Something in the Water(89)

“Erin. I’m sorry, but will you promise me you won’t look on it, honey? Please. Just leave it alone until I get back. Can you promise me that?” I’ve never heard his voice sound so serious, so worried. “Promise me. Just put it back where you found it, honey. And once I’m back we’ll burn it together. Don’t do anything. We’ll put the phone and the USB in the fire pit and together we’ll watch them burn. Okay?” he says soothingly.

God, he really does know me so well.

“All right,” I whisper. I feel sad and I’m not sure why. Maybe because I can’t be trusted. “I love you, Mark.”

“Great. Listen, Erin—I’m sorry. I didn’t know what else to do. Maybe I should have told you?”

No, he was right. I would have done all those things.

“No, you did the right thing and I love you,” I say again.

“I love you too, honey. Call me if you need anything.”

“Love you.” And then he’s gone.



* * *



—

I’m broken, confused, and incredibly thirsty. I pour myself a tall glass of ice water from the fridge door. I stare at our beautiful kitchen. The handmade work surfaces, the integrated wine refrigerator, the slate tile floor, radiating underfloor heating up through my socks. I look at our kitchen decimated by my crazed search, pots and pans, packets of food, and cleaning products scattered everywhere. And there among it all is my laptop. I don’t stop to think; I stumble across to it and I flip the lid on the computer, pull the USB out of its wrapping and slide it into the port.

A new device icon flashes up on my desktop. I double-click. A window opens. Files. I click on the first. It opens. Text.



* * *



—

Encrypted. Pages and pages of encrypted text. Files on files of encrypted text. Nonsense stares back at me. I don’t know what it says. I don’t even know what it is.

I don’t understand it, I can’t make it work, and it terrifies me. Perhaps Mark knows what it means? Perhaps it’s a banking thing? A numbers thing? But why then warn me away? I don’t know what I’m looking at. But my breath is shallow now because even I can tell that this is important. Even I can see that. We shouldn’t have this USB. It’s not for people like us. And I can’t tell Mark I looked. Now I know with crystal clarity that I am completely out of my depth.

Who are they? And what is this? Is this what they killed the Sharpes for? Why is it so important to them? Why aren’t they concerned about the money or the diamonds? Why is this worth two million euros?

Are we going to die for this?

I need to think. I eject the drive and place it carefully back into its plastic. Breathe, Erin. Think.

Okay. What should I do?

First of all, I really need to know what is on this USB. If I can find out, I’ll know the kind of people I’m dealing with. I remember the emails I saw in Bora Bora. The shell companies. The papers floating in the water. Who are these people? What are they capable of? How much danger are we in? If somehow I can get these files unencrypted, I’ll know. If it’s something awful, maybe I should go to the police? Maybe I should go now? But I want to know. I need to know what this is.

I haven’t the faintest idea how to decrypt files. But I think I might know someone who does. I stuff the USB into my pocket, grab my coat. Eddie’s mobile number is scrawled on the back of the card that came with his bouquet this morning. I, Erin Roberts, have direct access to Eddie Bishop’s illegal prison burner phone. And what’s the point of having contacts if you’re not going to use them? I pluck the card from the flowers as I pass them in the hall and dash out of the house.



* * *



—

There’s a smashed-up phone box on Lordship Road. I’ve driven by it enough times to wonder (a) why no one ever sweeps up or repairs the broken glass and (b) who on earth uses the terrifying-looking thing. Well, I realize as I stride purposely down the long stretch of suburban road toward it, today that lucky someone is me.

I honestly can’t remember the last time I used a pay phone. Maybe school? Calling home with my ten-pence pieces lined up along the shelf in the booth.

When I reach the phone box, it’s worse than I remembered. The booth is a hollow plastic cage carpeted with milky shards of glass, and clumps of weeds have burst through the cracked tarmac. There are spiders suspended from the empty windowpanes, slow and befuddled in the wet air. At least the open air diffuses the stale stench of piss.

I rattle my coat for change. A fat two-pound coin hits my palm. Perfect. I dial Eddie’s number.

When he answers he’s chewing something. I look at my watch: 1:18, lunchtime. Oops.

“Hi, Eddie, sorry to bother you. It’s Erin. I got this number from the flowers; I’m on a pay phone, so…” I think that means we can talk safely but what do I know; he’ll be the judge of that.

“Oh, right. Hello, darling. You all right, sweetheart? Problems?” He’s stopped chewing. Somewhere in Pentonville I hear Eddie wipe his mouth with a paper napkin. Do the guards know about Eddie’s burner phone? I wouldn’t be surprised if they did and they just looked the other way.

“Um, no, no problems really. But I’ve got a question. I don’t know if you’d know—or if you know someone else who might know—but…” I stop. “Can I talk on this?” I don’t want to incriminate myself. I don’t want to make things worse.