Silver Vein: Beneath the City Sleeps Book 1 Read online

  It was devastating. No matter how hard I tried to dig into Omen’s reputation and the potential involvement in Beth’s disappearance, I got nowhere. Months on and the determination to find Beth turned into a bitter rage that festered low in my stomach. Lily’s appointment tomorrow only made it heavier. Yet another young woman had vanished after visiting Omen and once again, the police had done fuck all about it.

  “Penny for your thoughts?” Thatcher’s voice called from across the small office, and my eyes finally refocused.

  I shook my head and plastered a fake smile on my lips. “Sorry, I must have zoned out.” Thatcher’s raised eyebrow told me he wasn’t buying into my excuse. “It’s been a long day. I think I’m going to head home. That OK?”

  Without waiting for his answer, I started packing my things into my worn messenger bag and slung it over my shoulder.

  “You going to manage tomorrow?” Thatcher asked when I reached back for my jacket.

  “I’ll be fine. You don’t have to worry about me,” I said.

  Thatcher sighed, running his hands back through his tangled mane of grey hair. “Take it easy tonight, Quinny.”

  Having spent the last few days chasing after a kid that didn’t want to be found, I sauntered down the dirtied London street with a newfound respect for a slower walking pace. Despite the teeny-tiny cheque, I’d finished a job on a high note, and I well and truly deserved to celebrate that. Plus, I needed the distraction. The meeting with Lily Rig was scheduled for tomorrow afternoon at 3PM and I needed to be well rested and fresh faced if I was going to tackle it with some form of professionalism. To do that, I’d need a few hours to focus on the good part of my job.

  It wasn’t every day that you got to reunite someone with their family, especially in my profession. Unhappy endings had become all too common, or at least unsatisfying ones. The streets were quiet, even for a Thursday evening. So instead of finding a bar or some eager young gentleman to take me home for the night, I treated myself to something special and grabbed a selection of ingredients from the supermarket across from my flat. I chose a bottle of wine that was usually too far out of my price range and made a mental note to let my landlord know the rent would be late again this month. Most of the time I survived on tea and biscuits, with the occasional packet of instant noodles thrown in for nutritional purposes, but every now and again I took a bit of time to fuel myself with something other than junk food.

  With my haul in tow, I entered my building with a spring in my step. It felt a little like faking it until you make it, but if I was going to get any sleep tonight, that was what I was going to have to do. I’d just rounded the corner to my door when someone ran straight into me. They weren’t much bigger than me, but the force was enough to send my back clattering into the wall. Instinct told me to cling onto the overpriced bottle of white wine for dear life. I could live without the Thai Green Curry, but not the vino.

  “Hey!” I yelled back at the person who was sauntering towards the exit with a dark hood pulled up over their head. “Asshole, I’m talking to you!” The lack of response only made me angrier, but I shook it off as best I could as I slipped my key into the lock and let myself inside.

  “Honestly,” I muttered under my breath, tossing my keys onto the coffee table and kicking the door shut behind me.

  My flat was nice for someone living in central London. Usually, these places cost an absolute bomb to rent, but luckily for me, I had done the owner of this very building a few favours a year or two ago. Nothing too terrible, of course. Contrary to popular belief, I had a conscience. But it had been a big enough favour to know a couple hundred off the rent.

  The first thing I did was set my shopping down on the counter and headed through into the bathroom. I needed to wash what was left of this day away and get rid of the tension in my muscles. I’d thought I was in pretty good shape. I was looking forward to a boiling hot shower and some fluffy PJ’s before I got to cooking my dinner.

  My focus shifted to the mirror as I waited for the shower to warm up. My blonde hair was still tied back in its usual ponytail with a few escaped tendrils around my heart-shaped face. Thankfully, the flush from my spontaneous exercise this morning had vanished and left my skin looking fresher than usual. There was an odd, pink glow to my cheeks that acted as a distraction from the usual puffy dark circles under my eyes. It wasn’t often that I took time to look at my reflection. I’d always been more of an ‘extra fifteen minutes in bed’ kind of girl than a make-up, hair and coordinated outfit type. Plus, every time I looked at my reflection, I couldn’t help where my mind wandered off to. My curious nature would often have me staring at myself and thinking about which parent I looked more like—did I get my mother’s eyes? My father’s smile. Who knows? I certainly didn’t. I’d been dropped on this earth alone and had stayed that way until I met Thatch. Who was kind enough to take me in and teach me the tricks required to succeed in the private investigator business.

  With the bathroom filled with steam and the mirror no longer visible, there was nothing left to do but jump into the shower. The low-pressure water flowed down over my face and body until my pale skin turned a bright fuchsia. I indulged in the more expensive of my products until my hair smelt almost too much like coconut. Had it not been for the disgruntled growl my stomach made, I might have even spent a little time lathering myself in the moisturiser Thatch had given me for Christmas. It was one of those weirdly thoughtful but hellishly uncomfortable gifts. He’d insisted that he’d literally gone into Harvey Nichols with a budget and a confused expression, and the saleswoman had helpfully filled a cart for him. Vaguely, I remember him telling me he’d given her a description of me and my uncaring appearance, so she’d figured she’d go wild in the skincare aisle.

  With my body finally relaxed, I turned on the TV and switched it onto a random channel before prepping my first home-cooked meal in what felt like weeks. My mind finally quietened as I focused my attention on chopping chicken, baby corn, and mangetout. I added lemongrass, ginger, and many other citrusy smelling things to my blender and whizzed them up before frying the curry paste in a pan that had barely been used. Before long, it filled the apartment with the scent of Thai green curry, and I poured myself a large glass of Sauvignon Blanc as I plated up. I’d made enough for about four people, so there would be spare to take into work tomorrow for Thatch. His diet was about as traumatic as mine was, so a vegetable would do him the world of good. Even if it was smothered in a rich coconut sauce and accompanied by a hearty portion of Jasmine rice.

  Despite my attention to detail in organising my plate of food, I still took both my glass and plate over to the couch and settled in front of the TV.

  Back when I was living with Beth, she used to insist that we at least set the coffee table for meals. She believed that dinner was something to be shared with friends and family, a chance to catch up with one another and discuss the day. At the time, I’d thought it was stupid, but she’d explained that she’d grown up in a semi-strict Indian household where meals were a key part of their family life. Although she had kept with the rest of the traditions of her culture, that was the one thing she’d held onto and enjoyed. Her family had all but abandoned her when she told them she was gay.

  It was one of those stories we’d shared after one too many shots of tequila at the local student union. She’d snuck me in with her one night so that we could both benefit from the low prices. I remember I’d just passed my training and become an actual, employable private investigator. I’d already been working with Thatch under the radar for a few years. Even so, it was something worth celebrating. We’d both been far too poor for anything outside of two for one Tuesday’s, though. Beth hadn’t seemed too sad about it though. In fact, she’d come across almost embarrassed. I hadn’t understood it at the time and I guessed I never would—it was personal and I couldn’t relate. I’d always been on my own and was used to doing what I wanted when I wanted to. It was a privilege I hadn’t appreciated until that
conversation.

  After a generous helping of seconds and another couple glasses of wine, I grabbed the pile of mail from the basket on my door and started tearing through letters. Most of them were bills or offers on life insurance, which seemed a little redundant given that I had no family to benefit from the insurance. When it came to the third letter in the pile, I was surprised to find that there was no post mark or stamp. Written across the thick ivory paper was nothing but my name, handwritten in black ink. Gently, I pressed the tip of my finger beneath the seal and opened it up, pulling out a second envelope that was far more worn and dogeared than the first. My frown deepened when I realised the second wasn’t addressed to me, but a Jocelyn Rig. The handwriting was beautiful, highlighted by the use of a fine tipped pen, each letter curled and spun elegantly.

  Dearest Jocelyn,

  It seems we have found ourselves at a bit of a crossroads. At this point, I am afraid I must burden you with the choice of what comes next. Where does your heart lie, Jocelyn? Does it remain in this forsaken city with those so uncaring that surround you?

  Or with me?

  My soul is yours, as yours is mine.

  Forever,

  Meri.

  I reached for the phone immediately, dialling Thatcher’s number on auto-pilot. There were of course a few things bothering me the most, one – how did the person who delivered this letter know where I lived? And two – how did they know I was seeing Jocelyn’s sister tomorrow?

  The phone continued to ring until I lost patience and hung up. Thatch was a heavy sleeper and by now he’d probably polished off a few drinks in his local pub and passed out at home before nine. I read the letter again and again. Given that I knew very little about Jocelyn, there wasn’t much I could do. Knowing full well my attempts at getting some much-needed rest were now a lost cause, I opened up my laptop and started looking for any trace of Jocelyn online. There were the usual news reports from the first couple of weeks when she’d gone missing, but they tapered off alarmingly fast—even for a missing person in London. It wasn’t unusual for news coverage to be lacking when it came to a missing person case. Unless there was something to hook readers in, news outlets just didn’t see the point in running the story. You had to have something special about you for people to pay attention and, by the looks of things, everything about Jocelyn Rig was ordinary.

  Art student at a university in London, a few friends and only one surviving family member, her sister Lily. I found a couple of pictures of her showcasing some of her artwork at a small gallery last year, but other than that, nada.

  “What were you into, Jocelyn?” I muttered as I scrolled through her abandoned social media accounts. Her Instagram consisted mostly of pictures of breakfasts and pleasant views on morning walks. The only thing that was missing were the selfies with friends or the drunken shenanigans typical of a university student in the city. It seemed Jocelyn was sensible for her age, or at least she hid her rebellious side very well, which I guess was easy to do if you had the smarts.

  By the time morning came around, I was elbow deep in Jocelyn Rig and everything the internet offered me. The bottle of wine was gone, which wasn’t surprising since I’d stayed up all night. Well, aside from the thirty-minute accidental power nap I took at 4 AM. Changing out of my PJs and choosing the first outfit that came to hand before leaving my flat with the letter in hand. Thatch wasn’t usually one for coming into the office early, but hey, a girl could hope.

  I picked up a very large coffee from the Starbucks around the corner from the office before I trailed in just as the hand ticked past nine in the morning.

  “What happened?” Thatch grunted, looking up from his computer. My sleep deprived brain couldn’t come up with a reply before he spoke again.

  “It must be something close to an apocalypse to raise you from your crypt this early,” he added.

  Normally I would offer Thatch a touch of light-hearted laughter or a quick-witted comeback, but not today, not with the letter weighing so heavily in my bag.

  “I got a letter yesterday, last night,” I spluttered, sitting down in the chair opposite him.

  Thatch raised an almost uninterested eyebrow in my direction and sighed. “I know you might be on a bit of a power trip right now, after catching that runaway yesterday, but I can guarantee there’s nothing we can do about the state of this country’s postal service.”

  I pulled the letter out of my bag and thrust it towards him; it remained hovering in the air between us before he finally reached out and took it from me.

  “What is it?” He asked, his curiosity finally peaked.

  “The first envelope had my name on it but nothing else, no address, no stamp, nothing,” I began. “No one but you knows where I live. I keep it private, just like you taught me.”

  “The first envelope?” He quizzed as he peeled back the paper and pulled the second letter from inside. He eyed it suspiciously, turning it over and examining each detail as best he could before picking up his glasses from the desk and setting them over his blood-shot eyes.

  “This is a letter to Jocelyn Rig, isn’t it?” Thatch clicked, finally. He brought the open letter to his face and studied the handwriting, just as I had done the night before.

  “No shit, Sherlock.” I looped my arms around the back of my head and watched him as he continued to read repeatedly, his eyes darting across the words.

  “I made the appointment with Lily Rig two days ago; I haven’t told anyone except you. That leaves someone who’s close enough to Lily to know her schedule,” Thatch hummed, leaning back and staring up at the ceiling. I usually loved it when he did this—when his investigative cogs started turning and creaking into life. Today though, I didn’t have the patience. I’d already thought of all the reasonable explanations.

  “We need to find out who Meri is,” I said. “Whoever gave me this letter knew it was important.”

  “Not important enough to give to the police three months ago,” Thatch replied, a snarky edge to his tone.

  “We know how these cases work, Thatch. There’s always some dark secret, something that the MP didn’t want anyone else to know. This to me sounds like a love letter.”

  “A love letter, maybe. Or a threat.”

  I’d unfortunately considered that option, too. On the surface, the letter seemed heavy but affectionate. Yet the way the scrawl grew more and more desperate across the page the further you read, or the use of words like burden, forsaken. It wasn’t just a declaration of love, but something this Meri person thought was more of an agreement. An eternal one, at that.

  “What should we do?” I asked, not expecting a helpful reply, but Thatch puffed out a long breath of air and wound his unruly beard between his tobacco-stained fingers.

  “We don’t tell Lily, not right now,” he began. “Let’s see how this initial meeting pans out before we ask the hard questions, yeah?”

  Knowing he was right but still not liking it, I nodded reluctantly.

  Lying or withholding the truth didn’t sit great with me, especially not when it came to clients. The number of times we’d lectured people on not being honest with us during an investigation, it seemed hypocritical not to offer them the same courtesy.

  Chapter Three

  When the clock ticked past 2:50PM, I was about ready to throw myself off of a very tall building. The mixture of anticipation and confusion driving me insane. A flaw in my personality meant that I was addicted to ‘figuring things out’. Or at least, that’s what Thatch would tell me. ‘You’re like a dog with a bone’—he’d said it so many times I’d become immune to the words. He wasn’t wrong. I didn’t like being in the dark. I was nosy to a fault, but so far, it had served me well.

  Lily Rig wasn’t late for her appointment and knocked on the door at 3PM on the dot before letting herself in. She was a gentile looking woman, young and dressed in an overbearing floral dress that swung around her ankles. Her short auburn hair was pushed back from her face to reveal sun-kissed sk
in dotted with freckles. After seeing the pictures of her sister Jocelyn online, it was clear that they were blood related. Despite the difference in hair colour and body type, their facial features were close to identical. They both shared the same ethereal daintiness that I imagined a lot of women would be envious of—I knew I was. My nose was too big for my face and my lips too narrow. There was no aspect of my features that screamed symmetry like Lily and Jocelyn Rig’s did.

  “Miss Rig, pleasure to meet you,” Thatch said as he wheeled himself across the uneven floorboards and held out his bear-like hand to her. She accepted nervously; her slender palm being swallowed up in his.

  “I’m sorry it’s not under better circumstances, of course,” Thatch added, finally releasing her hand as her eyes roamed over the room before falling upon me. There was little to no judgement in her expression, which was unusual. It was common for clients to visit for an initial meeting, take one look at me and decide that they weren’t comfortable with a small blonde youngster dealing with their case. It was ridiculous, really. I was so far into my twenties that thirty seemed just a breath away and, despite my appearance, I’d seen my fair share of crap these last few years working with Thatch. Although more than capable, I wasn’t willing to spend too much of my time trying to prove that to the people that walked through the office door expecting anything less than a job well done. Respect should be mutual, after all.