Something in the Water(62)

We share a look.

“We do what we can, Erin. But some people won’t help themselves.”

I think we’re bonding. I think we’re getting along.

“To be fair to Michelle, she has no idea who her daughter is anymore. She couldn’t have seen this coming. A prison visit once a week for five years does not an attentive mother make.” He glances off toward the kitchen. I take the opportunity to swallow. My desire to look like a normal person, while under scrutiny, has rendered everyday bodily functions tricky. He continues.

“Holli changed about five months before release. We have statements from prison guards and counselors. Two things happened around that time. She signed up for the prison charity scheme and she agreed to take part in your documentary. I can fairly confidently say that you’re not heading up a London cell of Al Qaeda, Erin, but I’d lose my job if I didn’t follow up a bit.” Silence. He’s watching me. The hint of a smile plays at the corners of his mouth.

So they have been looking into me already, shit. How much?

“Am I a suspect?” I know you’re not supposed to ask, but am I?

I feel my cheeks reddening, my neck grow hot. My body now officially out of my control.

He chuckles, satisfied.

“No. No, Erin, you’re definitely not a suspect. You’ve never even met Ashar Farooq, your only meeting with Holli is on film, and all your phone calls to the prison were recorded and monitored at the time. I’ve listened to them all.”

Shit.

“You’ve done nothing. But you do need to let me have a copy of that footage as soon as possible today—and then we’ll be out of your hair. We’re not interested in you, as such. At this stage.” Another shadow of a smile. With that he stands and brushes down his trousers. Then he looks up.

“Oh, and it goes without saying, but don’t share that footage with anyone else. No news agencies, no press, obviously. And you won’t be able to use the footage for your documentary until our investigation is concluded. And you know what, even then, do me a favor and call me beforehand, okay? Check in. Don’t be a stranger.” He smiles. It really is a winning smile. He’s not bad looking by any stretch of the imagination.

Then, I don’t know why I say what I say next, but I do.

“Andy. When it’s done I want to get an exclusive on this, okay? Before anyone else. An interview would be fantastic.” There it is. I’ve nailed my colors to the post.

His smile broadens. Surprised. Amused.

“Don’t see why not. Once it’s all public record. Couldn’t hurt. It sounds like a nice little film you’re making, Erin. Interesting. Call me.” And with that he’s gone.



* * *



—

When I get home the first thing I do is race up to the attic. Thankfully, Mark isn’t home yet. He’s meeting old colleagues today, testing the waters for contacts to sell the diamonds to. But in the meantime the diamonds are still in our attic and I’m worried about them. Our stash. If they decide to search the house they will find them. I move an old sewing machine on top of the loose insulation. I sit cross-legged on the splintered floor agonizing about whether putting the sewing machine over it makes it more noticeable or less. If SO15 searches our house, will the sewing machine draw the eye or hide the loose section of insulation? I Googled SO15 on my way home: they’re a Specialist Operations branch of the Met, Counter Terrorism Command, a department created from the merger of the Special Branch and the old Anti-Terrorist Branch. They’re serious police.

I move the sewing machine off again.

There is definitely nowhere in this house the police won’t look if they decide I’m of interest. I can’t bury the diamonds in the garden now either. The soil will be disturbed and police love to dig up a patio, don’t they? I’ve seen enough crime dramas to know that. And now there’s no chance I can fly to Switzerland and store them in a safety deposit box, not now that I’m a part of Andy’s investigation. That would raise more flags than anything else. We just need to get this stuff out of our home as soon as we can. That’s the only answer. We need to get rid of the diamonds.

I think of the plane. The people still down there, strapped in tight, safe in their seats. In the dark nighttime water. I can’t help wondering about them. Who were they? Were they bad, like Mark said? Did they look like terrible people? I’m glad I didn’t see them; I don’t think I would ever forget something like that. It’s hard keeping my thoughts at bay as it is. I see faces of my own imagining, gray and waterlogged.

I wish there was some way to find out who they were. We tried everything we could think of, we trawled those Interpol and missing-person websites out in Bora Bora. Mark is the only one who would be able to pick them out of a lineup. And he’s looked. Maybe I should ask him to look again? Maybe I should search Russian news sites for missing people?





Mark has a contact for the stones. One of the old work colleagues he met with yesterday, while I was filming at Holli’s, has suggested a possible solution. Just in time. Once the diamonds are sold we can get the money wired straight to Switzerland and we’ll be all done. Our nest egg secured. I haven’t told Mark about Holli or DCI Foster. I want to get today out of the way first; I don’t want him worrying about the police until this deal is done. I’m certain they’re not looking into me yet, and if we get the diamonds sorted today, it’s over. I still haven’t told Mark about the baby either. I’m not deliberately keeping secrets; I just want to wait until the time is right. It’s such big news, I don’t want it tarnished by worry. I want it to be special. Pure.