An impatient knocking broke through the quiet.
“Oh, just kiss already,” Helen called through the door. “Some of us need to pee!”
Emily rolled her eyes. “Of course, some friends shouldn’t be allowed within a hundred metres of your emotions.”
Jerome smiled and rested his head on her shoulder.
*
Shadows twitched and shuddered as an old black and white gangster film played noiselessly on the television. It was just after 2 a.m. Daniel had said goodnight an hour ago, leaving Emily, Jerome, and Helen curled up on the sofa. None of them wanted to sleep. Helen hadn’t even wanted to stay, but Jerome had insisted, just in case the men returned.
Emily’s head ached and her body was heavy with exhaustion, but her mind was wide awake, busy replaying the events of the past week. So much had happened that she’d barely had time to process it all. And what about her vandalized apartment? Her insurance would cover most of the damage, but how long would the money take to come through? It wasn’t just the money, though. Her home had been violated. Her sanctuary stolen. Right now, she didn’t feel like returning to The Holmeswood ever again.
Helen’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “You know, the fact that they went to the trouble of finding out where we both live tells me something.”
“That they wanted to intimidate you?” Jerome said. “Because, you know, job done.”
Helen sat up, prompting Emily to do the same. “It tells me we’ve intimidated them. Whatever Max Edwards found, it has to be big.”
Emily frowned. “You mean besides TEL?”
“More than that. Think about it—breaking into both our homes is like waving their hands in the air and admitting they’re guilty. But the question is, guilty of what? We know what they’re up to with TEL, and they know that despite being within the law, a media scandal is going to hurt. But they also know it won’t come anywhere close to destroying them.”
Emily raised an eyebrow. “You’ve changed your tune. Just the other day you were arguing with Evan until you were blue in the face that the TEL scandal was enough to take them down.”
“Yes, well, call that a knee-jerk reaction. Let’s keep focused, shall we? So, Valence’s top dogs know that a media furore is inevitable and there’s nothing they can do to stop it. At the same time, they also know it’s not going to ruin them. Agreed?”
Emily nodded.
Jerome blinked tiredly at the television screen. The detective was trapped inside a warehouse, getting shot at by men in suits and trilbies.
“So, why go to the trouble of trashing our homes?” Helen said.
Jerome stifled a yawn. “I already told you—because they want to scare you. If they deter you from running the story, it buys them time to rake in the money.”
“Or. . .” Helen said. “Max’s evidence is still out there somewhere and Valence Industries has no idea where.”
A memory triggered in Emily’s mind. “The envelope! Max must have known Valence was onto him, so he sent the evidence to someone for safekeeping. The question is, who did he send it to?”
“He must have been working with someone else. A third person,” Helen said.
“It has to be Anya Copeland. But then why hasn’t she done anything with the evidence?”
“Maybe they killed her, too.”
“I don’t think so. They’d already have whatever it is back in their hands, so why break into our homes?” Emily leaned forward and tucked a hand under her chin. “But they must be wondering how we’re getting our information.”
Helen stared at her. “I doubt they know about Evan, so they’re probably thinking Anya Copeland is our source.”
“Which means we need to find her fast. Before Valence does.”
On the TV, the gun fight was reaching a crescendo. Bodies littered the floor. The detective fired his final bullet, just as more bad guys showed up.
“Evan is due back tomorrow,” Helen said. “Maybe he’ll have a lead on where Anya’s hiding.”
Leaning back, Emily pulled her knees up to her chest. “Evan’s name is in Max’s diary. Valence will work out who he is.”
“He’ll be safe for a while. Even if they recognize his name, they still have to find him.”
“Okay, so we’ll warn him tomorrow. I’m sure he’ll have plenty of places where he can lay low for a while.”
Helen agreed. Jerome announced he was going to bed. He squeezed Emily’s hand and she squeezed back.
An hour later, Emily lay awake on an inflatable mattress while Helen lay asleep on the sofa. It hurt her head to lie on her back, so she curled up on her side, listening for movement outside the windows, and worrying about what the morning would bring. She hoped Evan would return tomorrow with something useful, because she had reached a dead end. Agreeing to help Diane Edwards had seemed like such a simple task, but here she was, injured, afraid, and in hiding. And yet there was part of her that crackled like electricity. Perhaps Jerome was right to be scared for her. Perhaps she really did like the danger.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
THE FRONT DOOR was still locked, which hopefully meant that Emily’s intruder had not returned. Entering the apartment with Jerome and Helen close behind, she moved from room to room, making sure there were no more unwelcome guests waiting to pounce. As Jerome surveyed the destruction, his expression grew graver—more so when he saw his belongings scattered across the living room.
Helen whistled. “Wow! I got off lightly in comparison.”
In the morning light, the damage looked much worse. Emily had yet to call the police, which meant they would ask why she had waited until now to report the break in. The truth was that last night she’d been too busy getting knocked off her feet and making amends with Jerome. And she still had no proof that Valence Industries was responsible.
But if she was going to make a claim on her insurance policy, the police had to be involved. Emily reluctantly called the local station. After a brief interview, she was told an officer would be sent out later that day. In the meantime, she should expect a forensics team within the next four hours. Nothing should be touched.
“Four hours? Screw that, I’ve got better things to do with my time,” Helen said, when Emily suggested she should also call.
“What about insurance?” Jerome asked.
“What insurance? Besides, we know who did it, so what other reason is there to involve the police?”
Emily thought Helen was behaving nonchalantly for someone whose home had just been broken into; though perhaps her apathy was a mask to hide her true feelings—if she had any true feelings.
Helen glance around at the mess. “I’d love to stay and help, but I have to go to work.”
“Will you be safe?” Emily asked. “What if they’re watching us right now?”
Helen waved her away. “What are they going to do? Jump on me in broad daylight? I’ll be fine. If you hear from Evan first, call me.”
When she was gone, Jerome looked at the destruction and shook his head. “I’ll stay with you if you like, until the police come.”
Emily nodded. There was still an awkward shadow hanging over them, but it was beginning to fade. “That’s kind, but you don’t have to.”
“Actually, I do. I’ve run out of clean underwear.”
Emily called Lost to tell them why she wouldn’t be in today. Then after twenty minutes of hanging around, she and Jerome invited themselves across the hall for tea. Harriet scolded Emily for not having called last night as she’d promised, then proceeded to interrogate her about the break in. When she was done with Emily, she moved onto Jerome, demanding to know the intricate details of his imminent departure.
The forensic team showed up two hours later and went to work, taking photographs and dusting for fingerprints. When they were gone, Emily and Jerome went to work themselves, restoring order to the apartment. By the time Constable Taylor arrived to take Emily’s statement ninety minutes later, they’d filled three refuse sacks, and the o
nly room they’d yet to tackle was Emily’s bedroom.
The police officer took Emily’s statement. When he asked why she’d taken so long to report the crime, she shrugged a shoulder and mumbled something about being in shock.
Constable Taylor voiced his concern that nothing had been stolen from the apartment. “Do you know anyone who might have a personal grudge against you?”
Emily glanced at Jerome, then shook her head and told the police officer about the man in the lift.
When Constable Taylor was finished with his questions, he told Emily the Burglary Unit would be in touch, then headed across the hall to speak to Harriet. It was now 4 p.m.
“You neglected to mention how you got that bump on your head,” Jerome said, his hands dug deep into his pockets. “Or that certain items were taken.”
Emily returned his gaze. “Minor details.”
After filling a duffel bag with clean clothes, Jerome picked up his jacket and hooked it over his shoulder. “I have to go to work. Will you be okay?”
“I’ll be fine,” Emily said, ignoring the flutter of panic in her chest. “Maybe.”
“You know you can stay at Daniel’s again tonight. I’ll be back by ten.”
Emily’s mind raced back to last night and her heart began to thump wildly in her chest. Perhaps she didn’t feel so safe here after all.
“Do you think he’d mind?”
“As if he has a choice.” Jerome gave her a brief hug, then handed her a key. “See you later.”
When she was alone, Emily stood in the centre of the living room and looked around. The sofa had tears in it. The dining table was missing two chairs. Except for a print of a lake in a cracked frame, the walls were now bare.
That man had been able to enter her home without forcing the lock. Which meant he could return at any time.
A chill ran down the back of Emily’s neck. Pocketing Jerome’s key, she left the living room, bolted the front door, and moved to the bedroom to continue cleaning.
The memory box she kept at the back of the wardrobe was lying on its side, its contents spilled on the carpet. Until now, Emily had kept her emotions under control. But seeing the bottle of her mother’s favourite perfume, the charm bracelet she’d given Emily on her sixteenth birthday, and all those old photographs, made tears course down her face. As she gathered up the precious items and carefully placed them back inside the box, she noticed the bracelet her mother had given her was missing a charm—a lucky horseshoe.
Sadness turned to anger as Emily scoured the room. The charm was gone. Jonathan Hunt would answer for this, she vowed, along with every other heinous crime he and Valence Industries had committed.
As Emily stood, quietly seething, her phone began to ring. She checked the caller ID to see it was Carter. No doubt news of the burglary had spread through the volunteers at Lost. In no mood to talk, Emily let the phone ring out. Seconds later, a chime announced that Carter had left a voicemail. But Emily was in no mood to listen to it, either. Instead, she finished picking up her clothes and replacing her torn bedsheets. When the phone started ringing for a second time, she snatched it up to switch it off.
But it wasn’t Carter calling again. It was Evan Holt, and his voice crackled with excitement.
“Emily? I’m on my way back from the airport. Listen, why don’t you grab Helen and meet me at my place at eight? I have news.”
“You’re not the only one,” Emily said, her voice grave. “They know about us, Evan. They broke into my apartment. Helen’s, too. They took my laptop and Max’s diary.”
Evan was quiet for a moment. “Were you there? Are you okay?”
“We’re fine, but I’m worried. Your name was in that diary—what if they figure out who you are?”
“Let’s not worry about that now. Besides, with what I’ve just found, they’re not going to have time to stop me.”
“Your contact got back to you?”
“Not on the phone. My place at eight tonight. And Emily?”
“Yes?”
“Try not to worry. I have a feeling this will all be over soon.”
Emily could hear the smile in his voice, attempting to soothe her worries. She hoped it was justified.
They said goodbye. Emily debated if she should call Helen. On one hand, she was a liability—if she had kept tight-lipped about TEL, then Emily’s apartment would still be intact and Valence Industries would have no idea it was being investigated. But on the other hand, leaving Helen in the dark would make her vulnerable. And who had brought Helen on board in the first place, knowing full well she was a potential risk? Emily stared at her reflection in the wardrobe mirror. Then turning away, she dialled Helen’s number.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
THE BLUE RENAULT pulled into the multi-storey car park just before 8 p.m. On Emily’s insistence, Helen parked on the ground floor. The level was half empty and poorly-lit, but the car would be immediately accessible if they needed it.
“You could have parked outside of Evan’s. It’s closer,” Emily said. The sound of the passenger door shutting was like a sonic boom, making her jump out of her skin.
Helen laughed. “Are you kidding me? The last time I did that, I was lucky some little shit didn’t slash my tires.”
Evan lived two streets away. They headed toward his home at a brisk pace, both checking over their shoulders. It wasn’t completely dark yet, but the streetlamps had come on, creating comforting, tiny islands of light. There were just a handful of people around, moving quickly along the pavements with their heads down and their bags clutched to their sides.
Emily and Helen took a right on to the next street and were greeted by tower blocks and derelict buildings. Some parts of the city were deliberately forgotten about, Emily thought, unnerved by the deprivation. And so were the people who lived within them. But her understanding did not stop her from feeling afraid.
Turning the corner, they saw a group of hoodie-wearing teenage boys loitering outside Evan’s building in a cloud of marijuana smoke.
“See what I mean?” Helen whispered, gripping Emily’s arm.
One of the boys catcalled behind them as they reached the building and ducked inside. The stench of stale urine burned their nostrils as they entered the lift.
Helen was unusually quiet. Perhaps even she was feeling afraid, Emily thought. She wondered what information Evan was about to share with them. He’d sounded confident on the phone, going as far to say that the investigation would be over soon. Emily hoped so. Her paranoia was becoming overwhelming. Every person on the street had become a potential danger, every creak in her apartment a sign that her intruder had returned. This was not what she had expected when she’d agreed to help Diane Edwards, but here she was yet again, staring danger in the face.
The lift reached the thirteenth floor and the doors slid open. Evan’s apartment was directly opposite. Emily crossed the hall and knocked on the door. As she waited for him to answer, she shot a nervous glance at Helen. When Evan didn’t answer on the second knock, Helen shook her head.
“Maybe he went out,” she said, producing her phone and dialling Evan’s number.
Pressing her ear to the door, Emily heard a tinny ringtone playing from somewhere inside the apartment. As they waited for Evan to pick up, Emily held her breath while Helen tightened her grip on the phone. The phone rang off. They stared at each other with wide, dilated eyes.
Without another thought, Emily tried the door handle. The door swung open.
“Evan?” She stared into the gloom, hearing only silence. “It’s Emily and Helen. The door was open. . . We’re coming in.”
With Helen trailing behind, Emily stepped into the apartment and headed toward the living room. Something crunched under her foot. She glanced down to see a trail of broken glass glinting on the carpet. The rest of the room was intact. But there were tell-tale signs. An armchair had been recently moved, the grooves in the carpet still visible from where it had previously sat. A large framed print on
the wall hung at a lopsided angle.
Emily chose her footing with quiet care, moving through the living room and into the cramped kitchen. It was clean, undisturbed, except for a shot glass sitting in the sink. She moved on to Evan’s bedroom, which was dark and stuffy, then tried his office. It was a tiny room, made smaller by the notes, press cuttings, photographs, and maps that were plastered to the walls. His desk was a cluttered mess. Reference books and journals filled shelves and lay in piles on the floor. Emily was momentarily entranced by the room; it was like looking inside Evan’s brain. Then Helen tugged on her arm.
There was only the bathroom left to check. The door was closed. Emily moved to open it, but Helen pulled her back.
“Don’t touch anything,” she whispered.
Pulling her sleeve over her hand, Emily pressed down on the door handle. The door was surprisingly heavy, and she had to lean into it with her shoulder. As she caught sight of the reflection in the bathroom mirror, she saw why.
Evan Holt’s naked body was hanging from the back of the door, the cord of a dressing gown tied around the towel hook and wrapped tightly around his neck.
Emily staggered into the bathroom, her legs like marshmallow, her eyes wide with disbelief.
Helen stumbled in after her, almost falling into the bathtub as she caught sight of Evan’s body. “Jesus Christ!”
He was dead, his face flushed a purplish hue, his bloodshot eyes staring lifelessly across the bathroom. Pornographic magazines lay open on the floor. Emily gaped at them, feeling a strange rush of embarrassment. But it only lasted for a few seconds. Then horror invaded every cell of her being.
She had a sudden urge to move away from him, but she was paralyzed. They had done this to him. The realization made her head spin, made her want to climb into the bathtub and rock quietly into catatonia. Valence Industries had killed Evan Holt. But she could never prove it—because just like Max Edwards and Jason Dobbs, Evan’s death had been staged to look like he’d caused it himself. Only this time, Valence had added a touch of sleaze. Killing Evan Holt was not enough, it seemed—they wanted to destroy his reputation as well.
Trail of Poison Page 13