An extremely large bunch of flowers arrives in the morning.
Thanks for your help. Shan’t forget it. E. He’s got style, I’ll give him that. But Mark is less sure.
“It’s not exactly covert, is it?” he asks over breakfast. He’s worried about police surveillance.
“They’re only flowers, Mark. They could be for doing the interview, for all anyone knows. Through a lawyer or something? I’m pretty sure Eddie knows how to cover his tracks at this point in his career. Well, except for the bookkeeping, obviously.” I smile. We’ve done it, after all. Haven’t we? The full payment for the diamonds hit the numbered account at midnight last night. Much more than we expected. Certainly a lot more than I thought we’d ever be able to get by ourselves. Two million. Two. Sterling. I literally cannot keep the smile off my face. Ten grand a pop per stone. Eddie barely took a cut. The payment came from another numbered account. Wherever Eddie’s money is squirreled away, I guess. Great minds think alike.
Mark’s worried.
“I’m sure the gift trail will be well covered from his end, Erin. It’s our end I’m worried about. If SO15 is watching you, they’ll wonder…” He gestures to the massive bouquet. “It’s not exactly low-key, is it?” He has a point, I suppose. The flowers look ridiculously ostentatious.
“But can the police really be monitoring me twenty-four hours a day, Mark? Seriously? Why would they? And how would Eddie not know that?”
“Yes. Potentially yes, they could be, Erin, if they think Holli might contact you. If they notice anything strange. They might be watching you in case she tries to call you, or God forbid shows up on our doorstep.”
“But, why on earth would she do that, Mark? We weren’t exactly close, were we? We met once. I interviewed her for thirty minutes, once. I don’t think the police think that will happen and I don’t think we’re being watched by them. At least not to the extent you think. Maybe they’re monitoring our home phone, but I really feel like that’s something Eddie might have looked into before helping us, something he might have mentioned. He’s not an idiot. If SO15 is watching us, I think we’d be aware of it by now. If anything, I feel like Eddie’s presence is protecting us from a lot of things right now.”
Mark looks distractedly out the window, watching the rain, his thoughts whirring away, silently.
Why isn’t Mark happy?
I tentatively touch his arm across the table. “It’s done. We have all the bag money. It’s safe. With the paper money and the diamonds combined, we have just under three million pounds. Untraceable. Completely secure. We did it, Mark. We actually did it!” I look at him, expectant.
A smile breaks across his face. A small one.
I squeeze his arm.
His smile widens to a grin.
He nods, reaching for his mug of tea. “I’m pleased it worked out, I am. Obviously! But, Erin, you can’t do any more stuff like this. You just can’t. It’s worked out this time, but no more, right? No more risks. We’re done now?” He is happy, of course, but I worry him and I can’t blame him for not trusting me, really. I have been keeping secrets. And there were definitely a couple of moments there when I thought he might be right, that I might have gone too far. But now the money’s in the bank.
“Yes. Yes, I’m done now. I promise. There’s nothing more to take risks for.” I lean across the table and plant a kiss on his warm lips. I can tell he’s not entirely convinced, but he smiles and kisses me back. He wants things the way they were. Hopefully, we can go back to that now. Finally.
But no sooner does that thought settle in than I remember. Those loose ends, up in the attic. A trail of evidence leading all the way back to the bottom of the South Pacific.
It isn’t quite over yet.
“But—what should we do with the phone, Mark? The USB? Should we dump them? They’re the only link back to us. We need to finish things properly, don’t we? We don’t want loose ends.”
He squeezes his eyes shut as the realization sinks in; we’re not quite finished. He’d forgotten them. “Damn. Okay, let’s think.”
He takes a moment, gazes through the rain-speckled window out into the wet garden. “Maybe we should keep the phone. Just in case. There’s no harm in keeping it. And if anything ever happens, we’ll have it as evidence of who these people are. Or leverage against them. Not that I’m saying we’ll need it but, maybe, just for insurance.” He pauses, then shakes his head. “You know what? No. We’ll dump it too. Dump it all: the USB and the phone; we need them out of the house. In case, for any reason, the police want to search the house. We need it all out of our lives.” His tone is firm. There will be no further discussion of this. And that’s okay with me. I’m done now. All done. Three million done.
“Perhaps we can drive up to Norfolk together, right now, stay the night, take out a boat in the morning, and drop them into the sea. Make a day of it, the last loose ends?” I suggest.
His expression doesn’t change. I feel a tug of fear.
I continue. “We need to dump them somewhere, right? We could stay up there a few days. It would be nice to get away. To just be together for a while. We need it. I miss you. I miss us.”
He gets up and walks around the table and cups my face in his hands. He kisses me on the lips, ever so gently.
“I love that idea. It feels like a long time ago, just you and me, the honeymoon.”
I know what he means. Our real honeymoon, before the bag came along, before it turned into something else. All I want right now is just to be near him. I miss my skin on his skin. I miss the closeness.
“If we go up to Norfolk today, then that’s it. The phone and the flash drive are the last things, and it’s done after we’ve got rid of them. Finished,” I promise. “We can go back to the way we were. But better, because this time we’ll never have to worry about money again.”
Mark will never have to worry about losing everything ever again. He’ll never have to worry about having to work in a bar or stack shelves ever again. Up in Norfolk, I can finally tell him about our baby.
He looks down at me, studying my face; there’s a ghost of sadness in his eyes. I suppose he’s not convinced I’ve truly decided to stop being so reckless. Perhaps we can’t get back to where we were? I need to prove to him that I am focused on us now, so I press him: “We need the time together, Mark. Please?”
His eyes fill almost imperceptibly and suddenly I realize how much I’ve pushed him away over the past few weeks. I have very nearly broken this thing we have. This bond needs to be handled with care, nursed back to health. He stoops down again and kisses my forehead. “I know. And as much as I love the idea, honey, I can’t go away today. You know that. Remember?”
Oh God, I totally forgot. He told me this last week. He mentioned it. I feel awful. As if I didn’t feel awful enough already. He’s flying to New York this afternoon, an overnight stay. I wasn’t listening properly when he said it, obviously. I wonder what else I’ve totally missed. I am the worst wife. He’s meeting new clients in New York City all day tomorrow and then traveling straight back that evening on the overnight flight. A literal flying visit.
I’ll be here alone. I can’t help, all of a sudden, feeling frightened that Mark’s moving forward with his life without me. It’s my fault, of course. I should have shown more interest in his new business instead of spending all my time thinking about the documentary, the money, the diamonds. I should have been present more; I should have been with him. Self-recrimination washes over me. I will have to do better. I will have to be better. It’ll all be fine. We can go away the following weekend together. It’s not a big deal; it just feels like one now.
I lie on the bed while he packs, watching. He tells me all about the new office spaces he’s considering. His big plans.
“Will you come and see them with me next week?” he asks. He’s so excited.
“Of course! I can’t wait,” I assure him. I’m glad he’s letting me back in. I’m glad he’s this happy again. Maybe the rift is finally starting to close up. “I’m sorry, Mark, if I’ve been absent. If I haven’t been here for you…I’m so sorry.” I look up at him.
“It’s all okay, Erin.” His face is alive with the future and everything that’s laid out ahead. “You’ve had a lot on your plate. It’s fine. I love you.” He holds my gaze and I feel forgiven. I’m a very lucky person. I think again about telling him everything. About the pregnancy. But I don’t want to tip the balance. I’ll tell him once he’s back. When we’re alone together next weekend.
“I love you, Mark,” I tell him instead, scrambling off the bed and wrapping myself around him. And I mean it with all that I am. My hormones must be doing something crazy inside me right now, because it physically hurts later as his airport taxi pulls away from the curb outside our house. My whole body keens for him. The ghost of his arms around me, the scent of his cologne still clinging to my skin.
After he’s gone I make my way up to the loft. To inspect the last remaining evidence.
It’s hot in the attic. Under the insulation the phone is toasty warm. The separate envelope containing the USB drive lies next to it. Is the heat of the loft bad for the memory of the phone or drive? I finger the USB through the plastic of the envelope.
It’s warm to the touch.
I stare at the phone’s inert screen, and remember the text message from two weeks ago. The way it made me feel in my stomach. Those three gray dots, pulsing.
WHO IS THIS?
Again, I wonder who they are. The dead people on the plane, the person on the other end of the phone, the plane people. I’ve tried to ignore this question, to listen to Mark’s advice, but here on my own, in the hot, dusty loft, the thought grows stronger. Who are they? I’ve searched Russian websites, news sites—nothing. Is Patrick one of them? Or is Mark right? Could he be an undercover SO15 officer? Is it him who is calling me and leaving silent messages? The sickening thought flashed through my mind the other day that the calls might be from Holli. Silent, desperate phone messages, from somewhere out there; maybe she’s back in England. But then I remember the low mumbled reply to the waiter in the message. And besides, Holli’s never even had my phone number, so it can’t be her.
My mind gravitates back to the plane people. Could it be them? Mark was certain it wasn’t. But maybe they found the hotel’s IP address? Maybe they went there? Maybe they killed the Sharpes—but would they have stopped looking after that?
For how long would they have kept looking? What were the bag and its contents worth to them? And then it hits me with stunning clarity. They’re still looking. And I’m alone now. I think of Mark’s face as he drove away in the taxi. They might still be out there, searching for us. Maybe they realized they killed the wrong couple. And now here I am, alone in the house. I’ve been so concerned with keeping ahead of the police, of converting what we found into real money, that I’ve completely forgotten about the reality of being found by the people we stole from. The reality of a knock at the door, a shot to the head.
I think of the open back door, six days ago. It’s just me here now, alone. And I don’t want to die. I need to find out what I’m dealing with. I need to find out who might be coming for me. And with that I take their phone downstairs, slip on my coat, and leave the house.
It’s time to turn it on again. Somewhere safe. Somewhere busy.
When I get to Leicester Square I weave through and around the crowds and head for the garden at its center. I find a group of foreign exchange students talking on and playing with their phones while they eat their lunches on the grass. I stand as close as acceptable and only then do I turn the phone on. It struggles back to life, slowly. The screen flashes white. The Apple symbol. Then the home screen. I don’t even attempt to put it on airplane mode. I let it find signal. And it does. The signal bars fill to five.
You see, my thinking is this: Leicester Square is the busiest pedestrianized thoroughfare in Europe. I Googled it on my own phone, before I turned it off, outside our underground station. More people move through Leicester Square in a day than anywhere else in Europe. On average 250,000 a day. As I enter the garden area it’s full of people on their phones, weaving past one another deep in conversation or heads down, tapping away and surfing. There are 109 CCTV cameras in Leicester Square, but I challenge anyone to guess which person is on which phone. There are fuckloads of us. I’m hiding in plain sight. Let them find the signal; it won’t help them.
The screen flares to life. Text messages ping up on the phone. Two messages.
THE OFFER STILL STANDS
CONTACT ME
From the same number as before. The number that knows someone has the bag.
But I don’t understand what the message means. What offer? I scroll up for more but I see only the old messages I read in Bora Bora. Then I notice a small red circle over the call icon. I check the missed call log. There have been two missed calls from the same number since we have been in possession of the bag, since I sent that ridiculous text message in Bora Bora. Two missed calls…and one voicemail.
I sit down on a bench, hit the voicemail icon, and lift the phone to my ear.
The first voice I hear is the voice of the network carrier’s automated system. It’s female, but in a language I don’t understand. Eastern European? Russian. Then silence, followed by a long beep.
It connects. I hear the closed-in silence of a room, someone waiting close to the receiver to speak.
Then the voice comes thick and calm. It’s male. The language is English but with an accent that’s hard to distinguish.
“You received the previous message. The offer stands. Contact us.”
The message ends. I have no idea what it’s referring to. What previous message? What offer? The system voice prattles on in Russian. And then the man’s voice returns. A saved message. The previous message.
“You have something that belongs to us. We would like it returned.”
I feel my breath catch in my throat.
“I’m not sure how you came into contact with it. It’s not important at this stage but it will be in your interests to return it to us,” he says.
It suddenly occurs to me that someone has already listened to this voicemail; that’s why it didn’t show up as new. Someone has heard it. I think of our back door standing ajar, I think of Patrick’s cold hand in my warm one, I think of SO15, I think of Simon and Eddie. Has someone been in our attic? Who? But then I realize there’s only really one other person who could have listened to this. Because why would the man on the phone right now, if he really was searching for us, break into our house and listen to his own message? And if it was DCI Foster and SO15, why would they not have immediately seized everything they found as evidence? And if it had been someone to do with Eddie who heard this, then why would Eddie still have paid us two million pounds if he could have just taken everything? The truth—the truth is that no one else has been in our attic. Which must mean that I’m not the only one who’s been keeping secrets. Mark has already listened to this voicemail.
“We will reimburse you. A finder’s fee for your troubles.”
I glance around the square, heart pounding through my chest. It’s crazy, I know, but all at once I’m certain that someone is watching me again. I scan the faces in the crowd, but no one seems interested in me, no one is looking. I suddenly feel utterly alone, alone in a sea of strangers. I snap back to the voice.
“If you have the flash drive, contact me. On this number. The offer is two million euros.”
Euros. That means he’s in Europe, right? Or he knows we are. Does he know we’re in the UK? He’ll have traced this phone’s signal whenever Mark last accessed it. He’ll know we’re in London by now.
“The amount is nonnegotiable. If you can supply this, we will make the exchange. We are not interested in pursuing you; we require only the USB. Whether you choose to assist us in retrieving it or not, however, is up to you. Contact me.”
The message ends.
The flash drive? I had completely forgotten about the USB. No mention of the bag money? No mention of the diamonds. They just want the USB? More than the diamonds, more than the money. What the fuck is on the USB? I can’t catch my breath. Do I even want to know? Holy shit.
I turn off the phone. Just in case. You never know.
Why didn’t Mark tell me about this? Why did he turn the phone on in the first place? And where did he turn it on? Of course, he’s far more cautious than I am. He’d have gone to a crowded area too. He’s a clever guy. But why? Why look? And then I realize. He too was worried about them coming for us. Of course he was worried. After the Sharpes’ accident, he felt responsible, in a way, for what happened to them. He knew that it was deliberate and it scared him. So he pretended, for me. Mark’s very convincing when he wants to be. So he checked the phone. He checked to see if they were still looking for us. And they were and he kept it to himself. To protect me. To keep me from being terrified. The guilt makes my chest ache. I can’t believe Mark’s been going through all of this alone. And with me running around so recklessly.
But then I realize that’s probably why he didn’t tell me, isn’t it? He wanted to stop me finding out about this offer. He knew I’d want to do it, to make the exchange, and now that I think about it, yes, yes, I do want to do it. Because if we can play it right, if we can just play this last situation right, we’ll win it all. We can’t stop now anyway; it’s not safe to stop. If we don’t give them back what they want, they’ll never stop looking for us.
And I know Mark didn’t tell me about the voicemail because it’s clearly a stupid idea. And I know it’s stupid because they don’t really know where we are or they’d have just taken the USB already. And it’s stupid because we don’t need any more money. And I’m stupid because I have been driving this whole thing from the very beginning, and now that I’ve heard this voice message all I want in the whole world is to make that deal. They might not know where we are now, but they will keep looking and I want them to stop. And I want that extra two million euros.
Mark knows me so well, better than I know myself, and that is why he didn’t tell me. Because he knows I will definitely do something reckless.
What did they say in the message? “We are not interested in pursuing you; we require only the USB. Whether you choose to assist us in retrieving it or not, however, is up to you.” Is that a threat? Not exactly. A warning: they don’t want us; they just want their memory stick. But if we make that hard for them, then maybe it becomes a threat.
Wait, wait, wait. Two million euros? What the actual fuck is on that USB? And that is the question that propels me as I sprint out of Leicester Square and toward our attic back in North London.