‘What do you mean?’ Only then does Isla notice the plaid shirt and jeans he is wearing, and the small box of valuables in his hands. ‘I got hauled over the coals for this as much as you did. Haven’t you listened to any of my voice messages?’
He starts laughing then. Isla doesn’t hear him laugh often. It’s gruff, infectious and lights up his whole face. ‘You were ignoring me, weren’t you! I’m sorry, Isla, this whole situation is just the pits.’
‘Wait, so you’re fired over this?’ The understanding hits her all at once, and she feels terrible. Of course Simon – sweet, sensitive, and kind – didn’t say anything. To use his turn of phrase, he is a real mensch, a nice guy who would never put a foot wrong. Now she’s got him fired, all because of her obsession with this case.
‘I’m suspended until further notice, but it’s making me think, you know? Maybe I am a bit too soft for this job. I just can’t seem to grow that protective shield everyone else has.’
Isla feels like she is the opposite. She scrubs her protective shield until it shines. Well, that was until Nicole’s story came and made a big crack across the middle.
She shifts a little on the wall and Simon sits next to her. There is something about this moment – the glow of the sunshine, her newfound freedom – that makes Isla feel good.
‘What do you think you will do, then?’
‘I think I may become a pastry chef.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Seriously. I make a mean loaf of bread, and my chocolate brownies are stronger than any interrogation tactics.’
‘That sounds like a slogan to me.’
‘Well, the police puns are rather tempting. Maybe I should open a fried chicken and waffle food truck called, Fowl Play?’
‘Or a burger bar called Burger in the First Degree?’
They laugh, so close to one another that she can smell the cigarette smoke on his shirt. She’s always loved the smell of second-hand smoke. It reminds her of standing up front at a concert, thrashing to the sounds of an underground band. It touches a young, wild part of her that she still feels sometimes when she plays music loud.
‘I just don’t get it, Simon . . . if you didn’t hand me in, who did?’
He is about to respond, but then falls silent. A rough, muscular man walks past them, and greets Simon with a vague grunt. Isla knows his face, in the uncertain way she knows many faces. She could have interviewed him on one of hundreds of cases. If she’s honest, all officers start to look similarly hardened.
But there is a shadow of ill feeling when she meets his eyes. He looks at her blankly, and is almost affronted when she attempts to greet him. There is something amiss.
Then, it comes back to her. That morning in the restaurant, when her friend Kirsty rattled on and Isla picked at her eggs benedict, sweating at the thought of the bill. Julian and Kenneth, talking like old friends and conspirators, and then this man, the third, who made them look around the room with narrowed eyes when he entered.
‘Who is that?’ she asks Simon.
‘That guy? He’s the Deputy Chief of Police.’
Chapter 92
Isla
Seven weeks after the murder
All the freshness around her makes Isla’s eyes water. Ripe tomatoes glisten in the early morning sunlight alongside emerald green bunches of spinach, still speckled with dew. Everywhere she turns there are people filling wicker baskets with fresh produce.
‘What is wrong with meeting at a simple coffee shop?’ she mutters. Still, looking around at the stalls selling hot sourdough bread and trays of perfect figs, Simon would like this place. She remembers him saying he has a thing for collecting preserves. She contemplates picking up something for his baking, then stops herself.
She spots Freya from a distance. She is wearing a flowing, bohemian dress and her hair is loose. Isla was surprised when Freya called her out of the blue, asking to meet again. And although she has been burned by this story, Isla still has a need to prove herself, and make things right. She turns toward Freya. There is something different about her, an ease in her body that Isla hadn’t noticed before.
‘Interesting choice of venue. This isn’t usually my kind of joint – I’ve been known to subsist on coffee and dark chocolate.’
Freya laughs. ‘Well, the coffee stand might interest you – it’s right over there.’
‘That’s definitely my first stop.’ Isla looks over at the bulging tote bag she is carrying. ‘You find anything good?’
‘Yeah, I’m trying to look after myself a bit more, get my vitamins in.’ Freya looks at Isla, places her hand over her belly pointedly, then performs the action again.
It takes Isla a while to click, ‘Oh my god, you’re pregnant? Congratulations!’
Then. ‘Shit. It’s Jay’s, isn’t it?’
‘Yes . . .’
‘And you’re going to keep it?’
Freya looks away then. ‘Why does everybody ask me that? I am. It feels right.’
‘It’s a baby, not a dress at Macy’s that you can return if you grow tired of it.’
‘Isla, do you want to talk or not?’ Freya may be prickly, but Isla can tell by the way she obsesses over finding the perfect quiet spot and buying them coffee that she is desperate to talk. ‘Listen, I’m sorry I snapped at you. And I’m sorry I ignored your calls and messages. I was . . .’
‘You don’t have to explain. I get it. What did you want to talk about?’
‘Remember that conversation we had about Julian? And the sexual harassment stuff? Well, you were right. Mel confirmed it, but I just got too tied up with Jay to follow it through. But I’m ready now.’ She takes a shallow, nervous breath. ‘Julian has behaved inappropriately with several women in our company. What’s more, they’re ready to talk.’
‘Dammit, I knew it!’ Isla recalls the flourish of articles in the paper singing Julian’s praises. It is a stock-standard pre-emptive PR offensive. He expects these stories to come out, and soon.
Freya looks anxious. There’s more. ‘Detective Cohen arrested the man stalking me. Turns out he has a history of finding women online and doing the same thing, but the evidence I provided was enough to incriminate him.’
‘That’s a good thing!’
Freya is silent.
‘Isn’t it?’
‘They still don’t know who posted the advert, and I got this message the other day . . .’ She hands Isla the phone, looking tearful.
‘Nobody else has my number! Nobody except my friends, of course, and my colleagues. I think the person threatening me is the same person who posted the advert in the first place. I’m starting to believe the person doing this is closer to me than I thought.’
‘Jay? Or Julian even?’
‘I don’t know what to think, but I know for sure that Julian isn’t as spotless as he’d like us all to believe. There is a side to him that scares me. He could do anything. I know Jay was in bed with me the night Nicole was murdered, but Julian’s only alibi is a Facebook video, something he could have easily edited.’
‘Are you going to talk to the police about your suspicions? People need to know if he is a sexual predator, and if there is a possibility that he was behind your harassment, you deserve to get to the bottom of it.’
‘If I do that, I lose everything, my job, my security. Most importantly, these allegations will destroy Atypical and thousands of underprivileged women won’t benefit from the services I have worked so hard on.’
‘It’s still the right thing to do.’
‘Is it? Atypical’s work is going to help so many new mothers survive childbirth and give them access to the care they desperately need. I can’t imagine being in pain and fearing for mine and my baby’s life, knowing that there is no help on the way. It’s not fair!’
Isla persists. ‘You know, I saw Julian a few weekends ago meeting with my editor, who has consistently tried to squash this story. A strange man was with them. Then, I saw the same guy when I wen
t to the station for questioning. He’s the Deputy Chief of Police! We are on to something big, Freya.We now just have to have the faith that if we expose Julian’s misdemeanors, justice will follow.’
She clutches Freya’s hands, excitement hammering in her chest. ‘I will help you, OK? Get me the stories of these women, and I will help publicize your project. An investor is bound to see the story and pick it up.’
‘What if it’s nothing? What if I am just being paranoid, about Julian’s role that night, and even the sexual harassment?’
In Isla’s mind, the pieces begin to fall seamlessly together. A long-neglected hurt is resolved.
‘I pretended that my own sexual assault was nothing for too long, Freya, and it ate me alive. No matter how “small” you think the action is, no matter how implicated you feel, you need to speak up. You have to free yourself before silence imprisons you for good. I believe you and I are on to something big.’
‘Why are you so sure about this?’ she says, depleted.
‘Because the truth stands firm. And if reporting has taught me anything, it’s that if you tug at one strand of evil, the entire illusion unravels.’
Chapter 93
Isla
Seven weeks after the murder
Isla drives through Fisherman’s Wharf, System of a Down blaring. It is the first clear day in weeks and she can follow the azure ocean, all the way to the horizon. Finally, everything is coming together. Tomorrow, she will meet with Freya again, who will have gathered the women prepared to speak out against Julian. Bernard has put her in touch with an editor at the New York Times, who has already expressed some interest in the story without her even uttering Julian’s name.
There’s a bit more traffic than usual, but not even that can bring her down. All her hard work is finally adding up. Best of all, her job as a journalist means something again. This is what she is passionate about: exposing the truth about those that profit from lying. She edges forward, inch by inch, her ankle cramping from riding the clutch.
A sound on her passenger window, a dull thud. At first she thinks she’s knocked her side mirror on something, but then the glass shatters, and she sees the sharp object jutting through it.
‘What the fuck?’ she screams, in a voice far removed from her own, a voice she hasn’t heard in years.
A man in a balaclava grabs her by the scruff of her shirt, and holds a knife to her neck. He growls unintelligibly but she knows the drill. She hands over everything, from her dad’s old watch to all the cash in her wallet and puts her hands up in the air.
‘That’s it! That’s all I fucking have!’
His hand, and the knife quivering in it, retreats. As suddenly as he appeared, he is gone. Isla is left alone, with tiny shards of glass sprayed over her body like snow.
Instead of pulling over, she keeps driving, until she reaches the safety of the police station. Another crime to report. Another statement to make.
Once parked, Isla scrambles to find her state ID and her driver’s license, then remembers that both are gone. She stumbles out of the car and trips, her bloodied hands scraping against the gravel of the parking lot. Something inside her unravels, something that she has kept bottled up for far too long.
It’s just a smash and grab. Material items that can be replaced. Her car will be repaired, but Isla can’t stop crying. She lets out a scream that draws a handful of officers outside. The endless coffee, the days living on only a rush of adrenaline, the nightmares, the asthma. They were all signs that she was trying to ignore. It is time to finally admit that she has been suffering for a very long time. Now, she has to make a change, and do something to heal.
Chapter 94
Freya
Two months after the murder
Freya’s heart is in her throat as she walks through the red and green doors of Café Trieste. The place is fuller than she’d like, but most of the patrons are self-enclosed freelancer types tapping away on MacBook Airs, or local North Beach Italians.
She loves the rich smell of espresso in the air, and the fleeting strains of Italian conversation. It reminds her of carrying bowl after bowl of freshly made pasta through the restaurant years before. Funny how those days seemed so grueling, but in hindsight, they shaped her into who she is today. She picks a booth at the back, and busies herself looking at the pictures of famous people who have visited in the past. It’s a poor distraction. What if she is the only one who pitches up? What if Julian has gotten wind of her plans? Isla’s phone has been off for the past day – what if she has chickened out over the story and this has all been for nothing?
Mel strides in, turning heads in a Sophia Loren-style red polka dot dress and blown-out dark waves.
‘An espresso with a shot of Baileys please.’ She turns to Freya, ‘I need to take the edge off.’
‘Tell me about it. Every time I look at the door, my stomach does somersaults.’ They try and talk about superficial things, like the quirky stores where Mel buys her clothes, where Freya sources her sewing patterns, and the latest Apple OS update. They have more in common than she realized. Freya wishes she’d had this closeness from the start, it feels so good.
Isla runs in, looking even more wired than usual. ‘Hi, Freya, sorry I haven’t been in touch. I had a smash-and-grab incident yesterday and my cellphone was stolen.’
She extends a hand towards Mel. ‘You must be Nicole’s friend, Melanie. I’m so sorry for your loss.’ There is a colony of tiny cuts all over Isla’s hands.
‘Are you OK?’ Freya asks.
‘Not at all, but I will be one day soon and no, I don’t want to talk about it. Let’s focus on the story at hand. Do you think people will come today?’
Freya and Mel have relied on word of mouth to get the message out there. As far as possible, they tried to leave no digital footprint. Freya didn’t want to believe that they were being tracked, but she had her suspicions, especially after seeing Jay’s note in his apartment.
Ten minutes pass, then twenty minutes. They order some pastries to justify more time at their table during peak hour. The custard Danish Freya orders is buttery and soft, but she can barely taste a thing. This was a stupid idea – nobody is coming because they see it for what it is. Career suicide.
Thirty minutes in, the door opens. It’s Penny, the ball-busting head of sales at Atypical. ‘I’m here for the crucifixion of Julian Cox – is this the right place?’
Soon, she is followed by one woman, and then another. On and on it goes, the women marching in. Soon their booth is filled, then the extra chairs are not enough. Eight women armed with varying allegations of sexual harassment from Julian Cox.
Chapter 95
Isla
Seven and a half weeks after the murder
Julian Cox. Digital maverick. Industry leader. Sexual offender.
Isla flicks through her notes breathlessly. In her hands, she has a number of women who have chosen to speak out against Julian Cox. Some have even agreed to have their names and pictures published alongside the story.
Good, strong, powerful women, all survivors of harassment in a place where they thought they were safe. No matter what the infringement, every woman said the same thing. They thought they were crazy, and that nobody would believe them. In every instance, he found a hook, a way to make them feel guilty, and implied their jobs were on the line. He was always too close for comfort, and knew too much about their habits, their greatest weaknesses.
Not anymore. The second this story drops, every woman will feel vindicated. Julian will receive the outrage he deserves. The combined power of their stories will be impossible to ignore.
She calls Bernard using Freya’s personal phone. ‘OK, I checked your edits and have been through the story three more times . . . is this really it?’
‘It’s a great story, Isla: factual, emotive and with a big chunk of your own soul glistening between the lines. The editor is waiting, you know what to do.’
Isla takes a deep breath, and has a
sip of cold coffee. In writing this story, she has made sense of herself. She has let go of some of her guilt, enough to feel compassion for the broken shards of her heart, and her aching, strangled voice. If only she could solve the mystery of Nicole’s murder too.
She takes a deep breath, presses send, throws on her coat, and races out the door. Now, for another pressing priority – herself.
Chapter 96
Freya
Two months after the murder
It’s a funny thing, biding one’s time, working up to a big move. Freya is acutely aware that the office that has become her home will soon be closed off to her once more. As soon as the story hits the papers, she will be out of a job, they all will. Her heart aches when she thinks of the women who are waiting for their technology on the other side of the world. Freya hopes that Isla is right, and that she is able to help them one day.
She tries to take in the small moments she loves the most: making herself a cup of tea with a view over the city, the baby stirring the moment the sugar hits. This place was meant to be her answer, and for a while it felt like it could be. On days like today, when the work is interesting and the atmosphere in the office is light, she wishes she could stay like this forever, drawing a salary, contributing to a pension, living a comfortable life. All she had to do was tread gently, and not scratch the surface to reveal the dirt below.
Ruth sidles up next to her. ‘Freya, can Julian and I see you for a minute?’
The forced joviality is gone from her voice. Her tone is cold. Have they already found out what she has done?
Julian is already waiting in his office. He’s had a haircut – short back and sides cut close to the skull. It highlights the arch of his cheekbones. For Freya, it unmasks the silent aggression he has previously kept so well hidden.
‘Freya, we cannot ignore any longer that your focus is not entirely on your work. We think it’s time you take a little break.’
The Pact Page 29