Chapter 1 Shadow Receipt #2
“It is an affair.” I kept my voice level, professional. “But it's not the worst part.”
Her eyes met mine. “Tell me.”
“Your husband is involved in financial fraud. He's been moving money through shell companies, falsifying records, and using a consulting firm called Meridian to hide the paper trail. The woman he's seeing is part of that network. They're not lovers. They're co-conspirators.”
She didn't blink. “How much money?”
“At least three million pounds in the last six months. Possibly more. The audit in two weeks will expose it unless someone intervenes.”
“And you think someone will intervene.”
“I know they will. Meridian specialises in making problems disappear. They'll restructure the evidence, seal the files, and your husband will walk away clean. But the money...” I leaned forward slightly. “The money won't come back. And whoever he's borrowed from to cover the gaps won't forget.”
Mrs. Tremaine was silent for a long moment, her gaze fixed on the orchid between us. When she spoke, her voice was colder than I'd expected. “You're telling me my husband is a thief.”
“I'm telling you he's in over his head. And the people helping him are worse than he is.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“That's your choice. You hired me to find out if he was cheating. I'm giving you the truth. What you do with it is up to you.”
She reached into her handbag, pulled out a chequebook. “How much do I owe you?”
“Your retainer covered it.”
“Then this is extra.” She wrote quickly, tore the cheque free, and placed it on top of the photographs. Five thousand pounds. More than I'd asked for, more than the work was worth. “For your discretion.”
I didn't touch the cheque. “I'm discreet by profession, Mrs. Tremaine. You don't need to pay extra for that.”
“I'm not paying for discretion.” Her eyes hardened. “I'm paying for you to forget my name if anyone asks about this case. I'm paying for you to make sure these photographs don't end up in the wrong hands. And I'm paying for you to understand that whatever happens next, it didn't come from me.”
I held her gaze for three seconds, then nodded. “Understood.”
“Good.” She stood, smoothing her jumper with hands that still didn't shake. “I assume you can see yourself out.”
I collected the cheque, left the photographs. She'd need them if she decided to file for divorce. Or if she decided to do something else entirely. That wasn't my concern anymore.
At the door, I paused. “Mrs. Tremaine. One more thing.”
She turned, her expression carefully neutral.
“Your husband isn't the only one in danger. They'll also consider you a liability. Be careful of who you trust. Be careful who you talk to. And if anything feels wrong, if anyone approaches you with questions or offers, call the police. Not me. The police.”
“I thought you were police.”
“I was. Not anymore.”
Something shifted in her expression. Understanding, maybe. Or recognition of the space where trust used to live. “Thank you, Mr. Mercer.”
I nodded and left.
Back at my flat in Clerkenwell, I spread the contents of my investigation across the kitchen table. Photographs, financial records I'd pulled from public databases, notes written in shorthand only I could read. And in the centre, the invitation to the wedding.
I picked it up, turned it over in my hands. The paper was thick, expensive. The masquerade detail was interesting. Masks meant anonymity, meant people could move and talk and conduct business without being immediately recognised.
It was the perfect cover.
I pulled my laptop closer, started searching.
Viktor Volkov, a former soldier, now head of security for the Crown Prince. The wedding was being called the event of the year, a spectacle of power and wealth and influence.
And it was taking place at the palace.
I sat back in my chair, my mind working through the angles. The palace wasn't just a venue. It was a statement.
The invitation gave me access. And according to the news, it was going to be a masquerade wedding. That was enough to give me the cover that I needed.
I built the palace like a map in my head: doors, cameras, choke points.
This was the break I'd been waiting for. Three years of dead ends and sealed files and watching Harrow operate with impunity. Three years of knowing the truth and not being able to prove it.
That ended now.
I picked up my phone, dialled a number I'd memorised but rarely used. It rang four times before a voice answered, wary and familiar.
“Bishop.”
“It's Mercer. I need a background check on everyone connected to the Laurentian Palace wedding. Staff, security, vendors, guests. Everything.”
“That's a long list.”
“I'll pay your rate.”
A pause. “This about Harrow?”
“It's always about Harrow.”
“You're going to get yourself killed, Cal.”
“Not today.” I ended the call, set the phone down, and stared at the invitation again.
I folded the invitation carefully and tucked it into my desk drawer, next to the recorder that held Jason’s confession and the photographs Mrs. Tremaine would probably burn before the day was over.
Outside, the rain had stopped, leaving the city washed clean and gleaming under the sun. London looked almost beautiful from my window. Almost innocent.
But I knew better. I'd seen what lived beneath the surface. I'd memorised its shape, learned its rhythms, understood its hunger.
And I was going to drag it into the light, one careful step at a time.
Starting with a masquerade ball at Laurentian Palace, where everyone wore masks but nobody could hide.