to give her an update, anyway.”
Feeling exhausted and her head still reeling from the day’s events, she turned to leave.
“I’m away for the next few days,” Evan said. When Helen glared at him, he added, “It’s for another story. I’ll be back next week.”
“What do you think, Emily?” Helen stared at her from across the room. “Should we wait or should we run the story?”
Emily avoided the journalists’ competing gazes. “I agree with Evan. We don’t know what we’re dealing with yet, especially now Jonathan Hunt and co. know they’re being investigated. Who knows what kind of repercussions there could be.”
Folding her arms, Helen sank back on the sofa. “There are always repercussions, no matter what road you take,” Evan said, looking away. “It comes with the territory.”
With his words still echoing in her ears, Emily left the flat and hurried to the lift. As she reached the graffiti-covered lobby, her phone started ringing. But it was not Jerome as she’d hoped.
“Miss Swanson? It’s Manik Singh calling. I have information that may prove to be of use. One of the night porters claims to have seen Mr. Edwards leave the hotel during the night. He wasn’t alone.”
Emily’s anxiety was swept away by a wave of excitement. “Really? Who was with him?”
“Perhaps if you come to the hotel you could speak to the night porter yourself? He’ll be on duty at nine.”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” Emily replied. Her tiredness now evaporated, she hung up and hurried across the lobby, out into the darkening street.
CHAPTER TWENTY
ANDY BARTLETT WAS a tall and pimply nineteen-year-old, whose body jerked and twitched beneath his ill-fitting uniform as he answered Emily’s questions. At first, Emily thought it was nerves, then she noticed the empty bottle of cola stashed behind the reception desk. Mr. Singh had already left for the night. The lobby was empty. Piano music and subdued chatter floated out from the bar.
“So this man,” she said to Andy, who seemed to be having a hard time making eye contact. “What time did he show up?”
“About three, three-thirty. He was hanging around the lobby, said he was waiting for a friend to come down. I thought it was a bit weird ’cause it was so late. But then that guy came down—Mr. Edwards—and I was like, okay then, maybe he’s a drug dealer, ’cause they were whispering and then Mr. Edwards pulled out an envelope. But he didn’t give it to the guy. He gave it to me. Asked if it could be sent out with the morning post. I said, yeah, whatever. He tipped me a fiver, then the two of them left.”
“And Max—Mr. Edwards—he didn’t come back?”
“Not that I saw, and I was on till seven.”
“What about the envelope he gave you? What happened to it?”
“I put it with the rest of the mail, so I suppose it went out in the morning with everything else.”
“You don’t remember who it was addressed to?”
Andy shrugged a shoulder up and down.
“What about the man that was with Mr. Edwards. Did you hear his name? What did he look like?”
Andy’s gaze moved up to the lobby ceiling, high above his head. “Can’t remember a name. He was old, maybe forty-something. Blond hair in a ponytail. And he had a beard as well, I think.”
The description didn’t fit anyone Emily had met so far. “And how did they seem with each other? Were they friendly?”
Andy replied with another shoulder shrug.
“Did Mr. Edwards leave of his own free will?”
The porter stifled a laugh. “The bloke didn’t have a gun on his back if that’s what you mean. They knew each other; you could tell.”
Questions running through her mind, Emily glanced over the lobby. Who was this man that Max had disappeared with? What had the envelope contained, and who had been its recipient? She turned back to Andy, who’d picked up his phone and was busy texting.
“There’s nothing else you can remember about that night? Nothing that stands out?”
“Nope,” the porter replied, his eyes glued to the phone screen.
Irritated, Emily snatched the phone from his hand and placed it on the desk. Andy’s expression flicked from shocked to annoyed to scolded schoolboy.
“I doubt I would have remembered anything at all if the guy hadn’t died,” he said, shrugging.
“And you didn’t tell any of this to the police? To anyone else?”
Andy shook his head and stared longingly at his phone. “No one asked.”
Emily had no more questions. She asked for the porter’s phone number, which he reluctantly gave her, then told him she would be in touch.
“So, you’re like a private detective or something?” he asked, meeting her gaze for the first time.
“Something like that.” Emily said goodnight, crossed the lobby toward the exit, then stopped. “One more thing. Did Mr. Edwards seem like he’d been drinking?”
Andy glanced up from his phone. “You mean was he drunk? Don’t think so—he seemed pretty sober to me.”
Emily’s mind raced as she left the hotel and hurried along the dark street. Max Edwards had left the Riverside Hotel at three in the morning with a man he knew—and he’d been sober. The more Emily was finding out about Max Edwards, the less
credible the coroner’s conclusion of ‘death by misadventure’ was becoming.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
THE 11:17 A.M. train to Epsom Downs was half empty, giving Emily a row of seats to herself and the space to stretch out her weary limbs. When she’d finally gone to bed, sleep had evaded her. There had been too many thoughts swimming in the mirk of her mind, all knotting together until she’d started to get a headache.
Now, as she travelled toward Diane Edwards’ home in Surrey, those thoughts were no less clear. And it wasn’t just Max Edwards clogging her brain; Jerome was in there, too. She had sent him another text message, had tried calling him again, but his response had been stony silence.
Then there was her conversation with her therapist, Kirsten Dewar. Perhaps when this was all over, she would take Kirsten’s advice. After all, conducting a little research wasn’t the same as making a commitment, and having options was better than holding onto an uncertain, blank future.
When Emily arrived at the house just after 1 p.m., Diane greeted her with a polite smile and showed her into the kitchen, where a pot of tea and a plate of sandwiches waited on the table.
“I didn’t know what you eat, so I kept it simple,” Diane said.
Emily wasn’t hungry at all, but for the sake of politeness she nibbled on a cheese sandwich.
“I’m very curious about what you’ve found so far,” Diane said, watching her eat. “But I’m sure you’ll share your findings once you’re ready.”
“I will. I don’t want to tell you anything without the proof to back it up,” Emily said.
Diane’s face soured. “Sounds like you’ve discovered something that will be painful to hear.”
“I just want to be certain of all the facts,” Emily explained. “The last thing I want to do is give you misinformation.”
“Of course.”
Diane fell silent, staring emptily into her teacup. It couldn’t be easy for her, Emily thought—delving into the past, reliving every negative feeling.
“I need to ask you a few more questions about Max. Did he talk much about his work?”
“I know the Clean Water Project was his focus for that last year or so,” Diane said. “He told me snippets here and there about how it was progressing, the countries where it would be implemented, that kind of thing.”
“And did Max ever talk about his colleagues? The people he worked with on the project. . .”
“He mentioned names from time to time. Of course, there was Tim Marsden, who I’d met on occasion. There were others, but if I’m honest, most of the time I was half listening.”
Emily hesitated. “What about Anya Copeland?”
The twinge in Diane’s left eye was small but telling. “I. . . Yes, I think he mentioned her. Why?”
Her eyes were filling with hurt, growing wet and shiny.
“It’s nothing to worry about for now,” Emily said. The panic on Diane’s face remained. “There’s a man, perhaps a friend of Max’s—forties, blond hair in a ponytail. Does that sound like anyone you’ve met before?”
Diane shook her head then stared out at the lawn, deep lines creasing her forehead. Emily continued with her questions. “Was Max still in contact with friends from his activist days? People he went on protests with, eco group members. . .”
The women stared at each other, searching their expressions for clues. Diane heaved her shoulders, expelling a heavy breath.
“What is this about, Emily? I know you don’t want to misinform me, but now I’m worried. Was Max in some kind of trouble?”
Emily looked away, wondering if she should share what she’d learned with Diane. After all, nothing would ever hurt more than the news of her husband’s death, which had clearly broken the woman into a hundred pieces. But causing needless suffering—especially without a shred of evidence—was not Emily’s way of doing business.
“To be honest, I’m not sure,” she said. “But what I do know is there are still some questions that remain unanswered, and I was hoping you might be able to help with one of them.”
She asked Diane about the blond man again. “Does he sound familiar? One of Max’s friends, perhaps.”
Diane pressed her hands together and stared out the window. “If truth be told, Max didn’t have a lot of friends. He lost most of them during his drinking days. It doesn’t sound like any of Max’s friends I know of, but that doesn’t mean anything.”
“What about friends in environmental groups? You said he was quite the activist in his younger days.”
Diane was lost in thought for a few seconds. Her eyes lit up with an idea. Beckoning Emily toward the hall, she showed her into a small, windowless office, with just enough space to fit a desk and a one-drawer filing cabinet.
“Max spent the last year of our marriage hidden away in here,” Diane said. She hovered in the doorway as if the boundary that had been set by her husband continued to exist. She pointed to a shelf above the desk. “Those are photograph albums from his younger days. He quite liked taking pictures. Wasn’t very good at it, though. I haven’t looked through them in a while, but there are pictures from back in the day. Be careful with them, won’t you?”
“Of course.” Emily cast her eyes over the rest of the office, imagining Max Edwards hunched over the desk, plotting to take down corrupt corporations. “Did Max have a computer at home?”
“Yes, but it was stolen in the break in, along with everything else.”
Emily stared at her. “You were robbed?”
“You hear about thieves casing houses, don’t you? Watching and waiting to see when people come and go.” Diane heaved her shoulders as a sad sigh escaped her lips. “Those animals waited until I was on the way to church to bury my husband.”
Emily stared at the empty surface of the desk. A coincidence? She wasn’t entirely convinced. Regardless, the robbery would have been a kick in the gut for a woman who’d already suffered so much.
“They turned the house upside down,” Diane continued. “The police were very kind and very thorough, but they never did catch them. These days, they rarely do.” She continued to hover for a few seconds more, then said, “I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.”
She closed the door behind her, leaving Emily in the centre of the cramped room. The walls closed in around her. Opening the door again, she took the photograph albums down from the shelf and began working her way through the pages. It seemed pointless wading through the pictures without Diane, but she persevered.
Many of the photographs were taken in the late 80s and early 90s. Several depicted various environmental and human rights protests across the country and beyond. Here was Max, wearing a CND T-shirt, carrying a placard that demanded the collapse of the Berlin Wall. And here was Max, halfway up a tree in protest against the construction of the Newbury bypass. In these early photographs, his eyes crackled with fiery conviction.
Now Emily could see why he’d been driven to expose the wrongdoings of Valence Industries. The company had betrayed his beliefs. It had used him as an unwitting distraction while it had indulged in the very activities he’d spent much of his life fighting against. And Valence was still doing it; only now with Tim Marsden in his place.
Emily continued to flip through the albums, scanning through the photographs and pinpointing faces that showed up repeatedly over the years, including those belonging to a number of blond-haired men.
She found Diane sitting at the kitchen table, busy writing a list. Outside, clouds smothered the sky and spots of rain speckled the windows.
“I’ve been trying to think of names,” Diane said. “People that Max used to hang around with in those days. But it’s been so long and my memories are rusty.”
“Perhaps this will help.”
Emily placed the albums in front of Diane, who regarded them through wary eyes. The next few minutes were spent with Emily pointing at various men and Diane attempting to recall their names. By the time Emily had turned the final page, they had identified fo
ur people who matched the description the night porter had given. Diane hadn’t seen any of them for years and didn’t know where they could be found.
Emily went to close the album, but Diane held up a hand. She continued to stare at the photographs on the page, at her husband’s happy, defiant face.
“That girl,” she said, without looking up. “Anya Copeland. She and Max worked together?”
“That’s right.” Emily could see the muscles in Diane’s face growing taut. She waited for her to ask more, but her silence was a clear indicator of her suspicions. Had there been other indiscretions during their marriage? Emily decided it was not her business to ask. But she did have one more question.
“After Max passed away, did you receive anything from him in the mail? A package?”
Diane squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. “No, I didn’t. Emily, what’s this all about?”
Emily put a hand on her arm. “I’ll explain everything soon. I just need a little more time.”
“Then lucky for you,” Diane said, staring up at her, “that time is all I have.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
LATE AFTERNOON RAIN was coming down in heavy drifts as Emily left Diane and made her way to the bus stop. Diane had not permitted her to take photographs from the album, so Emily had taken copies using her phone camera. She thought about sending the pictures to the night porter, Andy Bartlett, then decided twenty-year-old images weren’t going to help refresh the young man’s memory.
As Emily hurried along the pavement, she saw just two other people braving the bad weather: a young mother on the opposite side of the street, who was getting soaked as she rolled a pram in front of her, and a man walking behind Emily, who was dressed in a navy-blue raincoat, his face obscured by an umbrella.
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