It’s two minutes past eight on Thursday evening, and I’m pushing open the door of The Weir bar in Brentford. Work was a real struggle today; I slept badly last night, again, and all day I found myself horribly preoccupied and uncharacteristically irritated by the neediness of some of our customers. I spent the afternoon refreshing the window display, and yet even when I was crawling on my hands and knees to prop up a book in the far corner, a woman peered in at me to ask, in an imperious tone, where she might find the latest Philippa Gregory.
I pushed my hair back from my sweaty forehead and told her that as Philippa was a historical novelist, she might care to have a look in the historical section, and she glared at me.
‘Well, where’s that?’ she snapped. I gave an audible sigh and crawled backwards out of the window space, only to be rescued by Milly, who was just passing and had overheard the exchange. Once she’d shown the woman to the appropriate part of the shop, she came back.
‘It’s not like you to be so cranky in front of customers. What’s up?’ she said, and I apologised, mumbling something about not sleeping well and having a few ‘relationship issues’.
She raised an eyebrow at that, looking at me with a strange expression, and I felt a rush of unease, as I had before when Jack came up in conversation with Kwee. But, thankfully, another customer needing assistance suddenly appeared at her shoulder. She bustled off and didn’t mention it, or him, again. I really can’t go on like this, though. If I don’t get on top of things, I’ll lose my job, and that would be unthinkable.
Not much longer. Not much longer.
I repeat the phrase in my head as I walk into the bar, and immediately spot Yiannis at a table on the left, a half-drunk pint of lager in front of him. I smile, and as I approach he smiles back and stands up, like he did the first time, moving around the table to pull out my chair for me.
‘Such a gent,’ I say, and his smile grows wider.
‘Blame my mum,’ he says. ‘She always insisted on manners.’
‘And that’s not a bad thing,’ I reply.
‘I suppose not,’ he says. ‘Can I get you a drink? I got here early so I’ve already got one in but I wasn’t sure what you’d want.’
‘A white wine? Sauvignon Blanc, ideally? Thanks,’ I reply, and he nods and heads to the bar. He’s served quickly and is soon walking back towards me, glass in hand, but the short interlude gives me time to organise myself, and by the time he sits down again I’m ready. My plan is this: to attempt to get this man to say something that makes it obvious it’s Jack he’s talking about; to record our conversation; and then, when we hand our findings to the police, maybe we can get him to agree to give evidence, my recording of him acting as gentle persuasion. My handbag is on the table, the top slightly open, the voice recorder on my burner phone switched on. I’ve tried it out in noisy spots a couple of times in the past few days, and I’m confident it’s close enough to capture this conversation clearly. I take a few sips of wine, and begin.
‘So, you said you think you might be able to help me? What made you decide?’ I ask. ‘Is it something to do with what you mentioned last time? You said you got involved with something a bit like what I need once before – was it some sort of email hacking? I’m kind of intrigued.’
He stares at me for a moment, his dark eyes fixed on mine, and then nods.
‘I was in a bad way. My mum… she hadn’t been well, and she got herself into a bit of trouble. A painkiller addiction that got out of control. We tried the NHS, and they did help, but she really needed a good rehab place and they cost money, you know? And we just didn’t have it at the time. I was still a student, and my dad’s a taxi driver. He does OK but he doesn’t have that kind of cash. These places cost a fortune. Other than me, there’s just my younger brother who was still at school, and we didn’t have any relatives who had any money to spare either, so…’
He shrugs, and I find myself glancing at my bag, hoping the phone is picking this up. Is he about to tell me about Jack? My heart rate quickens.
‘So what happened?’ I ask quietly. ‘You got offered money to do… what?’
He sighs, picks up his pint, and swallows a mouthful of beer.
‘It was this company boss… He heard I was good, you know? He was a nice guy – bit strange in some ways – but always friendly, and one day he took me aside and asked me if I could help him out with something. I can’t tell you the details, obviously, but…’ He pauses, and sighs again. ‘He wanted me to send some fake emails, from one of his staff members. He offered me so much money, Heather. I knew I shouldn’t do it, but I just kept thinking about my mum, and the difference it could make to her recovery. And so I did. It’s not that hard, particularly if you have access to internal mail. People rarely check their work email settings. Anyway, I did it, and something – well, something horrible happened. To the person I’d been sending the fake emails from. It was an accident, but it still made me feel just terrible.’
My heart is beating so hard I wonder if he can actually hear it from across the table.
It was him, wasn’t it? He’s talking about Rose. There’s no way this is a coincidence. No way.
‘What happened?’ I ask, and I lean a little closer. My voice is low, barely a whisper, but he looks around the bar uneasily, and shakes his head.
‘I can’t… I can’t say any more,’ he says. ‘But the thing is, my mum still didn’t get better. She had one stint in rehab, and when she came out she was great for a while. But a year or so later, she relapsed, and this time she was worse than before. Hard drugs this time. Twice, Dad and I had to trawl the streets in the middle of the night looking for her. The second time, we thought she was going to die. She was lying unconscious in a doorway. It was horrific. My mum. The woman who was so law-abiding, the woman who taught me all my lovely manners…’
There is a hint of a smile, and then his expression clouds over again.
‘Drugs are evil. They can get hold of anyone. Anyway, by spring last year we knew we needed to get her into rehab again, fast, or we’d be organising her funeral. And then… I don’t know, it was like fate. Serendipity, whatever. He asked me if I could do it again. Send fake emails from someone’s account. I didn’t want to, but, you know, the money he dangled in front of me… I just couldn’t say no. So I did it. It was a bit trickier that time, because the person didn’t work for the company, but again, not that hard if you know what you’re doing. And then…’
He shakes his head, and sinks it into his hands, his fingers clawing at his thick, dark hair.
‘Again, something really bad happened. I feel sick when I think about it, but I can’t do anything about it now. It’s too late, and if anyone knew, I’d be in such big trouble. Jeez, I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. I barely know you. But I believe in karma, you know? And, as I said before, maybe you were sent to me for a reason. If this guy, this ex of yours, is as bad as you say he is, and I can help you to punish him, it might even the score a bit. Something like that, anyway. Do you understand what I mean?’
I understand perfectly, I want to say. I understand – or at least, I’m almost a hundred per cent certain now – that you played a major role in helping Jack Shannon do the terrible things he did to Rose and Amber. And I hate you for that. I really, really hate you. But you’re also one of the very few people, maybe the only person, who can help us to finish this. So…
I take a deep breath.
‘Yes, I get it,’ I say. ‘I do. And I’m so grateful. I just need to make sure this is really what I want to do. I’m a bit scared; I just need to think about it for a little while longer. Can I call you when I’m absolutely sure?’
I reach across the table and touch his sleeve briefly, then whisper, ‘Thank you.’
Suddenly it’s all too much, and my eyes fill with tears. Embarrassed, I look down and brush them away with the backs of my hands.
‘Oh, no!’
Yiannis is fumbling in his pocket. He pulls out a tissue and thrusts it at me.
‘Please don’t cry. It’s OK. Here. Gosh, people will think I’ve just broken up with you or something.’
‘Haha!’
Unexpectedly, I laugh. I know that what he’s done is awful, and the consequences are horrendous, but I also get why he did it. Two wrongs definitely don’t make a right, but if he’s telling the truth, he did it all to save his mother, and the horrified look on his face now is just too comical.
‘I’m heartbroken,’ I say loudly, and dab theatrically at my face with the tissue. He stares at me for moment then grins.
‘Oh, stop it,’ he says. ‘What are you like?’
I laugh again, then put the tissue down on the table.
‘OK, I’ve stopped,’ I say. ‘But seriously, thank you. I’m knackered, so I’m going to say thanks for the drink too and call a cab, but I do really appreciate this and if I decide to go ahead I’ll get back to you very soon, OK? And don’t worry, my lips are sealed about what you’ve just told me. Not that I know any details, but still.’
He nods.
‘Got it. And thanks. You have my number if you need me.’
Fifteen minutes later, I’m in an Uber, heading for home. As soon as I’m back in the privacy of my flat, I call Felicity.
‘I’ve got the recording. And it all fits,’ I say. ‘There was no mention of anything physical, so I don’t think he did the stabbing, but the rest of it, almost definitely. And he really does feel guilty – you can see it in his eyes. I think he might be persuadable, you know? To give evidence against Jack, I mean. Although if he’s not given full immunity from prosecution, maybe not. We’ll see.’
‘Great work, Heather,’ Felicity says. ‘So, in terms of searches, just the jewellery to find now? Oh, and Nathan mentioned you wanted to look into Rhona’s background. Did you… discover anything of interest?’
She asks the question slightly awkwardly, her tone almost too casual. It makes me hesitate for a few seconds before replying. Am I imagining the way her voice changed when she mentioned Rhona?
‘No. I couldn’t find her online at all, actually,’ I say. ‘Which is bizarre in itself, don’t you think? She’s not on any of the social media platforms, she’s not on LinkedIn, and there’s no mention of her anywhere. It’s made me even more suspicious of her. Did Nathan get anywhere, do you know?’
Another slight hesitation.
‘No, I don’t think he’s had time yet. Things are a bit crazy at the factory, apparently. I’ll give him a nudge though. Listen, do you want to meet up for a drink on Sunday evening? We can have a proper catch-up then. What do you think? Same place as last time?’
Nathan hasn’t had time? I feel a flicker of anger. He and his little girl are in fear of their lives, and he’s too busy to do a quick background check on a woman I think might be involved in all this? Seriously?
It’s back yet again, that feeling that something isn’t quite right here. I don’t say it though, because meeting up is a good idea, I realise. I want to look Felicity in the eye and ask her about this Rhona thing to her face. I want to see how she reacts. I want to see if I am just being paranoid, or if there’s something else going on that I haven’t worked out yet.
‘That’d be great,’ I say. ‘After dinner? About eight-thirty?’
‘Perfect,’ she replies. ‘I’ll see you then. I’ll send you a message to confirm. Take care. And call one of us if you need anything, OK?’
‘I will. Bye, Felicity.’
I hang up but I sit there for a while, thinking.
I like Felicity, like her a lot; that’s the problem. I’ve become genuinely fond of her, so much so that I really think we could become proper, long-term friends, even when all this is over. But why do I keep getting this nagging feeling?
They can try to shut me down as much as they like, but I am going to get to the bottom of this.