Trail of Poison

by M. J. Richards

  Helen was by Emily’s side, gently tugging her arm. “We need to leave. Now.”

  But Emily couldn’t move. This was all her fault. She should have been more careful with the diary.

  “Emily, come on! We have to go!”

  Taking one last look at Evan’s tortured face, Emily allowed herself to be pulled from the room. But as they passed Evan’s office, she dragged her heels. There was no computer, she noted, and there were rectangular gaps on the walls where parts of Evan’s research had been removed.

  “Come on, Emily!”

  Helen pulled her arm, this time with force.

  They hurried out of Evan Holt’s apartment, closing the door behind them. Emily pressed the call button, but somebody was already in the lift, moving upward. Flashing a terrified glance at Helen, Emily felt dread crawling up her spine. She watched the floor numbers light up on the panel, bringing whoever was inside closer to them. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. The lift bell chimed. The doors slid open, but Emily and Helen were already running down the hall.

  Throwing open the fire escape door, Helen pounded down the steps, with Emily close on her heels. By the time they’d reached the fifth floor, they were breathless and sweating. Somewhere above them, they heard the boom of a fire door slamming, then echoed footsteps coming down the stairs. The women picked up speed, reaching the ground floor and peering into the foyer. Satisfied it was empty, they ran from the building and out to the road.

  The gang of boys was still gathered outside and getting high. Emily and Helen hurtled past them, running through the streets until they reached the multistorey car park. It took a moment for Helen to still her trembling hands enough to unlock the car then insert the key into the ignition.

  “We have to call the police,” Emily said, feeling strangely numb as she watched the car park entrance. “We can’t just leave him there.”

  “Just hold on a second!”

  Helen shifted the gearstick into reverse, backed out of the parking bay, and spun the car around. Hands clamped to the wheel, she slammed her foot on the accelerator.

  The car shot out of the car park, hurtling its passengers down the street at breakneck speed, until they were far from the tower block and what lay inside.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  NEITHER OF THEM spoke until they’d cleared Elephant and Castle and joined the traffic of Borough High Street. Emily sat in the passenger seat, rigid and numb as she stared out the window. The true horror of what they’d just witnessed was only now sinking its claws into her.

  “I’ll call the police and say I’m a concerned tenant,” Helen said. “I’ll tell them Evan’s place is being broken into.”

  Emily stared at her. “It’s too late. We have to tell the police what we’ve found out about Valence. About what they’ve done to Evan and the others.”

  “We don’t have a shred of proof. For all intents and purposes, Evan died choking himself while choking the chicken. You really think the police are going to take on a company as big as Valence Industries on the word of a hack journalist and a crazy woman? Because that’s how they’ll see us.”

  She was right, of course. Valence Industries was clever about how it disposed of potential threats. And any evidence Evan had acquired was now back in the company’s hands.

  Emily clutched her chest as anger burned her insides. Valence was going to go free. It would continue to poison millions of children, who would grow up into angry, violent, damaged adults. Jonathan Hunt and his fellow conspirators would walk free from the murders of Max Edwards, Jason Dobbs, and now Evan Holt. Emily felt suddenly powerless. How long would it be before Valence Industries caught up with her and Helen?

  “Where are we going?” She checked the wing mirror, but the string of cars behind made it difficult to tell if they were being followed.

  Helen shook her head. “I don’t know. But this isn’t over, Emily. We can’t just let it go, even if we wanted to.”

  Emily wondered if she did want to. Did she want to return to her life where she was running out of money, where bills needed to be paid, where she had no idea what she was doing?

  As if on cue, Emily’s phone buzzed, announcing a text message from Carter.

  Valence Industries had backed them into a corner. The only weapon Emily had against the company was knowledge—but without proof, it was a weapon with a dull blade.

  “What do you suggest we do?” she asked as the car rolled onto London Bridge. Below, the dark water of the Thames reflected myriads of city lights.

  “We start again,” Helen said. “We know they’re selling TEL and where. So, we follow the trail just like Evan did, until we find out exactly what they’re hiding.”

  “And we do that from the safety of where, exactly? They know who we are. They know where we live. They’re not going to let this go.”

  Emily was troubled by her own cynicism. She stared at her phone screen. Just last week, she was making a fool of herself over coffee with Carter. Now she was giving serious thought to jumping on a train with a one-way ticket to the remotest corner of the country, where she could not be found.

  With nothing more to say for now, Emily opened Carter’s text message. Under the right circumstances, she thought she might like to spend more time getting to know him. He was kind and caring, and he had tried to help her without demanding immediate answers. It was a shame the right circumstances were unlikely to ever materialize.

  For now, she read his text message: Are you okay? You need to check your voicemail!

  Helen had retreated into silence, her gaze pinned on the road in front, streetlights reflecting in her eyes like flames. Emily pressed the phone to her ear and listened to the voicemail Carter had left earlier that evening. Her hand shot out and gripped Helen’s arm.

  “Are you trying to get us killed?” Helen yelled, shaking her off. “Because, hello, doing a fine job of that without crashing the car.”

  Emily hung up and immediately called Carter back.

  “Can I come over?” she asked when he picked up. “Can I come over right now?” Grabbing notebook and pen from her bag, she scribbled down Carter’s address. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. And Carter? Thank you!”

  She hung up. Helen glanced at her.

  “Who was that? What’s the matter with you?”

  Despite the horrors of the last hour, despite the hopelessness she’d felt, Emily found herself smiling in the dark.

  “We might not have to start from the beginning, after all,” she breathed. “I think we just found Anya Copeland.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CARTER LIVED ALONE in a quiet, leafy neighbourhood in West Hampstead, in a two-bedroom ground floor flat with a rear garden he didn’t have to share with the upstairs neighbours. Emily and Helen had pulled up outside just after 10 p.m. Helen had been relegated to waiting in the car. She had complained bitterly at first, but Emily had explained that Carter knew nothing about Valence Industries, and only the barest of bones about her being hired by Diane Edwards. It was safer for him this way, she’d explained. Besides, Carter was already curious, and Helen’s presence would only lead to further questions.

  “I thought we’d had no luck with the shout out,” Emily said. She was sitting next to Carter at the breakfast bar in the kitchen, huddled over his laptop.

  Carter nodded. “We didn’t. So, I spoke to my manager and talked her into stepping things up.”

  “You talked to Kelly? And she agreed?”

  “She was a little suspicious at first because it wasn’t an officially reported case. But when she heard all about how Anya has a history of running away and how one whiff of the cops will send her bolting with her young child, she folded like a wilting flower. I’ve been posting Anya’s picture on our Facebook page and Twitter feed three times a day for the last few days. And voila! An upstanding member of the public got in touch to say she thinks she’s seen her.”

  Carter looked immensely pleased with himself. His expression soon turned to one of
concern. “Is everything all right? You look, I don’t know . . . stressed?”

  “It’s been a long day.” Emily momentarily drifted back to Evan Holt’s bathroom. She pushed grisly images from her head. “So, I’m impressed. Where is she?”

  Carter stared at her with doubt in his curiously coloured eyes, then pointed at the laptop screen. “Southfields, near Wimbledon. The woman who got in touch is pretty convinced Anya Copeland is the lady she sees with her son in the park weekdays after school. The same lady whose son attacked her daughter one afternoon when he couldn’t wait for his turn on the swings. Took a chunk clean out of her, apparently. Anyway, she sent us this.”

  He clicked the mouse and a photograph appeared on the screen. It had been taken from a slight distance and showed a grassy play area teeming with smiling children, who were clambering like ants over swings, slides, and see-saws. But the children were not the focus of the image.

  Two lonely figures stood at the edge of the play area: a mother and her young son; one holding onto the other as they watched the merriment.

  “It’s not the best image, but. . .” Carter dragged a slider at the bottom of the screen and enlarged the picture. “What do you think? Is that her?”

  Emily took out her phone and found the picture of Anya and Max taken at the Clean Water gala. She carefully compared one image to the other. The hair was different—longer, wavier—and she’d lost weight—but Emily was certain the woman in the park was indeed Anya Copeland.

  For the first time in days, she felt a spark of hope.

  “That’s her.” Smiling, she turned to Carter. Her hand flew to his shoulder. “Thank you. You don’t know how much this means to me.”

  Carter grinned. “Glad to have atoned for my sins.”

  Their knees bumped together. Emily returned her gaze to the picture on the laptop screen. Josh; that was the son’s name. Even though he’d been snapped from a distance, Emily could still read his body language: tense shoulders; arms stiff by his sides; hands balled into fists. Josh Copeland was not a happy child.

  “What’s the name of the park? There must be schools nearby.”

  “Just a second. . .” Their fingers grazed as Carter took the mouse from Emily’s hand. He quickly skimmed the message that the woman had sent.

  “Highfield park. I don’t know the area, do you?”

  Emily gestured to the computer. “Do you mind?”

  Carter leaned back on the stool and stretched out his arms. “This is all very cloak and dagger. Can you tell me what this is really about or will you have to kill me after?”

  Emily said nothing. She entered the park’s name into Google Maps. A few seconds later, she was staring at a map of Southfields, the pointer hovering over Highfield park. There were several schools in the surrounding area.

  “It’s complicated,” she said, which was not an explanation at all, but it was all she was prepared to offer. As grateful as she was for Carter’s help, and regardless of her confused feelings about him, what she didn’t need right now was another body to look out for.

  “Of course, all will be revealed over coffee take two,” Carter said. He blushed a little. “I suppose I can wait until then. . .”

  “It’ll be worth the wait,” Emily said. They were staring at each other again.

  Carter’s lips parted into a wide smile. “I’ll hold you to that.”

  Emily found herself staring at his mouth. Then her head filled with images of Evan Holt. She stood up, scraping the stool against the floor.

  “Thanks for helping me find Anya.”

  Carter walked her to the door. As they said goodbye, he leaned in closer. Emily hesitated, thanked him again, then made her way back to the car.

  “So?” Helen was still angry, but there was also fear in her eyes as they flicked from the rear-view mirror, to the driver window, then back again.

  Emily felt guilty for leaving her out here alone. But as she was about to apologize, a terrible realization struck her. Carter had called her this afternoon with news of Anya Copeland’s whereabouts. What if she’d answered his call, or listened to his voicemail earlier? Would their plans have changed? Would Evan Holt still be alive? Overcome with nausea, Emily turned and stared out the window.

  “Hello, anyone in there?” Annoyed, Helen started the engine. “Did you find her, or what? Where are we going next?”

  Emily sat in stony silence. At last, she said, “Right now, we’re going to Daniel’s. Then tomorrow, you’re going to go to work, and I’m going to go and find Anya.”

  Helen’s jaw swung open. “Like bloody hell I’m going to work tomorrow. I’m coming with you.”

  “If you’re in hiding with your child, would you be more intimidated by one stranger showing up, or two?”

  “Then I should go and you should stay here.”

  Emily turned to face Helen, determination making her jaw ache. “I made a promise to Diane Edwards that I would find out what happened to her husband. Tomorrow, that’s exactly what I’m going to do. Any evidence I find is all yours. I’m done.”

  She was shocked by her own words. This afternoon, she was ready to do whatever it took to bring ruin to Valence Industries. But Evan Holt was dead now, and she felt the burden of his murder like a weight around her neck.

  “You’re kidding, right?” Helen said, the car engine still running. “You can’t back out, Emily. You think Jonathan Hunt is just going to leave you alone? He’s made it very clear this is personal now.”

  “We should never have interviewed him.”

  “So, this is my fault? That’s what you’re saying?” Helen hit the steering wheel with the palm of her hand. “You think Evan would be happy to hear you’re just giving up? Companies like Valence employ people like Jonathan Hunt because they know they’re willing to ignore ethics and morals to get what they want. And what they want is more money and more power. When people like us come along and try to expose their crimes, they’ll use that money and that power to make sure we disappear. It’s not going to stop at Evan. It didn’t stop at Max Edwards.” She paused, dropped her hands in her lap. “Please, Emily. Don’t think for a minute that if you give up now, they won’t come for you. You know about TEL. Tomorrow, if you find Anya Copeland, you could know a lot more. That makes you dangerous to Valence Industries whether you quit or not.”

  Emily’s head throbbed. Her heart ached. She wanted nothing more than to sleep. “Let’s just wait and see what tomorrow brings, shall we?”

  “Whatever it brings,” Helen said, pulling the car away from the kerb, “keep looking over your shoulder.”

  They drove the rest of the way in silence. When they pulled up outside Daniel’s place a little after midnight, Helen stayed behind the wheel.

  “I’m not staying here,” she said, ignoring Emily’s concerned gaze.

  “But it’s late. It’s not safe to be driving around alone.”

  “Believe it or not, you’re not the only woman with a man slave.” For the first time that night, a wry smile wrinkled Helen’s lips.

  Emily was about to argue that they would be safer staying together, when she tiredly changed her mind. Helen Carlson would do as she pleased, whether it risked her life or not. As much as she hated to admit it, it was a trait they both shared.

  “I’ll be at the office all day,” Helen said as Emily climbed out of the car. “Call me as soon as you know anything.”

  Daniel had already gone to bed, but Jerome was waiting up with a glass of Jack Daniels. When he saw her grey, ashen face, he set down his glass and took her hand.

  “Evan Holt is dead,” Emily said. “They killed him.”

  Although she wanted nothing more than to lean on Jerome’s shoulder and let the tears come, she remained upright and dry-eyed. Guilt burned her insides like acid.

  Jerome squeezed her hand. “What can I do?”

  Emily squeezed back. “Exactly what you are doing—I want you to stay away.”

  “Emily, I—”

  “I mea
n it. You’ve been through enough.”

  “And you haven’t?”

  They both fell silent. Emily let go of Jerome’s hand and hugged her ribs.

  “Tomorrow, this will all be over,” she said. But she knew the words were a lie before they had even left her mouth.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  HIGHFIELD PARK WAS filled with the screams and cries of children. Emily had been here for an hour, drifting back and forth, waiting for the school day to end. Now, she found a bench to sit on, and observed from a distance as children jostled for turns on the swings and slides, or dangled precariously from climbing frames, while nearby parents kept a watchful eye.

  Emily felt conspicuous and out of place, aware of the adults who were casting occasional glances in her direction, no doubt wondering why there was a nervous-looking, childless woman sitting so close to the play area. Ignoring their stares, she pretended to read the book in her lap, while periodically glancing up to watch the children. Taken in by their excitement, her thoughts briefly turned to her teaching days. Sometimes, when her class had been particularly well-behaved, she’d rewarded them with afternoon trips out to the park, to the woods, or to the beach. As the children had laughed and played, she’d handed out the apples that her mother had picked from the trees in her garden. Emily missed those children. She missed her mother. She missed those happy days when everything was in order. But they were all gone now, found only in dreams and memories.

  She had dreamt of her mother last night. In the dream, she was a girl again, and her mother was dancing with her on the lawn, spinning her around the apple trees until they were both dizzy and their bellies hurt from laughing. When she’d woken in Daniel’s living room, she’d wondered if the dream had actually been a childhood memory. But she could not recall her mother ever dancing with her like that. Not once.