The Grayson Trilogy

by Georgia Rose

  I was interrupted from my train of thought by a quick rapping on the back door which opened to reveal Carlton. I’d been so distracted I hadn’t even heard the car arrive. I pushed myself up and off the settee, went to meet him in the kitchen and, with no time for greetings, launched in.

  “What’s going on?”

  He shrugged as he shook his head. “No idea, b—”

  I butted in before he got any further, “You must know something,” and I regaled him with the details of the call I’d just received, talking quickly until he put his hands up to stop me mid-flow.

  “If you let me finish, Em, I was sent to come and get you, but I have no idea what’s going on. What I can tell you is that two helicopters have arrived. Cavendish in one, Trent in the other, each accompanied by a guy that I don’t recognise, but both look like agents.”

  I pondered on this for a moment. “Why are Cavendish and Trent being kept apart? What would be the purpose of that? It could only be to prevent them from talking to each other, colluding perhaps? Don’t you think? But what would they be colluding about? And why am I being summoned?” I realised I was just verbalising my thought process and knew Carlton couldn’t help. He stared at me blankly as he shrugged no wiser than me and suggested we go.

  There were far too many questions and keen to find the answers I picked up a thick jumper from the back of a chair I passed and pulled it over my head.

  “Come on, then, you’d better take me to them.”

  Carlton grabbed the door handle to open it for me and I thrust my arms down into the sleeves of the jumper as I walked past him out of the cottage, calling back a goodbye to Susie.

  We drove in silence to the Manor. Questions buzzed in my head, but I knew there was no point bombarding Carlton with them. He knew no more than I did.

  He pulled into the courtyard. Although I could hear activity coming from the gym when we entered through the kitchens, they were eerily quiet considering it was only early evening. Carlton led the way towards Cavendish’s large office and my nervousness increased the closer we got. I was feeling pretty much the same as I’d done the day I arrived for my interview, and if there had been room for them in my overcrowded insides I would have sworn butterflies had taken flight. I hated not knowing what I was about to face.

  As we got closer, Carlton muttered, “All right?”

  “As all right as can be expected,” I replied, taking a deep breath which I let out slowly when we stopped at the door.

  “You’ll be fine,” he reassured, clearly having no idea whether I would be or not, but then I was grateful to him when he pushed open the door and entered with me. I think he hoped he’d get to stay. I certainly wanted him to because I didn’t know what I was up against. Trent’s call had put me on edge, and I couldn’t get rid of the feeling that somehow I’d done something wrong. It felt like being called in to see the headmaster. What if both Trent and Cavendish were against me for some reason? At least if Carlton stayed I’d have someone on my side.

  I walked into the room, trying to project confidence, and stopped alongside Carlton to take in the scene, gleaning what I could. I was immediately drawn to Trent, who stood next to the fireplace and fixed me with his intense stare. He looked shockingly tired, pale and drawn with dark hollows under his eyes. I gave him a small, shaky smile that felt unsure on my lips and was not reciprocated by his. This was serious, I knew it, but with no clues I was bewildered as to why.

  Nearest to Carlton and me was a man in a black suit, crisp white shirt, black tie, shoes polished to a high sheen; sharp jawline, sharper haircut, blond, blue-eyed, keen. He stared pointedly at Carlton. “You can go.”

  That made me dislike him immediately.

  “I want him to stay,” I retaliated, already knowing my request would be futile.

  “No, he has to leave,” was the response. It was not worth arguing the point. Carlton’s hand moved into mine as he gave it a quick, comforting squeeze, and as I glanced over at him I was strengthened to see his reassuring smile. As quickly as that all happened, it was over. He’d turned and I heard the door closing behind me.

  Trent moved towards me then. His expression hadn’t changed, but as he got closer his eyes flashed a warning. As one arm started to go around me, he rested his other hand on my belly, checking in that all was well.

  Blondie’s hand intercepted him, holding him back.

  “I am greeting my wife,” Trent spat out disdainfully, shrugging the hand from his shoulder as his arms enclosed me in a hug. His cheek, two days of stubble, roughly brushed mine in a kiss as he whispered close to my ear, “We’ll do all we can.” At least I think that’s what he said; it was so quick and faint I couldn’t be sure. I don’t know if his words were meant to put me at my ease, but they only served to put me on my guard even further. What did he mean, they’d do all they could? This was something about me, but I didn’t understand what. Nerves fluttered through my stomach once more in my uncertainty.

  Blondie growled, “That’s enough,” and forcibly pushed us apart with his hands. I saw the anger flare in Trent’s eyes, but he just raised his hands and stepped back, never taking his eyes from mine. Clearly now was not the moment to make a point with Blondie, but I sensed there was no love lost between them.

  As Trent moved beside me his arm slid round and his hand rested on my hip. I felt ever so slightly buoyed by having him close to me. While I knew that this was something about me, whatever it was I now knew Trent and Cavendish were on my side – assuming that’s who Trent had meant when he said ‘we’. My attention was then taken by seeing Cavendish coming towards us, accompanied by someone else I didn’t know. Black suit, white shirt, black tie, shoes – like a uniform. Men in Black. If only they’d been wearing sunglasses too, it would have made my day. This one was older, more worn – both him and his clothes – with none of the intensity of Blondie, who fairly fizzed with energy. I took to this one, dark hair, still short, brown-eyed, softer.

  Big mistake.

  Don’t fall for that, I warned myself.

  Good cop – bad cop.

  Cavendish reached me and kissed my cheek lightly in greeting as if a meeting like this were an everyday occurrence. “You look well, Grayson.” I smiled at him gratefully.

  “Thanks, Cavendish, I am.” I didn’t reciprocate on the compliment; he appeared to be as exhausted as Trent, his tiredness deepening the lines that creased the corners of his eyes. I sounded nervous, which matched my emotional state, but I tamped down those feelings, not wanting to be so exposed as I looked at the two strangers.

  Cavendish spoke smoothly, and sounded reassuring and confident as he introduced me.

  “Grayson, I’d like you to meet Agents Bond and Rodwell.” He indicated to Blondie first.

  “No!” My face broke into a wide grin and I couldn’t keep the incredulity out of my response, feeling Trent’s hand tighten on my hip. “Agent Bond – really?” I looked round at the others, saw a glint in Cavendish’s eyes, quickly suppressed as he cleared his throat, and a brief twitch of Trent’s lips as I glanced at him which heartened me. Bond’s face remained impassive. If anything his stare became even steelier. I didn’t chance saying anything more – he’d probably heard it all before, but it did, if only for a brief moment, lighten my mood.

  I reached out to shake hands with both the agents.

  “Grayson, we’ve been talking with Bond and Rodwell here on and off for the last couple of days and they’d now like to talk to you.” They’d talked to the agents for a couple of days? That was a lot of talking. Cavendish was understating it, so let’s call it what it is, I thought: interrogation. I could sense a strain of sorts coming from both Trent and Cavendish, which could have been down to their tiredness.

  “Okay, though I don’t understand how any of your business has anything to do with me.”

  “I understand, Grayson, but let them ask their questions and then we’ll see, shall we?” I nodded my agreement. Cavendish led me over to the settees and urged m
e to sit down and get comfortable. He offered me a choice of drinks, which I declined, wanting to get on and find out what this was all about.

  Trent had relinquished his hold on me and taken up his place by the fire, right in my eyeline. He wasn’t that far away, which I found comforting, and it was as though he was watching over me. I only had to glance up to be able to meet his eyes, and I knew he’d have planned it that way.

  As Cavendish took up a place on the settee across the coffee table to me, but further down it towards the fireplace, Bond sat immediately opposite. He looked stiff and uncomfortable, and I thought he would probably have preferred to remain standing. Rodwell sat closer, on the settee at right angles to mine.

  It was Bond who started.

  “Grayson…I should be calling you Grayson, should I? I might be mistaken, but I thought you’d recently married Trent.” He paused, then glanced over to make sure Trent fully appreciated the needling before he continued. “But you didn’t take his name?” I remembered Trent telling me there were those in the security services who were unhappy with him being involved in Cavendish’s enterprise, and the cheap dig where Bond could take it annoyed me. My reply was chilled.

  “My name is Emma Trent, but for ease on the estate I’m still called Grayson. If you prefer to call me Mrs Trent instead, you are free to do so.” I met his eyes as I responded and I did not blink. I didn’t need to look at Trent to see his smile, it warmed me.

  Bond looked as frosty as my retort.

  “Okay, Grayson,” he emphasised, “I’ll get right to it. A package was received at headquarters a short while ago that was addressed to you.” Silence followed, long and drawn out, and I fell at the first hurdle when being questioned. I felt the need to fill it.

  “Are you expecting me to say something? That wasn’t a question.”

  “What do you know about this package?”

  “Nothing. Where is it?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “Yes it is. It was addressed to me, so surely it should’ve been delivered to me. You never know, I might then be able to tell you something about it.” I was feeling cocky right at that moment and Bond ignored me.

  “Let’s go back to the beginning, shall we?” Silence fell again and I couldn’t bear it, eventually giving in.

  “The beginning of what?”

  “Your life, Grayson. As far back as you can remember. Tell us about you and start with your maiden name.”

  I frowned at him a little dumbfounded, but he was serious. As four pairs of eyes watched me I told them what I knew, mystified as to the reason why. I felt a little foolish to begin with. What should I say? What should I leave out? As it turned out I didn’t need to worry. As Rodwell watched and listened Bond directed the questioning, and piped up the moment he wanted any further details or clarification.

  “My name was Emma Wills. I was orphaned when I was five years old and went to live with foster parents. My earliest memories are of them.”

  “What can you tell me of your parents?” he interrupted.

  “Nothing. I don’t remember my parents or anything before my first foster parents. I just said that.”

  He ignored my snappiness. “How long were you with your foster parents?”

  “I only stayed with them for about two years, several different foster parents coming after. I moved every couple of years.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps I was a problem child.” Irritation showed in my voice, but honestly, how was I meant to know why? I felt the need to maintain eye contact with him throughout this questioning; not wanting to appear as if I were seeking reassurance from Trent or Cavendish by checking in with them.

  Bond didn’t follow up with anything else, so I carried on. “I went to several different schools. Whichever one was local to my then current home. I started riding, and that was my main interest. I met Alex Grayson while in sixth form and we married at eighteen. I had an inheritance from my parents’ estate which allowed us to buy a house.”

  I tried to gloss over Eva, but Bond insisted.

  “We had a daughter, Eva, who died when she was six. Our marriage broke up.”

  “Because of Eva dying?” That was blunt.

  “No, because my husband had an affair with Amy.”

  “Amy who?”

  “Amy Grimes, my once best friend.”

  “Have you seen Alex recently?” At that point my eyes did flick across to Trent.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you see him regularly?”

  What has that got to do with anything?

  “No.”

  “Are you in touch with Amy?”

  “No.”

  “When was the last time you saw her?”

  “The day I found her in bed with my husband.” Not a flicker. The man had no empathy at all.

  “How did you come to be working here?”

  “I applied for the job.”

  “How?”

  “How would you usually apply for a job? By replying to the advert, of course.” I was starting to feel exasperated.

  “Where did you see the advert?”

  “It was put through my door, and before you ask, I don’t know who by. At the time I assumed it was Amy.”

  “And now?”

  “And now what?”

  “Who do you think put it through your door now?”

  “Still Amy, I guess.”

  “You guess?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because of the lack of any other credible candidate who would have cared a damn about me.”

  And so it went on. Bond – always Bond – went over each point again and again as if to catch me out in a lie. Rodwell didn’t say a word; he watched and listened. It was frustrating, an emotion I was not particularly good at hiding, but then Trent stepped in and, I could tell much to Bond’s annoyance, halted proceedings.

  “My wife is pregnant and needs a break.” Although they must have clocked my condition, it hadn’t been mentioned and I looked at him gratefully. On checking the time, I was surprised to find two hours had gone past. I needed a break, yes, but more than that I needed the toilet. Such is the lot of the pregnant woman. I was allowed to go, after my phone had been taken away from me. Cavendish showed me the way, and we were escorted by Bond, who stationed himself outside the door – which was off-putting.

  When we returned to the office the tension in the air was palpable. It appeared that Trent and Rodwell had been having words, and we walked back in to Rodwell saying, “It’s only because of Cavendish we came here to interview her at all. We would have preferred to have relocated to a place of our choosing.” While I was grateful for Cavendish’s influence, Trent didn’t respond and I could feel his anger simmering as I sat back in the same seat. Positioned on the coffee table in front of me was a rectangular parcel, I guessed at about eight inches long, four inches wide and five inches tall, wrapped in brown paper. Tape had once sealed each end of the package, but now hung loose. I glanced over at Rodwell, who was again watching me, waiting, I felt, to see my reaction. I decided not to bite and ignored the package.

  The questioning resumed, though actually it was just repeated. We went right back to the beginning again, topping up my frustration levels, and I couldn’t help but feel that started to show in my responses.

  Cavendish suddenly interrupted, “Look, is this level of questioning entirely necessary? I think Grayson has had enough. Could we not resume tomorrow?”

  “No,” Bond stated. “We need to get to a certain point tonight. However, if you have a problem with that we can arrange to have her taken elsewhere?” I imagined the ‘elsewhere’ he referred to wasn’t going to be in a beautifully appointed room where I’d be interviewed on a comfortable settee. I was also sensing some hostility to me personally, which I didn’t understand.

  The questions started again. This time the focus was on my foster parents – names and addresses. I suddenly realised they we
re taking no notes, nor were they recording me, and it became clear what I was telling them wasn’t anything they didn’t already know. They were testing me, waiting for me to slip up, to give something away.

  I told them what I could. There were blanks.

  My first foster parents, when I was five, were Ben and Lisa Frampton who’d lived at 5 The Green, Thurlam.

  When I was seven I went to David and Marjorie. I couldn’t remember their surname. I couldn’t remember where they lived.

  When I was nine I went to Curtis and Fiona Mathers in a village called Norton, and I only remembered that because I remembered walking to Norton Primary School so we must have lived in the same place.

  When I was twelve I went to Steve and Helen Morris, Drakes Close, Silton – I couldn’t remember the number.

  When I was thirteen I went to Marcus and Carol Smithers at The Rectory, Keston.

  Finally, when I was fifteen I went to Brian and Sheila Skinner at 54 The Highway, Broadmead.

  I thought I’d done pretty well.

  “How come you remember the full names and address of the first pair, from when you were only five, but not of later ones?” Rodwell spoke, the first time he’d done so to me since we’d been introduced. There’d been no signal between them, but it was as if they had prearranged that at a certain point he would take over. His voice was softer, less accusatory than that of Bond.

  I explained I’d gone back to try to see Ben and Lisa when I’d had Eva. I’d remembered they lived in Thurlam, and it wasn’t too much of a stretch once I’d got there to find their cottage, situated as it was right in the centre, around the picturesque green.

  “What did you find?” Rodwell again.

  “That they’d moved away. I spoke to a next-door neighbour who had known them and told me their surname. She remembered me, and me leaving them.”

  “Did she tell you when they moved?”

  “She told me they’d gone the night I left. That was why she’d remembered it, because she thought it was a bit odd.” I could feel myself being drawn wide-eyed into an unavoidable trap. I didn’t know why we were on this line of questioning or where this was heading, only that there was nothing I could do about it.