I pulled the envelope from my bag, set it on the table between us. Inside were photographs. Time-stamped, dated, locations noted in my precise handwriting. Jason and the blonde. Three different meetings over the past week.
Mrs. Tremaine opened the envelope slowly, like she was defusing a bomb. Her hands didn't shake. She looked at each photograph for exactly five seconds before moving to the next. When she finished, she set them down in a neat stack and folded her hands in her lap.
“I thought it might be an affair,” she said quietly. “Something I could understand. Something that had a name.”
“It is an affair.” I kept my voice level, professional. “But it's not the worst part.”
Her eyes met mine. “Tell me.”
“Your husband is involved in financial fraud. He's been moving money through shell companies, falsifying records, and using a consulting firm called Meridian to hide the paper trail. The woman he's seeing is part of that network. They're not lovers. They're co-conspirators.”
She didn't blink. “How much money?”
“At least three million pounds in the last six months. Possibly more. The audit in two weeks will expose it unless someone intervenes.”
“And you think someone will intervene.”
“I know they will. Meridian specialises in making problems disappear. They'll restructure the evidence, seal the files, and your husband will walk away clean. But the money...” I leaned forward slightly. “The money won't come back. And whoever he's borrowed from to cover the gaps won't forget.”
Mrs. Tremaine was silent for a long moment, her gaze fixed on the orchid between us. When she spoke, her voice was colder than I'd expected. “You're telling me my husband is a thief.”
“I'm telling you he's in over his head. And the people helping him are worse than he is.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“That's your choice. You hired me to find out if he was cheating. I'm giving you the truth. What you do with it is up to you.”
She reached into her handbag, pulled out a chequebook. “How much do I owe you?”
“Your retainer covered it.”
“Then this is extra.” She wrote quickly, tore the cheque free, and placed it on top of the photographs. Five thousand pounds. More than I'd asked for, more than the work was worth. “For your discretion.”
I didn't touch the cheque. “I'm discreet by profession, Mrs. Tremaine. You don't need to pay extra for that.”
“I'm not paying for discretion.” Her eyes hardened. “I'm paying for you to forget my name if anyone asks about this case. I'm paying for you to make sure these photographs don't end up in the wrong hands. And I'm paying for you to understand that whatever happens next, it didn't come from me.”
I held her gaze for three seconds, then nodded. “Understood.”
“Good.” She stood, smoothing her jumper with hands that still didn't shake. “I assume you can see yourself out.”
I collected the cheque, left the photographs. She'd need them if she decided to file for divorce. Or if she decided to do something else entirely. That wasn't my concern anymore.
At the door, I paused. “Mrs. Tremaine. One more thing.”
She turned, her expression carefully neutral.
“Your husband isn't the only one in danger. They'll also consider you a liability. Be careful of who you trust. Be careful who you talk to. And if anything feels wrong, if anyoneapproaches you with questions or offers, call the police. Not me. The police.”
“I thought you were police.”
“I was. Not anymore.”
Something shifted in her expression. Understanding, maybe. Or recognition of the space where trust used to live. “Thank you, Mr. Mercer.”
I nodded and left.
Back at myflat in Clerkenwell, I spread the contents of my investigation across the kitchen table. Photographs, financial records I'd pulled from public databases, notes written in shorthand only I could read. And in the centre, the invitation to the wedding.
