“Exchange?” Emily said. “You have nothing of mine.”
“Nothing of yours, no. But we have something of value to you. Or perhaps I should say someone.”
From the confused fog of Emily’s mind came the instant realization that Anya Copeland hadn’t checked in with her. She and Josh would have reached Bristol over an hour ago. Despite the warmth of the hospital, a terrible chill pierced Emily’s heart as she heard a high-pitched squeal in her ear. It belonged to a child.
“Please. . .” she whispered, her voice trembling. “Please, don’t hurt him!”
“Oh, I’m not hurting him,” the man said. “Young Josh is having the time of his life running around this big old place, aren’t you?”
She heard more squeals and whoops. When the man spoke again, his happy, polite tone was gone. “Two hours, Miss Swanson. St. Katharine Docks. Warehouse three. I’ll send directions. You know what will happen if you involve the authorities.”
The floor was slipping away from Emily’s feet.
“I don’t have what you’re looking for,” she said. “Someone’s taken it.”
“Then I suggest you get it back. Two hours, Miss Swanson.”
The line went dead. Emily checked the time: 11:44 p.m. She spun on her heels. The lights bore down on her. The smell of antiseptic became an overwhelming stench, churning her insides.
Two hours. It would take her half that time to get back to London. And then what?
Helen would be on her way to London Truth right now. Even if Emily could get there in time, how was she going to convince Helen to give her back the flash drive?
Racing along the corridor, Emily burst through the double doors, and found herself back in A&E and heading for the exit. Outside, the night air had grown cold. The sky was black and filled with thousands of stars. For a second, she was paralyzed; captivated by their beauty. Then she was waving down a taxi and hopping into the back.
“Where are we going?” the taxi driver asked.
“London. Please hurry.”
As the taxi pulled away from the kerb, Emily tried to push down the terror bubbling in her throat. Then pulling out her phone, she dialled Helen’s number and waited for the line to connect.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
THE TAXI PULLED up in front of the London Truth office at half past midnight. Helen paid the driver, who’d been silently eyeing her cuts and bruises throughout the journey, then let herself into the building. It was dark; her colleagues had gone home hours ago. Some had tried calling and had left worried voicemails. People were concerned for her safety. Well, they needn’t be, Helen thought. She was just fine.
She’d managed to get out of her car and run as hard as she could, away from those psychopath assholes, and she’d hidden among street crowds and in department stores, ignoring the stares and concerned looks, and growling at those who offered help. She didn’t know how long she’d wandered for—an hour or two, maybe more—but at some point, she’d woken up from her shock-induced haze. Night had fallen. The crowds had thinned. She had never felt more alone in the city.
Climbing the stairs, Helen reached the press room and went straight to her desk. Leaving all the lights off, she switched on her computer. Her phone started buzzing. Emily was calling again. She’d already left several voicemails, none of which Helen had listened to
The decision to take the flash drive had been impulsive. After learning from Daniel what had happened to Jerome, she’d made her way to the hospital; partly out of concern, but mostly to discover what Emily had found. After all, Helen had almost been murdered—she had a right to know why. The moment she’d learned Emily was about to hand over Max Edwards’ evidence to the police, Helen’s decision to take it had been instantaneous.
Somewhere beneath the hardened shell of her conscience she felt a pinch of guilt. She knew what she’d done was wrong—in fact, it was the most awful, underhand stunt she’d ever pulled—but Emily would never understand what Helen was trying to achieve.
This wasn’t just about furthering her career. It was about journalism. It was about shining a light on corruption in the world. It was about telling the truth.
If Emily had given the flash drive to the police, they would have investigated, made some arrests, and that would be the end of it. The sale of TEL would go on. Valence Industries would prevail—because the police did not have the power of the press. Only the press could ensure that Max Edwards’ evidence was shown to the world. Left to the police, it would be buried under a mountain of red tape and government bureaucracy. So yes, Helen knew what she’d done to Emily was wrong, but she also knew Evan Holt would have done the same thing.
The computer had finished booting. Helen took out the flash drive and plugged it into the USB slot. Once it had installed, she opened the folder and clicked through the files. As she read, she gasped and she swore and she grinned with excitement. It was far worse than she’d anticipated, but far better than she’d hoped.
The newsroom was suddenly bathed in light. Helen jumped up.
“Normally, I don’t appreciate late night calls from my staff,” Christine Gates said, standing by the door. “But in this situation, despite the fact you look like shit, I’m glad you’re all right. Now, would you mind telling me where the fuck you’ve been, and why I’m here when I should be tucked up in bed getting my beauty sleep.”
Helen’s shoulders relaxed. She nodded at the screen. “Believe me, when you see what I have, it’ll be worth the extra wrinkles.”
Sucking in a large breath, she quickly relayed everything she knew about Valence Industries and its criminal activities, including the attack in the car park, and the murder of fellow journalist, Evan Holt.
As the editor-in-chief listened, the lines on her forehead grew thick and deep. When Helen had finished talking, Christine pointed at the computer screen. “How did you get this?”
Helen scratched an ear. “It fell into my hands, it doesn’t matter. What does matter is what we’re going to do with it. We have a chance to get this out there before anyone else. An exclusive, Christine—the biggest fucking story of the year! I could write it up—right here, right now. We could make the deadline for the next issue.”
Christine stared at the screen in stony silence. Running her tongue over dry lips, she clicked through the files.
Helen tapped her foot impatiently on the floor. “So? Is this the story that’s going to make our careers, or what?”
Christine drew back. Slowly, she shook her head. “No. I’m sorry, Helen. Come on, you know the rules. If we print this story before an arrest is made, we’ll be looking at a libel case big enough to bury us six-feet under.”
“There’s enough evidence here to put Jonathan Hunt away for years,” Helen said. “The police will make an arrest.”
Christine shook her head, over and over. “No. I can’t allow it. Even before we get to the lawsuit, this magazine is not big enough or strong enough to go making enemies with the police. You want an exclusive? Go through the proper channels. Broker a deal with the police—the flash drive for first rights to the story. They may go for it, they may not, but it’s the only way you’ll get what you want.”
Helen jabbed a finger at the screen. “I almost died getting this.”
“Then make sure the police know about it when you talk to them. I’m sorry, Helen. This story is big. It’s fucking huge. Which is why I can’t risk London Truth without doing things the right way.”
Anger welled inside Helen’s chest. She had expected to be championed, commended for bringing London Truth what was undoubtedly its biggest ever story. But instead she’d been met by fear and cowardice. Fine, she thought. The magazine didn’t go to press for another week, anyway. She would take the flash drive to the tabloids and sell it to the highest bidder. The day after tomorrow, her story would be front-page news. Her name would be everywhere.
“Okay, you’re right,” she said. “It’s not worth the risk.”
Christine patted her on the shou
lder. “Good girl. We’ll get that exclusive—we just need to do it by the book.”
Helen wanted to knock the editor’s hand away, to tell her to shove her job up her ass. Instead, she smiled and stared hungrily at the screen. It was then that the office doors burst open and Emily Swanson came rushing in.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
EMILY WAS FURIOUS. As she bounded into the newsroom and caught sight of Helen, it was all she could do to stop herself from launching forward with fists flying. The taxi driver had put his foot down all the way from Dartford, but it had still taken an hour to get here. That left her with one more hour to deliver the flash drive to St Katharine Docks.
She advanced toward Helen. “Where is it?”
Christine Gates stared open-mouthed at Emily, then at Helen, who had returned her gaze to the computer screen and was clicking away on the mouse.
“What’s this about?” Christine asked.
Emily ignored her. “You have no idea what you’ve done, Helen. Where is it?”
Helen finally turned to face her. “Relax. It’s right here. And you were right, we should take it to the police.”
It was not the response Emily had been expecting, and it only stoked her anger. “Then why did you take it from me? I’ve just left Jerome in the hospital, not knowing if he’s going to live or die!”
Helen shrugged and leaned back on her chair. “Because I did what I thought was right.”
“You mean right for you! That’s all you’ve done throughout this entire investigation. To hell with everyone else!” Emily trembled with fury. “Evan Holt is dead because you told Jonathan Hunt we knew about TEL!”
“Evan Holt is dead because Valence murdered him!” Helen snarled back.
Emily stuck out a hand. “I don’t have time for this. Just give me the damn drive!”
Helen stared at her, unmoving.
Christine Gates wedged herself between the women. “Now, wait a second. Helen has agreed to take the flash drive to the police. I’ll see it’s taken care of, so try not to worry.”
“So you can get your exclusive? It’s too late for that!” Emily stretched out her fingers. “Give it to me.”
Helen folded her arms. “You heard what Christine said. We’ll take care of it.”
Emily glared at the two women. Bloody journalists! “They have Josh and Anya Copeland,” she said. “They’re going to kill them if I don’t bring them the flash drive.”
Helen flinched but made no move to retrieve the drive.
Christine’s hardened expression drooped. “Who are Anya and Josh Copeland? What is she talking about, Helen?”
“Josh Copeland is a little boy who’s going to die along with his mother if Helen doesn’t give me the drive!” Emily was desperate now, her hands digging into her sides. “Please! I have less than an hour.”
There was a moment of terrible silence that stole the air from the room. Slowly, Helen shook her head. “I’m sorry. You’re asking me to choose between saving two lives or saving millions. You know what the right answer is.”
Bitter tears stung Emily’s eyes. “You’re right. I do know,” she said, reaching out her hand again. “Give me the drive.”
Their eyes locked. Helen clenched her jaw.
Emily stepped forward.
“For God’s sake, Helen!” Christine Gates grabbed hold of Helen’s chair, rolled her out of the way, then pulled the flash drive from the computer and handed it to Emily. “Some stories have to wait.”
Emily stared at the drive in her hand, relief flooding her body. She thanked Christine, then glowered at Helen.
“You need to take a good look at the people around you,” she said, barely able to control the fury burning through her veins. “Because if you keep going the way you are, pretty soon they won’t be around anymore. Believe me, it’s a very lonely path to take.”
Refusing to meet Emily’s gaze, Helen shrugged a shoulder. “People are overrated.”
Emily backed away, trembling with resentment and pity. “I don’t think I ever want to hear from you again.”
Spinning on her heels, Emily bolted from the newsroom. The taxi was still waiting outside.
“Where next?” the driver asked as Emily jumped in.
“St. Katharine Docks.” She squeezed the flash drive tightly in her hand. It was now 12:57 a.m.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
ST. KATHARINE DOCKS lay east of Tower Bridge. Heavily bombed during the Second World War, what was once a thriving if not commercially successful part of the Port of London network had since been redeveloped into a popular modern housing and leisure complex, complete with marina.
The taxi pulled up in a nearby empty car park at 1:23 a.m. As Emily fumbled in the dark for her wallet, the driver peered through the windscreen.
“This isn’t any place for a woman on her own,” he said.
Emily paid him, thanked him for his concern, then she got out and watched him drive away. Darkness swarmed about her as she crossed the car park and headed up a short flight of stone steps. By the time she’d reached the top, her stomach had knotted into a tight ball. Crossing a small footbridge, she descended the steps on the other side.
A minute later, she came upon the quayside. The River Thames stirred in the night time breeze, lapping against the harbour walls, yachts and barges gently rocking on its surface. Modern warehouse-style apartment complexes flanked the marina, along with strips of restaurants and bars, now all closed for the night and shrouded in shadows.
Emily made her way through St. Katharine Docks, following the directions that she’d been texted. As she walked, she listened to the gentle slosh of the Thames and the soft creaks of the boats, but the sounds did nothing to soothe her fear.
Taking a left, she moved away from the quayside and along a cobbled passage. She took another turn and found herself in a wide, open space occupied by several warehouses. It didn’t take long to locate warehouse number three.
Her legs trembling beneath her, Emily slipped into the shadows and observed the warehouse from a safe distance. Horizontal windows ran along the top of the building, dull light shining out of them.
Emily squeezed the flash drive, hurting her fingers. It would be easy—she would go in there, hand over the drive, take Josh and Anya to safety, and then it would all be over. She’d go back to the hospital, back to Jerome. Back to her ordinary life, which hadn’t been ordinary for a very long time.
Taking a deep breath, Emily held onto it for as long as she could, then let it out. Stepping from the shadows, she walked toward the warehouse.
As she reached the door, she stopped and turned to face the darkness of the garden. She’d heard a noise, somewhere behind her and to the left. And now, real or imagined, she felt eyes watching her.
Emily turned back to the door and grabbed the handle. She froze, unable to escape the feeling that her past and her future were converging in this exact moment. Then she was opening the door and stepping inside.
The warehouse was derelict but it still had power, hanging strip lights illuminating graffiti-covered walls, broken crates, empty boxes, scraps of metal—and in the middle of the cavernous space—a man and a boy. Emily recognized Josh Copeland immediately. He appeared unharmed as he sat cross-legged on a crate, playing with two toy trucks. As Emily came closer, he glanced up and frowned.
The man whispered something to him, then leaving the boy to play, took a slow walk toward Emily. He was tall and slim, with sharp cheekbones and thinning grey hair. Dressed in jeans and a striped polo shirt he looked nothing like the menacing picture Emily had painted in her mind. But hadn’t that been Valence Industries’ modus operandi all along? To mask its cruelty with benevolence?
The man stopped a metre away.
“Miss Swanson, thank you for coming,” he said. “And early, too. I do appreciate punctuality. It shows respect for your fellow man, don’t you think?”
Emily was silent as she leaned to one side, checking on Josh and glancing around the ware
house. The three of them were quite alone.
“You’re not Jonathan Hunt,” she said.
The man smiled. It was a warm, inviting smile that made Emily feel strangely at ease. “Indeed, I am not.”
“Then who are you?”
“An employee of sorts.”
Emily returned her gaze to Josh, who seemed content and at ease, playing with the toy trucks. “Where’s Anya. Why isn’t she here?”
The man clasped his hands behind his back and continued to smile. “Miss Copeland is quite safe.”
“And after I give you what I have?”
“She’ll be returned to the safety of her home. Some people have the good sense to hold onto their secrets, Miss Swanson. To take them to their graves.” He looked back at Josh, who was uninterested in the adults’ conversation. “Of course, it helps when they have an incentive. Miss Copeland has sworn to retain her discretion. And who are we to hold her accountable for the actions of others?”
“You mean she’s free to go on living like a prisoner?” Emily said.
The man shrugged. “Miss Copeland is free to live wherever she chooses.”
The honesty in his voice was convincing, Emily thought. Perhaps he was telling the truth—after all, why murder a child in cold blood when just the threat of it could easily buy his mother’s silence? Emily felt the gentle weight of the flash drive in her pocket, tucked away like a vial of poison. Anya had risked her son’s life by trusting her. The woman wouldn’t make the same mistake again.
“So, Miss Swanson, shall we keep this brief?” the man said. “Someone here is up way past his bedtime.”
Josh shifted his gaze between the adults, then returned his attention to the toy trucks. Emily’s hand hovered over her pocket, hesitating as she stared at the young boy. Slowly, she fished out the flash drive.
“Very good,” the man said, nodding. “Now give it to me.”
“What guarantee do I have that once this is over I’ll be left alone?” Emily watched him carefully, analysing every twitch of his mouth and crease of his brow. Inside, her heart was beating like a hummingbird’s. Where were the other men? Why weren’t they here, taking the flash drive from her by force instead of waiting for her to politely hand it over. Why was she still alive and not face down in her bathroom, the staged victim of an accidental overdose?
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