Hidden Heart (Love Is The Law 1) (2 page)

"Sure." Emily straightened up in her chair and
they exchanged a few pleasant insults before signing off. Then she glared at
her phone, as if it was responsible for all the mess, and called her brother.

* * * *

Matthew was testy on the phone and the entire call took
about forty seconds. Emily stuck her tongue out at the smartphone's screen as
it faded to black.
Whatever.

Okay. Focus. Focus, Emily.
She picked up her folder
of papers and notes, and started to flip through her jottings. It was a mish-mash
of ideas, contacts and thoughts about stories. She'd ended up specialising in
social justice and activism issues quite by accident, and for some reason she'd
stayed writing about those things.

Not entirely by accident, perhaps. There'd been another
homeless man, years back, as she was finishing her degree. She'd intended to
write about entertainment - books, films, and the theatre. Instead, she'd
fallen onto a story that had got her national exposure and she'd ridden that
wave for as long as she could.

The thing about waves was that they fell as well as rose.
Was she thinking of Joel as mere flotsam and jetsam now? And what was the
difference, anyway? Her finger twitched as she started to google
what is
flotsam
.

Focus!

Dammit, it was no good. She pushed away from the computer
desk and stood up, stretching. She padded through to the small kitchen and set
the kettle on to boil. While she waited she leaned on the window frame and
looked out over the arrow-straight terraces of Manchester that cut red-brick
lines in a rigid pattern five stories below.

A text from Matthew brought her back to her senses.

My office three pm.

The kettle clicked off and Emily stared long at the message.
This Turner Black had better have a damn good story for her.

* * * *

At least the rain had stopped. Emily vacillated in front of
her wardrobe, unsure whether to go with smart-and-professional, or quirky-casual-journo.

It's gotta be the black trousers, cream shirt and red
silk scarf. It's not this Turner Black that I need to impress; I need to show
Matthew I am getting on in life.

Even as she dressed, and primped, and preened, she felt a
little false. She shouldn't have to feel the need to put on an act for anyone
anymore. Still, she painted in her eyeliner with a steady hand, and smoothed
her hair with Argan oil. Her figure was still trim, but she laid a hand on her
waist and felt an unfamiliar roll of flesh just beginning.

I can't carry on with a student lifestyle, fast food and
bad hours. Not anymore.

Oh well. Diet… tomorrow.

She loved living in the middle of Manchester and it was a
short walk to the offices where her brother was a partner in a criminal law
firm. She always felt a little odd, walking in through the glass doors, as if
people might think she was there for her own crimes. It was stupid, really,
being bothered by the imaginary thoughts of complete strangers, but her
shoulder blades itched as she clattered over the tiled floor to the reception
desk.

The unfamiliar young woman looked up, and Emily said,
"I'm here to meet Matthew Carrera. My brother."

"Of course; he's expecting you. Just one moment, and
I'll buzz him." The receptionist nodded and smiled warmly.

To her surprise, Emily found her palms were sweaty as she
turned to greet her brother. Matthew matched her with his dark hair and pale
skin, but he was tall and lean rather than short, like she was. He descended on
her like an efficient spider, grabbed her arms, and pecked on her cheeks,
one-two-one, then stepped back and assessed her.

"Very smart," he commented, almost with approval.
"Turner's waiting. Come on."

She trailed along after him, sighing inwardly. It was no use
getting upset at his lack of small talk or polite conventions. Matthew just
didn't do social niceties. They strode down a long corridor. She glanced at the
art on the walls, looking to make conversation, but the dauby paintings were
too terrible to remark upon - she'd probably insult them and then discover he
had chosen them himself. Instead, she said, "That receptionist was nice.
Pleasant manner, I mean."

"Of course. Why wouldn't she be?"

Emily huffed. "I just meant… oh, never mind."

She had hoped for a moment privately with Matthew, to ask
him more about Turner, but he didn't even pause and knock at the closed door.
He barrelled straight in, and she had to follow.

The interview room was small and comfortable, all freshly
done in tasteful pastel shades of pink and cream. But when the broad-shouldered
man stood up to greet them, he filled the whole space. He'd clearly used his
prison time in the gym, and though he was dressed in a white shirt and jeans,
he looked huge. Almost like a cowboy. His hair was closely cropped, and his
eyes a startling orangey-brown.

But apart from his bulk, he didn't look like the typical
prisoner of her imagination. He was clean, and trimmed, and his eyes danced
with light. She smiled, tight-lipped, as he extended his hand.

"Hiya. I'm Turner."

"Emily Carrera." She half turned to her brother
but he was already backing out of the door.

"Okay, I'll leave you to it."

She glared but he was gone.
Fuck's sake, Matthew! Why did
you think I wanted to change the meeting? You can't leave me alone with him. Oh
wait. You just have.

"Don't worry. I'm not going to rip off your head and do
unspeakable things to your windpipe."

"WHAT?" She whipped back around and took one step
backwards, her heart hammering as she stared at him.

But Turner grinned widely and sat back down in the office
chair, leaning back. The desk had been pushed to one side, but he still looked
like a boss, or some kind of interviewer. "I said, don't worry. You look
like you think I'm going to do terrible things to you."

"Well - no. Of course you're not." She realised
she was holding her bag tightly, so she made a conscious effort to relax her
grip. She placed it on the desk and fiddled with the clasp, buying herself some
time by digging around for her notebook and pens.

"So," he said, lifting his arms and placing his
hands behind his head, his elbows jutting out in a way best designed to show
off his biceps, "What's the story?"

She pulled up a chair and half-faced him, leaning one arm on
the desk. "I was hoping you were going to tell me that."

"Your brother says you're a journo. And that you write
about social issues."

"I do."

There was a moment of silence as they looked at one another.
Emily clicked her biro a few times, and drew a random line across the top of
the notebook.

How many times have I done an interview? This should be
second-nature by now.
She'd dealt with people who talked for hours, and
people who muttered one-word answers. People who couldn't answer a direct
question and people whose vocabulary was limited to about twenty words, half of
them obscene. Habit should kick in.

"So, Turner. I need to get some background information
about you." She spoke with more confidence than she felt. Again she
faltered and stopped, and drew a spiral on the paper.

"Go ahead."

"So, uh." She couldn't look up at him. His direct
gaze unsettled her. "Um."

The silence lengthened. Finally he took pity on her.
"Do you want to know about my crimes?"

Crimes, plural?
She nodded. "Yeah. Sorry. I just
don't know the politest way to ask… I've never…"

He snorted with laughter, making her look up. He seemed
genuinely amused as he said, "Okay, for one: there is no polite way, and I
don't
deserve
a polite way. And for two, you've never spoken with a
convicted criminal? Sure you have. You don't know the history of every person
you meet, and I can guarantee you've met more than one person who's served a
bit of time."

"Right. Okay. Sorry. So, yeah, your … crimes?"

He unfolded his arms and crossed them over his chest. Emily
pressed her pen to the notebook, and wrote
Turner Black
.

He craned his neck to look.
"
Turner Black folded his arms defensively and appeared hesitant to
speak about his crimes,"
he told her.

Emily frowned, and picked up the
notebook. "I was just writing your name!"

"I know, I know. Sorry. Just
messing with you. Okay." He took a deep breath and she did wonder if he
was stalling for time. She looked intently at his face, searching for signs of
embarrassment or reluctance as he began to speak.

"I was a squaddie. I
actually got to the rank of Sergeant in the infantry, and I loved it. At
school… well, the Army was so much better. It was where I fitted in, and I did
well. So I did thirteen years, and left when I was thirty. I was feeling like
an old man, you know! Hell. Thirty years old, and they were calling me
Grandad."

He grinned, his eyes looking over
her shoulder as he recalled the good times in his head. Then he focussed back
on her again, and his smile died. "But life out of the Army is tough. You
go to the Jobcentre, and they ask what skills you have, and you say,
Uh, I'm
pretty good at killing people, and not too bad at sitting around in shitty
places for weeks waiting for something to happen, and I'm fucking
fantastic
at ironing.
" He shrugged, and his mouth was set in a thin line.

Emily thought she could see the
killer in him. Her shorthand scribbles faltered as she waited for him to
continue.

"So, that's it, really. I
got fed up of having no job and no money. I didn't have anywhere to live, so I
moved in with my mum and my sister. She… well, that's irrelevant. They needed
someone about the house, put it that way. And an offer came my way and I took
it. We did a bank."

"That's it?"

"And some other stuff,
afterwards, with cars and money and all that, and then I was caught. And I did
my time, for that bank job at any rate, and now I'm here. And before you ask,
yeah I do regret it."

Emily tapped her pen on the
notepad and looked at Turner with amusement. "Oh, come on. All that waffle
about being in the Army and all that, and… you summed up your crimes in about
four words. There's no story in that."

"Tell me what you're writing
about and I'll tell you what you need to know."

"It doesn't work like
that."

Turner tipped his head back and
stared at the ceiling for a moment. His adam's apple jutted sharply from his
throat. Emily sighed and waited. Sometimes, the most effective interviewing
technique was silence - let them talk.
Give them a gap that they feel
compelled to fill.

He huffed, and dropped his gaze.
"Which magazine or newspaper is this going in? It makes a difference,
doesn't it? I can’t imagine The Daily Mail wants the same story as The
Independent."

"Well, uh, I haven't pitched
to anyone yet. This is just a preliminary interview so I can get a handle on
your story and then I can decide where best to place it."

"Oh." He frowned.
"That's not what your brother said."

"My brother is an idiot, and
doesn't have the first clue how journalism works."

"You're totally
freelance?"

"Yeah."

"So ring up your usual
editors and chat with them, find a spot. Isn't that how it works?"

Emily thought about her last
editor, and the mess she'd made of the story. Tom Khalil was probably still
laughing his ass off. She shook her head. "I need…" For fuck's sake.
She needed a
break.
"I need more details, actually. Look. Okay, I
hadn't really thought this through. Matthew rang me up and told me to meet you,
and he said you had a great story, so here I am, ready to hear it. Now you say
you robbed a bank, and that's it? The great story? I don't need this. I am
wasting my time, and I'm wasting your time." She slammed her notepad shut,
and a wave of tiredness washed over her. She didn't feel as if she were
thinking straight. All she really wanted to do was crawl back into bed.

Maybe it
was
time for a
change of job.

"I'm sorry." She stood up
and looked at Turner, slowly shaking her head. He blinked at her in surprise.

"That's it?"

"Yeah. I am sorry, honestly
I am. It's just… I don't know. I don't think I'm going anywhere with this
story. Any story."

"Hey. Are you okay?" He
waved his wide hands at her, urging her to sit down again, but she slid the
notebook into her bag and clutched it in front of her.

"Yeah. No, but thanks for
asking. You know, I never even intended to be this kind of journalist. And I
think it shows."

"What did you want to be?"

She laughed hollowly. "oh, Film
reviews. Entertainment writing. Television, radio, theatre, arts, galleries,
drama. Glamour and glitz and fiction, really."

"So why aren't you doing
that?"

He looked as if he genuinely
wanted to know. Emily looked down at the carpet, suddenly feeling the need to
focus on the harsh pink-flecked grey twill. "Opportunities came up that I
couldn't say no to."

"I know that feeling,"
he said quietly, with an edge to his voice.

"The bank job?"

"You could say that."

She waited, and her patience paid
off. He began to elaborate, and as he talked, she sat back down, but kept the
notebook in her bag. "I needed money. Not for me, really. For my …
family."

Kids?
But she kept quiet.

"I never intended to commit
any crimes. I was so proud of being a soldier. You know, someone who defends
their country, their country's laws, defends the weak, does what is right. But
an opportunity came up and someone was very persuasive. Thing is, what you
gotta understand, once you've stepped down that road, everything changes. Once
I was a criminal, I suddenly found that I was going to be a criminal for ever.
Look. Look at me. In your eyes, I'm still a crook, aren't I? I've done my jail time
but to you, I'm not rehabilitated, I'm not starting over. For you, my crime was
yesterday. It's still fresh."