Chapter thirteen
Chase, Chase and Waite Law Firm, Canary Wharf
Emma
One of Harrison Waite’s specialties is exonerating already-convicted criminals.
He is paid obscene amounts of money to go over old cases, appeal, and win.
My role is moving in a similar direction, and each day in the office is spent pouring over old files and notes.
Then I take the records home and study them when not attending online lectures.
The focus keeps my head busy and away from everything else I have to think about; the losses in my life that I don’t want to consider.
It's my fifth Friday in the office. The clock strikes 8 p.m. I glance up at it as it buzzes in its frame on the hour, as it does every hour. It’s annoying.
“Go home, Emma,” Harrison says from behind me as he closes his office door. “The weekend has begun; everything can wait till Monday. Plus, Mrs. D will have your dinner on the table, and she hates food going cold.”
“I’m finishing up,” I say, still looking at my computer screen.
“I’m not leaving until you do.” He walks over and stands at my shoulder. Before I can stop him, he leans down and switches my computer off at the wall socket. “Now, go home.”
“Fine,” I huff, pushing my chair back and standing. After shrugging into my heavy winter jacket and zipping it up to my chin, I follow him to the staircase that takes us down to the street level below. Both of us live within a five-minute walk of the office, but in different directions.
“I’ll walk you home,” he says.
“Don’t be silly. I live closer than you do, and it’s freezing.”
The pavement is slippery with ice as a flurry of snow falls from the sky.
Winter has hung around longer in London this year; spring feels as if it will never arrive.
“I’ll see you next week,” I tell him, then wave and walk off in the direction of my apartment.
When I glance over my shoulder, he is still standing, watching me, and does so until I turn onto a side street that heads toward home.
My shiny black heels snap against the icy paving, clicking loudly with every step.
The small alley cuts between two large office blocks.
It’s a haven of quiet within the bustling district of Canary Wharf.
The streets are filled with busy professionals who are finishing work and heading out on a Friday night to let off some steam.
The bars I’ve walked past are already packed; people even sit in the beer gardens wrapped up in winter clothes.
The alley isn’t long, perhaps one hundred meters, and the sound of my shoes is the only thing I can hear…
until it isn’t. The distinctive heavy step of a booted foot echoes behind me.
I pause and peek over my shoulder, but no one is to be seen.
Turning back, I increase my pace, wanting to be out in the open with others around me.
This isn’t the first time I’ve felt like I’m being watched.
Each Friday, upon leaving my apartment for work, I take the same route past a small coffee shop with cheap pine tables on the patio at the front.
The same man sits drinking an espresso and reading a newspaper each day—no matter the weather.
Each time I pass, he’s looked at me blankly, then his eyes have returned to his paper.
But there was something that made me uneasy about the look in those eyes. It was like he was evaluating me.
Last week, I took a different path to work. The same man was sitting in a different café, and the scenario played out once more. I don’t believe in coincidences. The experience has put me on edge since.
Occasionally, when I’ve nipped to the store for some groceries or taken a run in the local park, I’ve had a sense of being followed, but I put it down to my paranoia playing tricks on me.
This year with the McKinney family has been hard, but it was nothing compared to what I lived through in my teens, and why now I must always be aware of who’s around me.
The police tell me I’m safe from my past, and my heart aches to believe them. My head doesn’t.
I shrug off the uneasy feeling and continue marching as fast as I can toward home. With the odd look over my shoulder, I satisfy myself that I was indeed imagining being shadowed. No one is there. Finally, I step out into the busy street where my home is located.
After rummaging in my bag for my key card, which evades my fingers, I eventually find it.
As my eyes lift, they fall on two men standing further down the street in front of an office used for remote working.
It’s one of those places where you can hire a desk for a few hours.
Rarely do I see the same person entering or leaving the building; it seems to have ever-changing attendees.
Damon stares back at me with those big, stunning green eyes.
My whole body tenses. I’ve not seen him since he was handed his daughter and left the birthing suite.
All the emotions I felt that day come rushing back: the pain, the rejection, and the overwhelming sadness.
He swallows visibly then returns his focus to the other man, whom I also recognize, but his appearance is most unwelcome.
It’s someone I was promised would never see me again. A person I thought I was safe from.
Next to Damon stands a man who, previously, held a gun to my head as my parents begged for my life when I was fourteen years old. A man who shot them both dead in front of me in cold blood because they couldn’t repay the small debt they owed.
Terrified, I run for my front door and disappear upstairs to my apartment, needing to be as far away from the unfolding nightmare as possible.
***
Damon
I watch as Emma halts in the center of the pavement and gapes in my direction.
She’s wrapped up in a black winter jacket to her knees that’s fastened up to her chin.
Her long blonde waves fall messily in all directions.
Those bright blue eyes take one look at me and widen.
She turns fast, almost slipping on the slick paving before running into her apartment block.
“Pretty little thing,” the bastard I’m standing across from says. “Not sure if she was checking you or me out, Officer.”
“Chief Constable.” I correct the asshole who is insisting his name is Colin, and that he’s merely a graphic designer who uses the desk here once a week.
“I wouldn’t mind a bit of it anyway,” he says, handing me his supposed passport.
The document seems genuine, but every time I look at this creep something tells me I’ve seen him before.
I just can’t place where or when. All I know is, he’s not called Colin and graphic design isn’t his source of income.
He’s wrapped up in this money-lending scheme somehow, and my gut tells me he’s the connection to Brenton at the top of the chain.
“She’s far too young for you,” I tell him, keeping my eyes on the passport in my hands, turning it over in search of an imperfection that will demonstrate it’s fake.
“And you,” he jibes. “Both of us have too many years’ experience to bed that bit of skirt for any length of time, but we could have fun trying. There’s something appealing about young meat, don’t you think? So fresh and innocent. Always so keen to prove their worth,
they’ll do almost anything you ask.”
“I wouldn’t know,” I mutter.
“Your loss. Can I go now? I assume you have the answer to your questions.”
“Yes, but don’t go far. We’ll be back.”
“Any help I can be, Officer.”
“Chief Constable.”
He shrugs. “Good night.”
I watch as the only link to Connie’s killer walks off into the London night.
Our conversation had been short and pointless, which I knew it would be.
He’d given me a cock-and-bull story of his reasons for being here, then played the idiot.
Every name I mentioned, he blinked at me dumbly with wide gray eyes.
The whole set-up had been a waste of time, and if anything, we have given those further up the chain notice that we were getting closer, though it doesn’t feel that way.
Deflated by the pointless mission and Emma’s appearance, I turn in the direction of my car to head home.
***
Emma
My dinner sits prepared on the counter with a protective cover over the top.
Place in microwave for three minutes, the small note tells me sitting beside it.
Don’t work too hard. Love Mrs. D. I smile to myself.
The woman has become like a mother to me these past weeks, but she finished up today for a short break. I’m going to miss her.
After popping my meal in the microwave as instructed, I take a sweeping glance of the room.
Everything looks as it should, but something is off.
My mind wanders back to my unexpected glimpse of a man I never thought I’d see again.
Samson Moreno. I wasn’t aware he had been released, and I prayed he hadn’t recognized me in the brief glimpse tonight. But deep down, I know he did.
Why would Damon be meeting him? Is he not the man I thought he was?
Is Damon somehow caught up in illegal dealings with Moreno?
The thought is depressing and terrifying.
Could I have lived with a man for twelve months and never known his true nature?
Could I have fallen in love with a man who stands side by side with the bastard that robbed me of my childhood?
After pouring myself a glass of wine, I open my laptop which sits on the counter where I left it this morning.
Tonight, I am grateful Damon never pushed the breastmilk requirement of our surrogacy contract.
My milk came late, and his daughter was already settled on formula.
Harrison advised the service wasn’t required the day after I came home from hospital.
Tentatively I type Moreno’s name into the search bar. A recent news report appears as the first result. I click the bright blue link. Every fear I have ever had since that day in court where I watched him being sentenced rushes to the forefront of my mind as I read.
Samson Moreno has been successful in his recent appeal to the UK Court of Appeal to overturn the murder conviction he was sentenced to life in prison for.
Moreno was convicted of murdering Richard and Barbara Haining in their home in June 2013.
It is believed they were in financial debt to Moreno and were unable to pay.
He was granted immediate release. Compensation for his unlawful incarceration is still to be decided, but it is to be in the region of six figures.