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“The truth. I’m a psychic. It’s my job to know.”
She continues to stare at me, breathing hard. “It’s not true,” she says. “It isn’t!”
“We both know it is. You can’t keep denying the truth, Eliza. It will come out in the end.”
Her lips are trembling. “How do you know?” Her eyes flit wildly around the room. “Is she here now? Did she tell you?”
I consider telling her she is, but I don’t think I could sell it. Even I don’t believe in ghosts. I shake my head. “Jenny isn’t here. She’s passed on. She’s gone.”
“Oh God!” She squeezes her eyes shut and tears come pouring out of their corners. Her face has turned red and her mouth turned downwards into a grimace of grief and horror. She keeps shaking her head as if denying the truth will make it go away.
She speaks through her sobs, the words tumbling out as if she needs to confess and unburden herself. “She came to find me. She wanted to be friends again. She must have known about the tea. She sent me a package of it in the post. Isn’t that a funny thing for a sixteen year old to do? To notice that I might miss the tea?”
“You have to tell the truth, Eliza,” I tell her softly, reaching for her hand and feeling that horrible outpouring of her grief and self-hatred again. Even so, I hold on, sensing that she needs the reassuring touch. “The Agency need proof. They need to hear from you what happened.”
She starts sobbing so hard that her words become barely recognizable. “She needed me. I’m her big sister, but I left her behind. I didn’t want to know.”
“She still needs you. She’s your little sister. You can give her justice. Only you.”
The kitchen door bangs open. James Fenway is standing there looking every bit the furious Hollywood hero. “What the hell is going on here?” he roars.
Eliza starts crying harder and louder. He comes striding over to her and puts his big hand on her slim shoulder. His accusing eyes are on me. “What did you say to her?” he demands.
I push my chair backwards, moving away from them both. He looks like he might punch me.
“Your niece was just telling me about who murdered her sister,” I tell him calmly.
“It was that boy Mustafa. That disgusting creep!” he yells. “You people already arrested him!”
“That would be convenient for you, wouldn’t it?” I say snidely before I can stop myself. Except it wasn’t me. It was the little voice, slipping into the front of my mind for a second and taking command of my tongue. Furious, I firmly push her aside. She goes reluctantly.
“What?” James Fenway says, looking astonished at my words.
“Mustafa Salehi has been taken in for questioning,” I say more calmly, hopefully more professionally. “He hasn’t been placed under arrest yet. We don’t arrest people without proof.”
No matter how much you want us to, says the little voice in my head. I don’t repeat her words out loud.
“What
the hell are you talking about?” Fenway roars. “Just who do you think you are?”
His shouts have drawn an Agent into the room. A young man I do not recognize. He looks alarmed. Seeing him seems to embolden James Fenway.
“Who is this girl?” he roars at the young Agent. “She’s accosted my niece. Put her in an awful state. I’ll have her badge! I’ll have yours too!”
The young Agent’s mouth drops open. He looks at me helplessly. He seems to sense things might kick off but he doesn't know who to blame. His hand goes to the weapons belt at his hips and hovers uncertainly between his restraints and his stunbommer.
It strikes me that he must be new to the job too. I had expected him to immediately make me apologize and hustle me away. I probably have only a minute or two until someone senior arrives who does have the authority to make me leave.
I can’t leave now. Not when I am so close.
I fix my eyes firmly on James Fenway and try not to cower in my shoes. “You’re very good at making up stories Mr Fenway. Like the one you made up for the press about Mustafa Salehi. You must have thought he was the perfect patsy. It was you who got Jenny’s friend to release those pictures of him to the press, wasn’t it? If we speak to her, is that what she’ll say?”
“What? You! I… No such thing!” Fenway blusters. Then he seems to swell with self-righteous indignation and finds his voice. “How dare you make these unfounded accusations? You’re finished. You’ll never work in this city again!”
I had no idea whether my hunch about the friend with the photos would pay off, but his response tells me I am on to something. But unless he or Eliza confesses, I have no shred of evidence. And a powerful man like James Fenway will get away with his lies.
And I am sick to death of murderers getting away with it. I’m going to make him pay. I’m going to prove to Constantine Storm that he was right to hire me, and close this case right now.
