It was late afternoon as she opened the door to her attic and watched the dust dance in the beams of sunlight. She’d converted it to an art studio a few months ago in preparation for the semester off Stratford had given her to paint. They had given her the opportunity in hopes she would return and take over the somewhat stale art department and move it in a new direction, but so far, she’d resisted. She loved science and was particularly interested in making it more exciting to girls and students of color. When she was in school, she’d always felt science as a career was only considered a real possibility for white male students, and whether that had been true or not, she wanted to do what she could to make it more accessible to everyone.
She was setting up her easel when she saw it. She’d forgotten it was even there, but behind one of the wardrobes where she kept her out of season clothes, a door led to a hidden storage space. She’d wandered into it one afternoon when she was a little girl, and it was so dark inside she couldn’t find the door again. There was no doorknob, just a string to pull it closed, and Bronwyn had just sat there and cried until her grandmother came upstairs to see where she’d gone.
The wardrobe was pulled away from the wall slightly, and from where she was standing against the window, she saw a sliver of light coming around the door. When she moved the wardrobe away from the door, she saw that someone had installed a lock on the door of the storage space; in fact, they’d installed three rather complicated looking locks in a vertical row. But they’d left the light on, which caught Bronwyn’s eye as she set up her easel; she never knew there was a light in the storage room but was now more interested in who had been in there to leave it on. She eased slowly towards it, as the temperature in the attic seemed to drop. There was just enough of a crack between the door and doorframe to get a glimpse of what was inside, and when she saw it, she jumped back and pushed the wardrobe back in front of the door. Then she called Jaq Bailey.
****
Bronwyn went to the kitchen to wait for Jaq, making herself a cup of tea then leaving it forgotten on the counter as she paced. The doorbell rang eventually, and she padded down the hall in her bare feet, remembering too late she was in her ancient painting jeans and the only thing she’d done to her face this morning was pull on her glasses. She pulled open the door, and Jaq stepped in as she locked it behind her.
“Sorry, I know this doesn’t make anything easier,” she said, tapping her finger on her lower lip the way she’d always done when she felt nervous or anxious, “But I didn’t know who else to call.”
“It’s okay, Bella,” Jaq said. “We’ll figure it out, just tell me what happened.”
Jaq pulled her into her arms and held her, feeling Bronwyn’s heart pound against her chest. After a minute, Bronwyn relaxed enough to tell the story. Jaq listened, then looked upstairs.
“Take me there.”
Bronwyn led her upstairs and into the attic, where Jaq pulled the wardrobe away from the door, then crouched in front of the locks and pulled a small leather roll of tools out of her pocket.
“You were right. I will need more than a pocketknife,” she said. “Whoever did this doesn’t want anyone to get through this door.”
Her tools looked like thick steel pins with tiny grooves and levers, and one by one, she popped the locks open. She pulled her sleeve down over her hand and opened the door. Shelves had been built into the walls, utilizing every inch of the limited space, and on them were dozens of stacks of bound hundred pound notes, two black cases, and what looked like endless plastic-wrapped bricks of white powder. Bronwyn went to pick one of them up, and Jaq grabbed her hand.
“Don’t touch that; that’s evidence.”
Jaq stepped out of the room, gesturing for Bronwyn to come with her, then closing the door behind them. “You’ve never seen this before?”
“No, I played in it as a kid, but I’d forgotten it was even there; the wardrobe has been in front of it since I moved in, and I’ve never had a reason to move it. I only noticed it today because of the light inside when I was setting up my easel.”
“Have you told anyone else about it?”
“No, just you.”
Jaq pulled out her phone and walked over to the window, spoke quietly into it, then clicked it off and went back to the door and opened it again, snapping several pictures of the inside. After she finished, she turned back to Bronwyn.
“We need to go downstairs. We’re about to have company.”
“Do I have time to change? I look an absolute mess.”
Jaq’s eyes swept her body then slowly looked up at her. “You look beautiful, but if I have your permission to open the door when they get here, you can take all the time you need.”
Bronwyn nodded and went to her room to change. What exactly did one wear to welcome an influx of police investigating cocaine bricks in your attic? The thought of calling her mother for advice popped suddenly into her head, and she laughed. Her mother always thought she was on the verge of ruining her life. Being at the center of a drug investigation and sleeping with Jaq Bailey might send that right over the edge.
She chose faded jeans and a navy cashmere sweater, threw her hair into a quick bun, and put on a touch of eye makeup before she came back downstairs. When she got to the kitchen, there was only one other person besides Jaq, which was surprising. For some reason, she’d expected hordes of people to be milling around in her house, looking grim and dusting things for fingerprints. Or that’s what it seemed like they did on the telly, anyway.
Jaq looked up as she walked in the room. “Bronwyn, this is my boss at Scotland Yard, Chief Terrence Macmillan.”
He had wild Irish red hair, and one of his lapels was tucked under his overcoat. He extended his hand to Bronwyn with a warm smile and told her just to call him Terry, all of which was oddly comforting given the circumstances. He reminded Bronwyn a bit of her father – younger, but with the same crinkles around his eyes that made him look kind.
“Jaq tells me you walked into a bit of a situation in your attic today.”
Bronwyn laughed and went to put the kettle on. “That’s a good way to put it.”
“When was the last time you were in that room?”
Bronwyn thought for a second. “This was my grandmother’s house, so I was probably about eight years old. The last time I was inside, there wasn’t even a doorknob; it was just a storage space.”
“And did you touch the door today?”
“No, I didn’t want to get that close. I thought there might be someone in there. I just leaned in far enough to get a glimpse.”
Terry nodded and wrote her answer down in a small notebook he pulled out of his pocket. “And how did you know to call Detective Bailey?”
Neither Jaq nor Bronwyn answered, just looked at each other as the kettle whistled and Bronwyn hurried to turn it off.
“We went to school together at Stratford,” Jaq said to Terry, her voice low, “But we have a bit more history than that.”
“Understood,” Terry said, glancing over at Bronwyn as she made the tea and set out the milk and sugar on the table.
“Okay, Bronwyn,” Terry said, opening a new page in the notebook as they sat down, “Who other than you has access to this house?”
“The list is fairly short,” Bronwyn said. “My mum has a key, of course, my best friend Moira, and my fiancée Ian.”
“And when was the last time you were in the attic?”
“Yesterday, and I painted well into the evening, so if a light had been on then, I would have seen it.”
“Would Moira have had a reason to come into the house at all?”
“She’s never done that to my knowledge, and as far as I know, she was in Manchester at a social services conference until noon today. She works with the Strangeways young offenders program.”
Terry looked at Jaq, who shook her head, then he turned back to Bronwyn.
“Okay, that takes care of Moira, and I think it’s safe to assume your mum probably doesn’t have anyt
hing to do with this, so let’s talk about Ian. What does he do for a living?”
“He’s an investment banker at Barclay’s here in London.”
Jaq glanced at Terry, who raised his eyebrow. “On Bridges Street?”
Bronwyn nodded.
“And has he been in the house since yesterday?”
“I spent most of the morning at Mum’s house in Camden handling wedding details, and he was here when I got home. I’d told him when I left this morning I was going to stay for lunch at her house, but she was doing my head in so I decided not to and came home early.”
“Does he often just let himself in?”
“He’s welcome to, but no, not any other time that I remember.” She looked from Jaq to Terry. “Do you think this has something to do with Ian?”
“We don’t know anything at this point, but there’s an ongoing investigation that this may or may not tie into, which makes this situation a little trickier to handle.” Terry shut the notebook and looked at Bronwyn. “And it’s certainly possible this could have absolutely nothing to do with him; we just need to find out.”
“Anything else?” Terry looked at both Jaq and Bronwyn.
“There are two gun cases upstairs in the closet,” Jaq said. “I didn’t open them, but I’d bet the farm there aren’t knitting needles inside.”
“Do you have somewhere you can stay tonight?” Terry asked Bronwyn, who’d started rubbing her temples with her fingers at the mention of guns. “We need to leave everything like it is and put surveillance on the house. It’s vital you not say anything to anyone about what’s going on, even to your parents.”
Bronwyn shook her head. “My mother will know something’s up if I show up twice on the same day; I never spend the night there without a good reason. And I’m not sure Moira is even back in town.”
Terry tapped his pen on the table. “Unfortunately, a hotel is not an option; that’s an obvious sign something’s not right.”
“She can stay with me, if it’s not a conflict of interest.” Jaq looked over at Bronwyn. “I’d feel better if I knew she was safe.”
“It’s not a conflict. The fact that she’s the one that reported it pretty much eliminates her as a suspect.” Terry stood and tucked the notebook in his pocket. “Bronwyn, why don’t you pack a bag and I’ll take a look in the attic with Jaq if that’s okay with you.”
Bronwyn nodded and put the teacups in the sink. Once they reached the attic, Jaq stopped Terry before he got to the closet.
“Do you remember after I got home from that wedding and told you about the tracking device I found under a friend’s car?”
“Let me guess,” Terry said, trying not to smile. “Bronwyn was the friend?”
“She was,” Jaq said. “She’d spun out in the mud during the rainstorm, and I had someone pull it out for her the next morning. I was standing to the side and saw it by the axle. I also found a tracking app on her phone when I scanned it with my laptop.”
“Damn.” Terry pulled the wardrobe aside and eased the door open with a pen. “This isn’t looking good for Ian. Do you know him?”
“No, and I hope I never do; he’s gotten violent with Bronwyn in the past; she told me a bit about it over the weekend up north.”
“So we know he’s been tracking her to determine when she’s not at the house, he tends toward violence, and he happens to work at the very same investment firm we’re looking at for money laundering. He sounds like quite a catch.” Terry raised an eyebrow. “How did he land a girl like Bronwyn? She’s a knockout, if you don’t mind me saying.”
“Not at all.” Jaq grinned at Terry and pulled on the pair of latex gloves he handed her. “I completely agree.”
Jaq found a pile of handwritten financial notes, line after line of numbers and calculations, on the top shelf and glanced through them. She snapped a picture and put them back where they were. They scrutinized the guns, photographed the serial numbers, and replaced them in the cases. They also did a rough count of the money, as much as they could do without disturbing the stacks.
Jaq took a last look around the inside of the closet and took another photo before they pulled the door shut and headed downstairs.
“So if we just took this now,” Jaq said, “There’d be no way to connect it to Ian.”
“Exactly.” Terry said, “So we wait.”
****
It was almost nine before they’d gotten out of the house and picked up a takeaway for dinner. Jaq carried it and Bronwyn’s bag up the stairs and let them into her loft. Bronwyn looked lost as she walked over to the front wall of windows and looked out, still and pale as a ghost.
Jaq turned on the lamps, then went to the bar and poured her a brandy, handing it to her and returning to make a scotch for herself.
“Well,” Bronwyn said, piling her hair on the top of her head and squeezing the back of her neck. “Today went a bit tits up, didn’t it?”
Jaq laughed, clinking her glass to Bronwyn’s as she sank down beside her on the leather couch.
“Tell me what you’re thinking?” Bronwyn looked over at her, then leaned her head onto her shoulder.
Jaq slowly tipped the amber scotch in her glass and thought before she spoke. “I think there’s something you’re not telling me.” She picked up Bronwyn’s hand and stroked the center of her palm with her thumb. “And that’s okay, you don’t have to tell me anything at all, but I can’t keep you safe if I don’t know what’s going on.”
Bronwyn looked out the windows at the London skyline, and it was a minute or two before she answered. “I lied to you.”
Jaq didn’t say anything, just waited.
Bronwyn sat up, finished the rest of her brandy, and gave the glass back to Jaq, who went to refill it. There were tears in Bronwyn’s eyes as she sat back down.
“It’s okay, Bella,” Jaq said gently. “I know you. You had reasons. Just tell me.”
She caught a tear on Bronwyn’s cheek with her thumb and handed her the glass. Bronwyn sat back on the couch while Jaq slipped her shoes off and pulled Bronwyn’s feet into her lap, warming them in her hands.
“When we were in Blackpool, you asked if Ian had ever done anything else to hurt me after that time I went to stay at my parents’.” She looked down into her glass. “I told you no, but that wasn’t the truth.”
“I knew that then,” Jaq said gently.
“I was ashamed,” Bronwyn said. “After he hit me again, I knew if I backed out of the wedding, he’d do something worse, and I couldn’t bear for you to know I was that weak.”
Jaq leaned forward and tipped her chin up with her fingers. “Don’t ever let me hear you say that again.” She waited until Bronwyn met her eyes. “You’re the bravest girl I’ve ever known, and doing what you had to in order to stay safe isn’t weakness. It’s strength.”
Bronwyn set her glass down and waited. She knew what Jaq was going to say.
“Tell me what he did, Bella.”
She took a deep breath and let it out, her eyes closed.
“We were arguing, I honestly don’t even remember what about, but what I do remember is that he got so angry so fast. I don’t even know what happened. I was backing out of the room to go downstairs, and he told me not to take one more step toward the door.”
“And you did?”
“Of course,” Bronwyn said. “He grabbed me by the throat and slammed me up against the wall. Then,” she paused, “I felt suddenly calm. It was like I knew I was going to die.”
Bronwyn paused so long Jaq thought she might not go on.
“He let me go the second before I passed out. I heard the front door slam a few seconds later, and he didn’t come back until the next day. When he did, it was like it never happened.”
“Did you tell anyone?”
“I called Moira. She came over right away, but I wouldn’t tell her what happened. She stayed the night, but I made her go home in the morning before Ian came back.”
“Did you have bruises?”
Bronwyn nodded slowly as if she was just thinking about it for the first time. “Moira took pictures. She begged me to come home with her but I wouldn’t, and I never admitted that Ian had done it.”
“When was this?”
“About a month ago. When I saw the cocaine today, it suddenly made sense. His eyes looked different that night, like he was high on something.”
Bronwyn’s phone rang inside her bag next to the couch, and she jumped. “Shit,” she said, digging it out of her bag and holding it up to Jaq. “What do I do?”
“It’s okay,” Jaq said, her hand steady on Bronwyn’s thigh. “Just let it ring. We’ll call him back.”
Her phone was set to vibrate as well as ring when calls came in, and when Bronwyn dropped it on the couch, it squirmed with every ring like some medieval sea creature.
Finally, it stopped, and Jaq looked at Bronwyn. “Has he had access to this phone since you got a new one?”
“He gave me this phone; he had it ready when I got home from the wedding. Moira told him some bullshit story about me having lost my previous one, so I assumed he was just thoughtful.”
Jaq’s voice was quiet and steady. “Can you think of any reason why you’d be in this part of the city right now? Something he’d believe?”
“Sure, Moira lives two blocks over. I can tell him I’m staying at her flat tonight doing wedding stuff. She’s my maid of honor.”
“Perfect. I need you to call him back and tell him that. If the tracker he used is the same as the last one, it’s fairly indistinct. You being here will look the same as you being at Moira’s.”
She picked up the phone, but Jaq stopped her before she dialed.
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