The Sholes Key (An Evans & Blackwell Mystery #1) (5 page)

“Yeah, no, yeah, it was great talking with you.” Marc started walking down the road.

“Marc?”

He turned to face her.

“Listen, if you ever need an estate agent…” She reached into her clutch, pulled out her card and handed it to him. “Ring me.”

Without another word, he ambled to the car park behind the banquet hall and disappeared. She stood stunned for a few minutes and then decided she needed a toilet, fast.

Down the pan went her vegan meal and her pride. Over the sink, she washed her face and her mouth and broke down. The tension and the terror released with her tears; she couldn’t contain them. Not even when Liam entered the women’s toilet, locked the door, and held her.

“I screwed up.”

“It’ll be all right,” he said. “It’ll be fine.”

He was right.

Three days later, as she left her Parsons Green flat, her mobile rang and Marc asked her for dinner. While they were at a restaurant the next night, the third bomb exploded, killing three.

When Sophia saw Marc take the box from his jacket pocket over dessert, she prayed it wasn’t a ring. God was listening. Two stunning teardrop diamond earrings stared back at her.

“They’re dazzling,” she said as Marc watched her face. “They must have cost a small fortune.”

He exhaled. “I spent an hour picking them out this afternoon. I think the shop assistant was going to throttle me when I made her display all the jewelry in the case. I’m delighted you like them.”

“I didn’t get you anything.”

“I wasn’t expecting anything.”

“Yes, but.” Suddenly, her face lit up. “I have an idea. Something we haven’t done yet. We should go on holiday somewhere nice—the Italian Riviera! A friend of my father has a flat there. We could leave tomorrow, get away, two weeks.” Silence. “What? Is it too soon?”

Marc sat back in his chair and pushed the wine glass away. “I can’t just now. I have a large contract to fulfill at work.”

Damn you, she thought. Damn you, Marc. Don’t you understand? Sophia felt like slapping him in the face. How could she be so stupid? She knew the emails had been actively increasing over the last week. Based on the past four bombings, there would be a two-week flurry of emails, and then a bomb would detonate.

She smiled weakly. “All right, I understand.” No, no she mustn’t think this way. Maybe he was legitimately busy. Her team, the ones that followed Marc everywhere, did admit he had a work contract with Erickson’s Electronic. MI5 filmed him coming and going from the building every day.

“Do you? We’ll do a holiday, I promise. I just can’t now.”

Unable to stop the previous four bombings, she had been relieved when they arrested a man in the suspected organization and the bombings stopped for three months. But now the team was nervous about the culprits trying again. If Marc had accepted her invitation, it meant he wasn’t involved—not actively.

* * *

At nearly half-nine, Sophia arrived home from the Italian restaurant. She sat behind the wheel and rubbed the velvet earring box in her hand, hating herself.

It could mean that he was just busy, right? Why couldn’t she find the damn key? That must mean something, it must. She put the earring box in her clutch and got out of the car.

Sophia took the stairs up one level to the foyer. She walked past security and waved at the desk where Stanley, the weekend guard, usually sat. The desk sat empty. Strange, she thought, but shrugged it off. Ten letters filled her box from Friday and Saturday’s post. The foyer was empty and darker than usual. One of the lights above flickered. Where was security? Where was anybody?

At the lifts, she pressed the button. One lift stood still on floor six, the other in the car park. She pressed the button again, then three times. Still no movement. What was going on? Debating whether to climb the three floors to her flat, she pressed the button a few more times. Finally, the lift from below started moving slowly up one level.

As the doors opened a man, who had been crouched on the floor, stood and stepped in front of her. Stifling a scream, she yelled, “Stanley, you gave me such a bloody fright. What the hell were you doing?”

He dangled keys in front of his face. “Sorry,” he said. “A couple is moving in on the sixth floor. I gave them permission to use one lift but they had pressed the stop button on both. I had to run downstairs and unlock this one. How’s someone on any other floor going to get up or down, am I right?”

Sophia exhaled and leaned her hand against the wall. “Exactly. May I use the lift now?”

“Please, carry on.” He turned and walked away but stopped. “Oh, in the next day or two, a plumber is coming to fix the leak under your kitchen sink.”

“Right. Thank you.”

That settled, she rode up and entered her flat. After a stressful day at work, she enjoyed the solitude of living alone: no one to lie to, no secrets, just her and a trustful companion—her computer.

With a cup of coffee settled within sniffing distance, she opened the bag and took out the items she retrieved from the forest. She unwrapped the plastic from the black soft-bound Bible and flipped through it. A small note with three lines of numbers fell out.

10.5.9

15.8.27

3.27.21

Yuri had to be complicated. The intelligence source was old-school: no emails, never meeting in person, everything was a code—a secret. He would never give her the answer; she had to figure out the key first. Based on her previous communications, she knew the answer would be in a book. Was she looking for a specific scripture?

She picked up the picture of the ship. Nothing was written on the back.

With a cup of coffee in one hand, she gathered up the items and letters in the other and headed toward her computer. When she went undercover on Marc’s case, she had to store her other computers at work because as far as Marc was concerned, she knew what email was and just barely. She had her hard disk divided into three partitions: Sophia the estate agent, Sophia the spook, and a backup.

Sophia booted into her spooks partition and started on the Yuri case. First she wanted to find out what the ship symbolized. After an hour of searching through photo after photo on the Internet, she pushed her chair away and rubbed her eyes. She needed a break. The letters from the post called to her and she picked up the pile.

Ten letters, mostly rubbish. How disappointing. She could find love. Buy a new car now. Own five more credit cards. They went straight into the bin. One thick, neatly printed envelope stood out. Not her usual junk. She glanced at it and put it aside. The last was a bill which she unwrapped and filed under ‘to be paid.’ She picked up the thick envelope again and examined the neatly typed address. There was something wrong with it. Taking a letter opener from the desk, she slit the top of the envelope open.

A white piece of paper was folded around a six-by-four image: a close-up of a woman’s face. Sophia saw fear in the woman’s eyes. A woman she had never met and would never meet—the woman was dead. It was obvious that she had been strangled. Sophia couldn’t see the neck, but the woman’s eyes were red and bulging, and her tongue was swollen and stuck out between her teeth. Chills ran up her spine. Who would send this to her?

The white paper fell to the floor, and she bent down to retrieve it. Numbers covered every possible space on one side of the paper. Another code? She sat there, stunned and scared, but she had to regain her senses. Was she alone in her flat?

“Hello?” she called out.

Still holding the picture, she opened the door to her flat and looked out into the hall. No one. After she secured the door, she walked down the hall, reached into the bathroom and flicked on the light. She peeked past the door and looked over her small shower room. Empty.

Next, she entered her bedroom and turned on the light. The curtain moved. She leaned against her wall and watched. A cool breeze hit her face. Had she forgotten to shut the window? What was wrong with her? She walked forward and drew the curtain back with force. Nothing. No one.

After checking under her bed and in her closet, she was satisfied she was alone. She knelt on the floor to look at the photo again. Somewhere along the line, she had made someone angry enough to kill.

Chapter 4

"Who is she?” Robert Vincent asked. He sat back in his chair and chewed the tip of his pen. He glanced at the photo again. Ink began to drip from his lips. “Oh, bugger.” He reached for a handkerchief to wipe his mouth. When he finished, his lips were blue.

The way he acted, no one would suspect he had once been a spook. Besides acting like a half-wit, he looked like Oddjob and couldn’t get Pussy Galore if they were in bed naked together.

“If I knew that,” Sophia replied as she paced around his office, “I wouldn’t be running her face through facial recognition.”

Just then Liam Foxton entered the room, wearing black trousers and an orange button down. Even in the wee hours, he had styled his hair. “What is so urgent at two in the morning? And damn it, Evans, why are you here? This puts your cover at risk.”

Vincent handed him a copy of the photo.

“Who is she?” Liam asked.

Sophia frowned at him. “You’re the one assigned to protect me; you should have the answer to that question. How did it arrive on my doorstep?”

“How would I know who she is? I can’t tell by this photo. It’s not as if she’s in the best shape now, is she?” Hand to his mouth, Liam chewed pieces of skin off his lips, a nervous tick that drove Sophia insane. “Why would he send you a picture of a dead girl?”

“What?” she asked. “To whom are you referring?”

“Marc.”

“Marc didn’t send me that photo. If he is who you say he is—”

“See?” Liam raised his eyebrows to Vincent. “This is what I’m talking about. Look how she behaves.”

“What are you two going on about?” Vincent said.

“Shut up, Liam.” Sophia put her hands on her hips.

“She’s becoming too attached to the Masters case, to Marcus,” Liam went on. “I want her pulled from the case. She’s obviously in way over her head.” He held up the photo.

“Marc did not send me the damn photo. If he were trying to threaten me or scare me or if he is part of the terrorist group, he’d blow up my car. It’s not him.”

“Well then, who do you think did this?” Vincent said, yawning. “Could it be one of your other code-breaking assignments? I’d start there. As for me, I need to go home—I should’ve been gone ages ago.”

“I could be dead by tomorrow morning and you want to go home and sleep?”

“What do you want me to do?” asked Vincent. “The Geek Group will be of more help to you than I.” He pointed into the large office. It was Christmas year-round at the code-breaking unit with flashing computer buttons, screens, and their attached LED cables.

Everyone knew Vincent hated working with The Geek Group and she understood why. The Geek Group loved their work, and everything they said went over his head.

“If it’s any consolation, I don’t think this has anything to do with the Masters case,” Vincent replied as he looked over the photo and code. “We have no reason to suspect Marc knows anything new. This code is nothing like his emails. This is related to another one of your cases.”

Sophia groaned. “It doesn’t match any of my active cases.”

Liam and Sophia stood together and poured over the code on the sheet until a hand landed on her back. Vincent pushed them out of his office, shut the lights off, and closed his door behind him.

“Look, Evans,” Vincent said as he donned his overcoat, “don’t get angry. You’re assuming the woman’s dead, but she may not be—this may be a hoax, a practical joke.”

“I work as a code-breaker, and someone sends me a page of code. The killer knows what I do for work. This isn’t a hoax.”

“I give you permission to figure it out, just do it at your desk. Oh, and the Masters case needs to be resolved, pronto. Find that key.” With those words, Vincent left.

“Walk me through your other cases,” Liam suggested. “You have Yuri the Russian and—”

“Marc. Those are my major cases. Perhaps my other cryptanalyst projects somehow interfered.”

“Okay. I know what you need.” Liam pushed her toward her desk and sat her down forcefully. “I’ll bring you a coffee, and then you can tell me about Yuri.”

“It’s not him,” Sophia called after him. “Yuri has me running across England finding messages. He would never leave anything anywhere close to where I live, work, or pick up coffee—it’s too bold. If someone in the Russian mob suspected him, he would turn up dead. They wouldn’t bother sending me a picture of a girl I don’t know.”

Liam shrugged and continued to walk toward the coffee machine.

A thin, redheaded woman holding a file stepped between her and Liam. Using British Sign Language, she signed, “I have the identity of the woman.”

Sophia signed, “Crystal, you’re still here. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. You know you’re allowed to go home and sleep, don’t you?”

Crystal Priestly smiled. If anyone needed information, Crystal could find it. Arrested for hacking into H.O.L.M.E.S. for information on her missing nephew, she was immediately recruited to the Unit. Sophia learned sign language just to communicate with her.

“Who is she?” Sophia signed.

Crystal waved a piece of paper in the air, put it on Sophia’s desk and signed, “She recently appeared as a missing woman on the database. Her mother filed the report.” Crystal glanced at her paper before she finger-spelled the woman’s name. “Lorna McCauley.”

“She’s dead?” Sophia asked.

“As far as the police are concerned, no. Until this picture turned up, she was considered a missing person. The men downstairs in forensics just texted me, and they believe she’s dead. Also, we have the code running through our computers. Hopefully they will have it decoded soon.”

“I’ve never heard of her, have you?” Sophia replied, staring at the name on the page. “I just don’t know. Either way, it still means the killer knows my identity and where I live. Or else, why would they send me a code?”

“I have more information if you want it.” Crystal raised her eyebrows.