Last night, the girl once known as Emma Dearing had had sex. The first time in weeks and it made her feel better about herself. But then O’Brien had sent a text suggesting an early start for the drive up to Manchester. Instead of feeling peachy in the afterglow, she had turfed out her lover and bundled her stuff together.
‘You can drive,’ her new boss had said.
Now it was approaching six in the morning and they were fifteen miles short of Birmingham on the M40, doing seventy-five in the middle lane.
‘Watch your speed,’ said O’Brien from the back seat without looking up. ‘No need to attract attention from Traffic.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Wanker. Emily was pretty sure he was reading her personal file. She dropped the speed down a touch for a mile before letting it creep back up. Something about being alone in a car with a man five ranks her senior made her feel on edge. Especially if he was sat there looking at her personal stuff.
‘What made you come back early from bereavement leave?’
Shit, I knew it. ‘Boredom, sir. Mum died in February but it wasn’t completely unexpected. We felt it was likely after her second stroke. I got her a good solicitor to sort out the probate, and she didn’t have much personal stuff to go through.’ Emily forced her breathing to slow. Sometimes it was just easier to lie. Would he pick out anything else? Her disastrous marriage to Danny Blake, perhaps? Ten seconds. Tick-tock. ‘M42 coming up. Can I ask you something, sir?’
‘Go on.’
‘Yesterday you told us this op is strictly off the record.’
‘Yes.’
‘So none of us are to ID each other by rank?’
‘Correct.’
‘What do I call you then?’
‘Just do the same as you did yesterday. I’m plain Mr O’Brien now, and that’s official.’
‘Okay, sir.’
‘Okay, Mr O’Brien. Cut out the sir!’
‘Fine with me… Mr O’Brien.’ Say please and I will.
She tried to relax, but her mind kept drifting to other irritations. First was her hair: she’d planned to cut off the bleached tips this morning before the journey north, but O’Brien’s late-night message had blown that idea. Instead she’d scraped her hair back into a messy knot and thrown random toiletries into a travel bag. Then there was Mia. She couldn’t help feel anxious about her friend and neighbour. She’d made her promise to WhatsApp her if anyone came snooping, but so far nothing. Someone must have been round by now. Logic said her friend had simply lost the new number, but it didn’t stop her worrying. Copying Mia’s distinctive hairstyle had helped her slip away from the flat without drawing attention. ‘Sisters!' That’s what Mia had said when they checked their images side by side in the mirror. 'If anyone asks, I’ll say I’m your sister.’ How cool was that?
*
The stiletto had made a second appearance, and Wally felt something give down below.
‘I’m just an old man. I forget things. I’ll forget you were ever here when you’ve gone, I prom—’
‘Stop your babbling,’ said Meredith. ‘Or I’ll be the one to forget my manners. I always respected my elders, but in your case I could make an exception. Now start remembering. I want to know the truth about those twins.’
He moved behind the old man’s chair, an action that seldom failed to produce a result—his unseen presence while holding the knife applied more pressure on Wally than anything physical. It also brought side effects, as the stench of fear wafted outwards.
‘It’s just the way she went after her sister died. She were only twelve. Or… they might have been eleven. They both were… a car hit them just around the corner from here.’ The old man gasped at the memory, his breathing already strained. He took several moments before continuing. ‘And Emma died. It was bloody awful cos I’d just told them to be careful… but you know what kids are like. I saw it happen.’ Another pause while he squeezed his eyelids closed, a useless attempt to shut out the hurt of that day. ‘How Em survived I’ll never know. Broken bones, yes… but something affected her brain. It were like she took on her sister’s life as well as her own.’
Meredith circled the chair, slipping the blade back inside his jacket. Wally would hold nothing back now.
‘Emma were always the leader of the pack, and Emily the quiet one. Personalities like chalk ‘n cheese, as they say.’ The thought invoked a memory. ‘But after that day, things changed. Em were like a wild child. Sharp as a tack as always, but you’d never know what were coming next. As she got older she got herself in all kinds of trouble… with boys ’n that. You know. Sexy stuff.’
‘Which was how she came to be in London in 1999?’
Wally nodded. ‘That’s about right, yes. Got herself into erratic dancing, performing and… stuff.’
‘And afterwards?’
‘Complete change. Went all quiet again. Did some learning. Got herself qualifications and helped her mum with her writing and… what d’ya call it… research. Which is how she… well, I told you about that before. Everyone has to call her Em. It’s what she insists on. Like I say, it’s like there’s two girls inside one body. Some days she’s all fire and brimstone, and others you won’t get a peep out of her. It’s why I got confused, see. Emily and Emma. Well, they’re the same, if you know what I mean? Er, I couldn’t go to the toilet, could I?’
‘Correct. Much too late for that, my friend. That’s something you can keep to yourself. What I need to know now is where the document went. Has she still got it?’
The old man sat in his squalor, glasses beginning to mist over. ‘I suppose she has. That bloody book of Marion’s. Why the fuck did I have to open my big mouth?’
Meredith drifted towards the front window, taking in the view of the street through yellowing net curtains. ‘Tell me about Vinke.’
Wally lifted his head. ‘Who?’
‘You know who I mean. I showed you the photograph.’
‘Oh, the German feller.’
‘That’s the one.’ Meredith turned away from the window and stepped towards the armchair, wrinkling his nose in disgust at the offensive odour as he approached. ‘When did you show him the document?’
‘I didn’t.’
‘Oh yes you did. We’ve had it from the man himself. Now I want to hear your version. The photograph is of the two of you. You and Vinke. Did he see it on that occasion?’
‘What I meant was, I didn’t show it him. It were her! She were writing the bloody book for God’s sake!’
‘Just to clarify. You’re saying Marion had the document because she was going to use it in her book?’
‘Yes! God rest her soul. Living over there in Ireland, and knowing my family connection, she got interested, didn’t she? She always wanted to write a book, so when the kids were... when she didn’t have to look after them no more, she started her writing. About Titanic. That were when I told her what I knew. In confidence, like. Then she showed me that fucking document! I couldn’t believe it cos last I saw, it were with Paddy Faulkner. Thought it were gone forever.’
‘Let’s get back to Vinke. He came to see you and Marion. About the document?’
Wally glared at the interruption. Some of his old fire had returned at the thought of his one-time plans for pocketing a slice of Eric’s royalties. No chance of that now. All that mattered was survival. What else could he say to save his neck?
‘Yeah. Least, I think so. It were Marion he were talking to. Writers, both of them. Least, he were. Proper published an’ all. He’s made a mint from some of—’
A loud knock on the front door came as a shock to both. Meredith moved quickly for such a big man, stuffing the discarded sock back into Wally’s mouth before retrieving his stiletto blade. He stood for a moment by the chair, considering his options.
‘Expecting anyone?’
The terrified pensioner shook his head. Meredith moved to the window, but he had no direct view of the front door from there. With a final glance at the old man strapped to the chair, he went into the tiny hallway and pulled the door to behind him.
Wally strained his ears to hear the conversation, which was brief and too quiet to catch. Then the door opened again and he heard Meredith’s voice.
‘Hey Wally! Guess who’s come to see you.’