Zara gets slowly to her feet. She appears to have a similar level of energy. ‘Are you sure I can’t get you anything?’
‘I’m fine, honestly. I’m just tired – I’m going to sleep soon.’
She leaves, and Miles hauls himself up, starts getting ready for bed. He brushes his teeth, splashes water on to his face, dries his face on a clean towel. A routine like this at home feels suddenly surreal and it catches him unawares – his hands tremble and he tenses his facial muscles to hold back tears. If things had panned out differently, he would be spending tonight in prison. The fatigue is also having an effect, making him emotional. He needs to rest. Tomorrow, he’ll feel better – when he has a clear head.
Miles gets into bed and turns out the light. Tiredness has made him slightly dizzy, like that giddiness you get towards the end of a match when you’ve been running for eighty minutes and your blood sugar levels are low. Sleep should come easy now. He’s wrapped in comforts: the sound of silence, the smell of home-laundered sheets, the softness of memory foam. Yet still he can’t settle. His mind, whichever direction it wanders, keeps circling back to the email lurking in his junk folder, with the audio file attached. He knows he shouldn’t play it – of course he bloody shouldn’t – but he wants to. He has to know. Hehasto. If curiosity killed the cat, then Miles’s recently gained spirit of inquiry could take down a pride of lions.
He takes his phone off the bedside table, and his eyes, now adjusted to the darkness, sting as the screen lights up. He opens the email app, and his junk folder, and clicks on the email. He stares at it again, then turns up the volume on his phone and taps his thumb on the tiny black triangle. It starts playing. The audio clip is eight seconds long, and it only takes two of those seconds to jolt Miles’s heart out of rhythm. His whole body turns cold. He plays it again. And then for a third time. What he’s just heard isn’t possible. It can’t be.
Chapter 9
Polly
Polly wakes late; she slips off her eye mask, plucks out her foam earplugs and finds her bedroom bathed in sunlight and alive with the sound of chattering birds. She rolls on to her side, stretches her legs, and a smile creeps over her face. For the first time in weeks, she feels calm. Today, she doesn’t have to be anywhere. Today, if she’s so inclined, she won’t even have to leave the house. With any luck, she’ll be able to spend the whole day catching up with work. Polly set up her PR company five years ago, and the last few weeks – while the trial has been happening – she’s taken her first significant absence. It’s not a massive business; she has three employees, or four if you include a shared receptionist. But she takes great pride in it and doesn’t like to be away for too long. It makes her happy that she’s inherited some entrepreneurial talent from her father. Carl is a self-made man from a working-class background – a shopfitter done well – and always insisted that Polly and Miles would have to make their own way in the world. It’s a point of honour for Polly that she’s built her own company from scratch, using nothing but a bank loan and hard work.
After a few minutes of consciousness, a slight unease begins to gnaw its way into her zen bubble. For a moment, Polly isn’t sure what it is. But then she remembers: the trip. The way Miles and his friends were talking about it last night, they’re hell-bent on making it happen. Unless she can talk him out of it very soon, they’ll be going to New Zealand in the near future. Obviously, she can’t afford to take endless time off work, but, at present, she can’t see an obvious way out of it. She’s effectively spent almost a year promising her brother she’ll be coming with him. And, more importantly, after everything that’s happened, someone needs to look out for Miles. Polly isn’t convinced she can rely on his friends to do that.
Once again, her life will be written off as collateral damage of this whole fiasco.
Perhaps that thought is a tad melodramatic. It could be worse. It might be a fun holiday. She won’t have to pay for anything because Carl is bankrolling the entire trip. But it still delays her chance of getting her life back on a normal track. And she’s not keen on the idea of spending a fortnight with Miles’s friends. Hanging out with her brother is one thing, but the other three? Jesus Christ, she can hardly bear to think about it. First up, there’s George: an old-money twat with control issues and a non-ironic penchant for brightly coloured chinos. Then there’s Reubyn: a deluded little numpty who thinks he’s going to be the next Mr Beast. And lastly, there’s Elis, who she’s only met a handful of times. Polly doesn’t know much about Elis, but he might be the most tolerable of all of them. He’s also quite handsome, in a weird way. He definitely isn’t her normal type – she doesn’t generally do beards, as a rule – but there’s an intensity to him that’s hypnotic, especially when he holds her gaze with his pale green eyes. Still, there’s no way in hell she’ll be going near him; she knows better than to get romantically involved with her brother’s friends.
Polly slips into a robe and ties her hair into a loose ponytail before padding down the stairs. She sighs at the sound of a non-family voice – muffled and deep, like the far groan of a cow – coming from the kitchen. All she wants is a cup of coffee, and she should be able to go and get one at 10 a.m. in her family home without the fear of having to socialise make-up free. She walks in to find their parents sitting at the dining table, opposite Miles and his solicitor, David, who stares at a laptop. They greet her briefly, preoccupied. Polly flips on the kettle and leans a forearm on the cold countertop as she listens in to the conversation.
‘Frankly, I’m as confused as you are,’ David says, peering over his wire-framed spectacles at Carl. ‘But whatever way you look at it, it’s harassment, so we’ll just have to see what the police make of it.’
‘I just don’tunderstand,’ Zara says. ‘Do you think she’s ...’ She shrugs, unable to finish the question.
‘I really don’t know. But none of this is a problem for Miles, other than the unpleasant nature of it, obviously.’
Miles points wearily at the laptop. ‘I’ve blocked the sender.’
‘That’s good,’ David says. ‘But frankly, email accounts are easy to set up, and whoever sent it can do it again. That’s why this needs to be a matter for the police. I suggest you record any and all malicious communications so they can investigate those too; it’s entirely possible that one of those keyboard warriors’ – he raises his fingers to indicate inverted commas – ‘as you call them, is linked to the person who sent that email, or could even be the sender themselves, and let’s not discount the possibility that ...’
David is still talking, but the words are foggy as the kettle growls and hisses to a crescendo. Finally, it rumbles to a climax, and Polly turns her back, pretending not to listen as she pours hot water into a cafetière, and the bitter scent of Colombian coffee rushes up into her nostrils.
‘What about the press?’ Carl asks.
‘They’re bang to rights. Miles has been exonerated, and there’s simply no excuse for them to continue their pursuit of him – it’s not in the public interest.’
Zara frowns. ‘The public do seem to still be quite interested.’
‘Oh, they’re plenty interested,’ David says. ‘But that’s a different thing. It doesn’t serve the interests of the public as a whole for their curiosity about Miles to be satisfied now that he’s been proven innocent. I’ll be sending a strongly worded letter to theTribune, and I’ll have the regulator make all sections of the media aware that Miles has no desire to talk to them, and that any further approaches would be in breach of the Editors’ Code of Practice. That should put an end to it.’ David drains his mug and stands. ‘In the meantime, let me know if any other reporters turn up. You should send them away, but it’s imperative that you make a note of the publications they represent.’ He picks up his briefcase. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t shed any light on the other matter. It’s not something I’ve come across before.’
Carl shows David to the door, and Polly takes the seat he’s vacated next to Miles. She’s silent for a few beats, waiting for someone to answer the obvious question that’s hanging in the air, and when they don’t, she asks: ‘Come on, then, what the hell’s going on?’
Miles looks at Polly, bleary-eyed, and turns the laptop to face her. ‘I got an email last night.’ He points at the screen. ‘Look at the sender’s name.’
Polly squints at the laptop; she’s a little hungover and it’s hard to focus without her contacts in. ‘Caira Kennedy? That’s a bit weird.’
‘It gets weirder.’ Miles opens the email and presses play on an audio attachment.
A female voice comes out of the speaker:Hi Miles—
‘Oh, you’re not listening to that again, are you?’ Carl says, stomping back into the room.
‘Shut up, Dad! For God’s sake!’ Polly huffs at her father, then looks at Miles. ‘Play that again, and everybody be quiet.’ She leans in closer, and Miles presses play for a second time.
Again, the voice, a soft but purposeful purr:Hi Miles. You might think this is over, but this isnotover.
