“Josh put your seatbelt on, now.” Anya’s voice was firm but strained. “I mean it, young man. Or we won’t be going to see Nanny and Granddad.”
Emily twisted around in her seat. Ignoring his mother, Josh continued to hit the window.
“Hey, boy. Put your seatbelt on like your mother told you,” the taxi driver called.
From the corner of her eye, Emily saw Anya return the driver’s disapproving stare, then lean across to put a hand on Josh’s shoulder.
“Come on,” she said in a gentler tone. “You’re not being safe and that’s making me worried. Don’t you want to see Nanny and Granddad? I’m sure they’ll have ice cream for you.”
“No!” shouted Josh. But he moved away from the window.
“Good boy, now put your seatbelt on. Here, I’ll help you.”
“No!” Swivelling around, Josh rested his back against the door and pulled up his knees.
Anger flashed in Anya’s eyes. “Put your seatbelt on!”
As the traffic lights changed from red to amber, the boy clamped his arms over his chest and shook his head.
The taxi driver swore under his breath. “Lady, I can’t drive with your boy jumping around like that.”
Blasts of horns filled the air. Just as Emily wondered if she should intervene, the driver turned back to the wheel, muttered something in Turkish, then got the car moving once more. In the back, Josh started banging his head against the window.
Anya unbuckled her seatbelt, grabbed her son by the arm, and pulled him away from the door. He squirmed against her, growling through clenched teeth as she held him down and clicked his seatbelt into place. As soon as Anya sat back, there was an audible clunk and Josh was up by the window again, smacking his forehead against the glass.
When the taxi pulled up in front of the station two minutes later, Josh was pinned to his mother’s lap, her arms wrapped around his chest. He bellowed in anger, making his body stiff like cement, then throwing his legs out in wild kicks.
“Fucking bitch!” he screamed.
“Out of the mouths of babes,” the driver grumbled.
Emily paid him, tipped him generously, then hopped out. The station was busy, but not overwhelmed. The moment he was out of the taxi, Josh stopped screaming. He peered up at the station with wide, excited eyes. Anya surfaced behind him, her face red with stress and exhaustion, and scooped up his hand.
“It will be all right,” said Emily, carrying Anya’s hastily packed suitcase and checking the station entrance. Anya stared at her as if she’d just announced she could walk on water.
Leading her wards through the ticket barriers, Emily stepped onto the platform. Josh pulled on Anya’s hand, straining to run up and down, desperate to see the trains. He didn’t have long to wait. The train pulled in and commuters spilled from its doors. They swarmed around Emily, a tidal wave of bodies in sharp suits. Instinctively, she held her breath.
Keep it together. If you lose it, they’ll lose it.
Josh was staring at her, then at the train. He wrenched his hand from Anya’s grip and held on to Emily’s. It startled her; she hadn’t felt the grip of such a tiny hand since her school days, and the sensation filled her with intense comfort and fear.
The crowds thinned. Josh ran forward, pulling Emily with him, and jumped onto the train. Anya followed, pausing in the doorway to peer along the platform. She joined them moments later, sandwiching Josh between her and Emily.
The good thing about travel etiquette in and around London was that people kept themselves to themselves. Making eye contact was a sin, while trying to make conversation was tantamount to assault. As the doors slid shut and the train pulled away, Emily watched the other passengers. She was confident they had not been followed—no one in the carriage was paying them any attention, even with Josh jumping up and down on the seat.
Taking out her phone, she checked the time. 5:36 p.m. There was a train leaving for Bristol in just over forty minutes. They would arrive at Paddington with just enough time to buy tickets. The train would be filled with commuters returning to Reading—which was a good thing because more people meant less chance of something happening to Anya and Josh.
“What will you do?” Anya was staring at her intensely. In between them, Josh balanced on his knees and watched the outside world whip past the windows.
Emily stared back. She didn’t know what she was going to do. Last night, she had vowed to find out the truth from Anya, to finally return to Diane Edwards and tell her that her husband had been murdered by his employers—even if there was no proof to substantiate that claim. Then Emily was going to walk away. She knew Diane would not be free of her torment, that she would remain trapped inside that tomb of a house. But it didn’t matter—because Emily would be free.
So why was she sitting on a train with a mother and son who were now relying on her for protection?
Emily’s mouth was dry. She tried to swallow. What was she going to do?
The train pulled into East Putney station. More people got on, filling the seats. Emily’s watchful eyes moved from passenger to passenger. There were no men in blue coats. But that didn’t mean a thing. Her knee bouncing up and down, Emily checked the time again. Then she called Helen.
The line connected. The journalist picked up after a few seconds. “There you are. Any luck?”
“You could say that,” Emily said, flashing a glance at Anya and Josh. “Where are you?”
“I’ve been- - -a job, but- - -you at the office. Can you make it for seven?” Helen said something else but her words were swallowed by pops and crackles.
“What was that?” Emily said, raising her voice. “The line’s bad—I’m on a train to Paddington.”
“Paddington? Where the hell are you- - -” More pops and crackles. Then Helen’s voice came back. “Emily, did you tell- - -Evan Holt being in Max’s- - -”
The line went dead. Emily tried Helen again, but the call went straight to voicemail.
“Everything all right?” Anya glanced at her with quizzical eyes.
Emily smiled, but an odd prickling sensation had started at the base of her skull.
As the train headed toward Kensington, it suddenly entered a tunnel and plunged its passengers into darkness. Invisible hands pierced Emily’s chest and squeezed her heart. Icy blades sank into her spine.
Breathe! she told herself. Just breathe, and you’ll be fine! But it was as if all the air had been sucked out of the carriage. The clack of wheels on rails became a deafening roar. The train sped up, hurtling through the underground.
Emily dug her nails into the palms of her hands. Beside her, Josh covered his ears and screamed.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
“THERE YOU ARE. Any luck?” Helen said, pressing the phone to her ear. At the same time, she reached the end of the alley and pushed open the gate to the staff car park.
The line crackled with interference. Emily’s voice sounded far away. “You could say that. Where are you?”
“I’ve been sent out on a job, but I’ll still meet you at the office. Can you make it for seven?”
“What did- -? I’m on a train to Paddington- - -line’s bad.”
The car park was a small stretch of concrete surrounded by high walls with an open entrance to the road. Nine of the ten parking bays were full. Helen’s car was parked front and centre.
“Paddington? Where the hell are you going? You’re supposed to be meeting me.” Helen’s irritation grew. Yet again, Emily was off chasing leads without her. Taking out her car keys, she pushed the unlock button and the car flashed her a hello. After opening the driver door and climbing in, Helen pressed the phone to her ear again. “Emily, did you tell anyone about Evan Holt being in Max’s diary?”
The line crackled.
“Emily? Hello?”
Muttering under her breath, Helen tossed the phone into the cup holder and reached for the door. She looked up. Two shaven-headed men were hurrying in her direction. They were young, perhaps
in their early twenties, but there was nothing youthful about their eyes, which were hardened and dead, as if they’d witnessed a lifetime of cruelty.
Helen froze. Her heart smashed into her chest.
Then the men began to run.
With a cry, Helen yanked the door closed and hit the locks. She dropped her keys, scooped them up again, then slid the car key into the ignition.
The men were almost upon her. She turned the key and the engine roared to life. Pressing down on the clutch, she shifted the gearstick into first—just as a fist slammed into the side window.
Helen screamed. Her foot slipped off the clutch. The car lurched forward and stalled. One of the men jumped onto the bonnet and pressed his hands against the windscreen, his eyes burning into her as he flashed a wicked grin.
For a second, Helen was paralyzed. Coming to her senses, she started the engine again. Something glinted at the corner of her eye.
The driver window exploded.
Helen’s arms shot up to her face as glass rained down. A hand reached in and snatched up a fistful of hair. The man pulled, setting Helen’s scalp on fire and wrenching her neck. She screamed and clawed. Her nails sank into flesh. The man yelled but he didn’t let go. He tugged harder, lifting Helen from the seat and halfway through the window. The second man watched with amusement as he sat on the bonnet with his legs crossed.
Helen screamed again, thrashing and kicking, digging her nails down harder. She felt her assailant’s skin come away and blood seep from his hand. The man yelled, releasing his grip.
Helen was free. The engine was still running. The man on the bonnet was no longer smiling.
Adrenaline surged through Helen’s veins as she pressed down hard on the accelerator. The car lurched forward, making the man lose his balance and fall to the side. Helen watched him disappear, his arms and legs flailing, then her eyes found the exit.
“Get going!” she screamed.
Something flashed in the corner of her eye. Twisting her head to the right, she saw the other man running at her, a crowbar swinging from his bleeding hand.
Helen shrieked and hit the accelerator. The crow bar smashed into her shoulder. The wheel slipped out of her hand. The car swerved violently, knocking the man sideways. Then it ploughed straight into the wall.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
BY THE TIME the train pulled into Paddington Station, Emily was barely holding on. The carriage was full, with limbs and suitcases crammed into every available space. Josh’s continual screams and cries had earned Anya several judgmental looks. Meanwhile, Emily had tried very hard not to curl up into a ball and have a full-blown anxiety attack.
But they were here. As the train doors slid open and its passengers spilled out, Emily sucked in a lifesaving breath and signalled to Anya. On the platform, she took in more deep breaths. Her anxiety level dropped from near hysteria to moderate panic, but she was still underground, which wasn’t helping.
“Are you okay?” Anya had a worried look on her face.
Emily nodded. “Fine.”
“I want to see the train leave!” Josh screamed. He tried to pull away from Anya, but her grip was like iron. Instead, he let his legs go limp beneath him and he dangled like a doll from his mother’s hand.
“Come on,” Emily said, in between breaths. She bent her knees until she was eye level with him. “There are lots and lots of trains upstairs, much better than this one.”
Josh scrambled to his feet and the three of them made their way up steps and escalators, until they were above ground.
Stepping into Paddington Station, Emily felt a surge of relief. She sucked in air, ignoring the taste of engine oil and grease from fast food stalls, and Anya’s continued stares.
It was almost 6 p.m. Emily made quick work of buying tickets. Anya tried to pay for them, but Emily refused to take her money; it was the least she could do for bringing trouble to the Copelands’ door. A voice boomed from the loud speakers, startling Josh as it announced the Bristol train was ready for boarding. The three of them made their way to the platform.
“Here.” Emily handed Anya a piece of paper with her phone number written on it. “Call me as soon as you get there.”
Anya folded the paper and slipped it into her bag. She turned slowly and stared at the train.
“It’s going to be fine. You’ll be safer there,” Emily said. Josh glanced up at her with wide eyes.
Anya had a sad, strange smile on her lips. “You don’t know that. You don’t even know what you’re doing.”
Hoisting Josh into her arms, she turned to board the train, then stopped. “I lied earlier,” she said, without looking back. “We kissed. Just once.”
Then she was gone, disappearing inside the carriage with her son. Emily waited on the platform, searching for Anya and Josh through the carriage window. She saw them a moment later, Josh clambering into a window seat to peer excitedly out at the station, and Anya staring silently into space. Two minutes later, a whistle blew and the train pulled away, taking the Copelands to safety. When the train was just a speck in the distance, Emily turned and exited the platform.
Finding a quiet corner in one of the station cafés, she tried calling Helen again. When she didn’t answer, Emily hung up, gave it another minute, then tried again. Where was she?
A man dressed in a suit sat down at the next table and set his briefcase on the floor. He glanced casually in Emily’s direction.
Emily watched him for a moment, then glanced back at her phone screen. Helen had said something about being sent out on a job—or at least that’s what Emily had interpreted from the bad line. It would explain why she wasn’t picking up.
On the next table, the man had picked up a newspaper and was reading the front page. But Emily could see him from the corner of her eye, glancing in her direction every twenty seconds.
Getting up slowly, she picked her way between the tables and exited the café. Glancing over her shoulder, she returned to the station concourse and eyed the surging crowds. It was 6:18 p.m. To meet Helen at the London Truth offices at seven—another educated guess—she had no choice but to travel via the Underground.
The thought made her nauseous, but the longer it took her to get to Helen, the longer she was leaving Anya and Josh Copeland at risk; no matter how much Emily had tried to convince Anya, she couldn’t be certain they hadn’t been followed.
Her eyes found the café. The man was still reading the newspaper, one hand on his coffee cup. But did he just look up in her direction?
Pulse racing, Emily delved into the crowd and made her way to the top of the escalators. The Underground stretched out below like a gaping mouth. You can do this. You already did it once. You can do it again. Emily drew in a deep breath, then took one last look back at the café.
The man was gone.
Spinning on her heels, she searched the crowds. It would be impossible to spot the man in a sea of suits. Where was he? Was he watching her right now? Had he seen her put Anya and Josh on the train?
Panic gripped Emily’s mind. She stepped onto the escalator, and taking two steps at a time, descended into the Underground.
She headed straight for the ticket barriers, then turned to look over her shoulder. A man stood by the ticket machines, newspaper in hand, looking her way. Emily didn’t wait to see if it was the man from the café. Half running along the tunnel, she headed toward the Bakerloo line. She was already losing control of her breathing as she reached another set of descending escalators, and she felt a familiar prickling at the top of her head, signalling the beginning of an anxiety attack
Emily ploughed forward, scurrying down the moving steps, knocking into shoulders and jutting suitcases. At the bottom, she turned and looked up. Was that the man at the top of the escalator? Or was that him a few metres away and walking in her direction?
Breaking into a cold sweat, she turned and dashed to the eastbound platform. Every time she drew in a breath, she felt a terrible weight pressing down on her che
st. Every time she exhaled, she felt her lungs constrict a little more. She needed to regain control of her body. Now.
Racing along the platform, Emily breathed in for a count of four, held it for a count of seven, then exhaled for a count of eight. She repeated the pattern, over and over, as she ducked and weaved between the bodies, until she reached the end of the platform. Pressing herself up against the wall, she closed her eyes and waited for the train to come.
In for four, hold for seven, out for eight.
She risked a quick look down the length of the platform. She couldn’t see the man from the café, but there were several people here now. He could be hiding among them, she thought.
Or perhaps he’s just someone grabbing a coffee while he waits for his train home.
A rush of warm air shot out of the tunnel, followed by a low rumble that rapidly grew into a deafening roar. Brakes screeched. The train emerged from the tunnel and slowed to a halt. Seconds later, the doors slid open. Emily raced toward them, pushing past disgruntled travellers. She hurried to the far end of the carriage and waited for the doors to close. For the man to come.
But he didn’t.
The doors slid shut. The train pulled away, gathering speed as it plunged into the darkness of the tunnel. Emily pressed her back up against the door and scanned the packed carriage. You’re being paranoid, she told herself as a cold sweat dampened her neck. But she had every right to be.
She was now in possession of knowledge that had resulted in the murder of at least three people, destroyed a young boy’s life, and stood to ruin millions more. But without physical proof that knowledge meant nothing. Who had Max sent the evidence to for safe-keeping?
As Emily continued to slow her breathing, she hoped that she and Helen would soon find out. Because Valence Industries was coming for them with one goal in mind—to silence them for good.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Trail of Poison Page 17