‘You’ve got to see it from my point of view,’ Emma continued. ‘I hadn’t planned this. It was a job like any other but I was still new to the sex industry. We were getting paid serious money, Billie! I mean serious, so anything was on the menu. But I didn’t even know who he was until a little while before we went into that room. Then I’m standing there with the most vile man ever to walk the Earth right in front of me, and I find myself looking for a weapon. I can see some bottles of wine on the table next to him, and there’s one of those fancy openers—you know the kind that has a foil cutter? So then we unzipped him—’
‘Hang on a minute!’ Billie interrupted. ‘I’m not sure I want to know the details. But you did actually… cut him?’
Emma nodded, her face flushed. ‘There was a lot of blood. Sandra started to scream the place down. Perhaps he did too. Yes, I think he did… then I ran for it. Nobody stopped me, not with all that shit going on. I dumped the wig, grabbed my dress and made myself scarce. But the bastard survived. A few days in hospital and he was out, sending his thugs to scour London for me.’
‘He knew who you were?’
‘Oh, he knew. Like a silly bugger, I as good as told him. I opened the cutting blade and whispered in his ear “This is for Brendan Faulkner”. I saw something in his eyes, but after that, well… I was busy down under.’
Billie winced. ‘Brendan Faulkner?’
‘My brother. I told you. Look, that’s enough for tonight. I’m fed up with you staring at my tits. If you want the full picture you know what to do. Goodnight.’
*
As working days go Billie would later agree it wasn’t one of his best. The interruption to his sleep left him drained and dysfunctional. Many of his brain cells seemed to have taken time off, and he struggled to concentrate on anything. His attention span was almost non-existent, and his colleagues at the Mitchell couldn’t fail to notice.
‘What’s up, mate?’ said one. ‘That’s twice you’ve brought me the wrong edition. You’re half asleep!’
‘Sorry. You’re right. Didn’t sleep well. Think I might be catching a bug.’
‘In your sleep?’
‘What? No. I wasn’t asleep. Not yet. Which edition was it?’
He told himself all he had to do was get through the day and then have an early night. Maybe his present performance at work would gain him some brownie points when he put in for sick leave. He’d done that before, and after Emma’s memorable appearance in the early hours he knew he had to get to Manchester as soon as possible. One thing had begun to eat at his befuddled brain as soon as she ended the call. She’d given him the name of her brother, with a surname different to her own. Also, this had been in a conversation where she’d previously been careful to avoid using full names. Was that significant? Was it a slip? And was the threat from the grave of Peter Gris real enough?
The morning passed slowly. A nap in his lunch break and some strong coffee helped to restore Billie to a more acceptable level of functionality. Even then, his normal duties took a back seat as he made time for some online research. The subject of his scrutiny was a family with the name of Faulkner in Northern Ireland, and he had to submit a few extra keywords [Brendan, Dearing, RUC, 1985, Peter Gris] before he found a conclusive result in a newspaper from August 1986. The story shocked him.
The town of Portadown is in mourning today after police recovered the body of a twelve-year-old boy from the River Bann. The deceased has been identified as Brendan Faulkner of Drumannon Park. The boy went missing on his birthday (21st August) and his death is thought to be suicide. His father Patrick Faulkner, an inspector with the RUC, was killed in a terrorist attack last year, as was his grandfather in 1984. The family are devastated, and ask that they be allowed to grieve in peace at this difficult time. The British Secretary of State for Northern Ireland, Peter Gris, who visited the town today, expressed his personal condolences.
Billie could accept a certain amount of coincidence, but not to this degree. Seeing the tragic story in print reinforced his belief that Emma’s story must be true, at least in part. Reference to Peter Gris clinched it in his mind. The man had actually been in Portadown at the time the body was found. What kind of impact would the death of her father, followed by her brother, have on an eight-year-old girl? If she believed the politician was responsible in some way…
‘Billie! You’re needed on the info desk. Shake a leg there.’
He shook his head instead and groaned. The information desk was his least favourite post right now. No chance of getting stuck into anything productive, whether work-related or not. But time would pass more quickly.
And it did. He suffered a couple of genuine sneezes while attending to customer enquiries, and decided to milk the opportunity as much as possible. He blew his nose frequently and asked for extra tissues. Had anyone else noticed how hot it was getting? The end of his shift was greeted with enthusiasm, as much by his colleagues as by Billie himself.
He considered stopping at MoJo’s for a curry on the way home, then rejected the idea in case it kept him awake with heartburn. He wasn’t going to risk more disturbed sleep. He also stopped himself phoning Ed. As much as he wanted to update his friend on the Skype experience and the news report about Emma’s brother, he didn’t want to have to admit his quandary over taking time off for a trip to Manchester. Better to wait another day, when he could be more certain that such an excursion would take place.
Next morning, a decent few hours of slumber had put him in better shape, and he checked in for work at his normal time. Billie was armed with tissues and medication for treatment of a fictional man-flu he’d almost convinced himself was in the wrong category. His plan was to show up in a state of martyrdom, determined to fulfil his duties, and then be persuaded by his colleagues that he would be better off tucked up in bed for a couple of days with a hot water bottle and plenty of fluids. At his desk, Billie faced an unexpected snag.
Waiting for him was a note from his immediate boss, Senior Archivist Dr Paula O’Connor: Don’t Log In! It was written on the outside of a sealed envelope marked for his attention, and the contents inside simply requested Billie to go straight to her office without delay. Feeling slightly apprehensive at the implication of the instruction not to access his computer, he left his bag on his chair and headed downstairs. At least it would give him an opportunity to impress with his poor state of health.
Paula’s door was open as he reached her office on Level 2. He shuffled inside, noting that she was sitting behind her desk with her head in her hands, looking as rough as he was pretending to feel himself.
‘Trouble at Mill?’
‘You could say that. Shut the door please, Billie, and sit down.’
Something in her tone. He did as he was told and waited while she finished reading some notes. At length she sighed, pushed back her old leather chair and stared at him with a look of distaste.
‘Shit.’
‘Sorry?’ Billie was shocked to hear the word from Paula’s lips. He’d known her for many years and it was extremely unusual for her to swear in anyone’s company.
‘I repeat: shit. You are in deep shit. Think back to the twenty-third of July. You had a visitor, right?’
It took a moment to make the connection. ‘Oh! Yes, Emma. Emma Dearing, the author who gave the talk about The Tragic Sister. Yes, she came to see me about… some research for her next book. That was okay, wasn’t it?’
‘You took her to the Stirling Room. Without a chaperone.’
‘Er… yes. She wanted to talk privately.’ He was aware of the blood rushing to his ears, and hoped it didn’t show. ‘It was only a few minutes.’
‘Billie, it may only have been a few minutes, but it may have just cost you your job. Emma Dearing has made a complaint that you sexually assaulted her in that time. I’m very sorry, but I have no choice but to suspend you on full pay pending a thorough investigation.’