Catherine Steadman - Something in the Water - A Novel

“Mark. Why did you hide it?” There’s no point beating around the bush. I’m drained. I’m hurt.

“Hide what? What are you talking about?” He sounds amused. I can hear bustle in the background behind him. He’s on the other side of the world.

“Mark, I found the USB. Why did you lie? Why did you hide it? Why didn’t you tell me about the messages?” I can feel my eyes welling. But I will not cry.

“Ah, right…I was wondering when this might come up. You found it? Have you looked at what’s on it?”

“Yes. No. I only just found it.” I stare at it in the half-light, sitting innocently in the palm of my hand: a mystery.

“I’m sorry, Erin, honey, but I know you too well. I listened to the message. I had to after what happened to the Sharpes. In the voicemail he said he wanted just the flash drive, nothing else. I needed to see what was on it, why it meant so much to him. So I looked and, Erin, what I saw really worried me. All of it scared me. I just wanted to protect you. But I knew that sooner or later you’d look too, and if you heard that voicemail you wouldn’t be able to not look at the USB. So I hid it.” He gives me a second to process what he’s said. “But obviously not well enough,” he jokes, and laughs. He’s struggling to lighten the mood.

“Erin. I’m sorry, but will you promise me you won’t look on it, honey? Please. Just leave it alone until I get back. Can you promise me that?” I’ve never heard his voice sound so serious, so worried. “Promise me. Just put it back where you found it, honey. And once I’m back we’ll burn it together. Don’t do anything. We’ll put the phone and the USB in the fire pit and together we’ll watch them burn. Okay?” he says soothingly.

God, he really does know me so well.

“All right,” I whisper. I feel sad and I’m not sure why. Maybe because I can’t be trusted. “I love you, Mark.”

“Great. Listen, Erin—I’m sorry. I didn’t know what else to do. Maybe I should have told you?”

No, he was right. I would have done all those things.

“No, you did the right thing and I love you,” I say again.

“I love you too, honey. Call me if you need anything.”

“Love you.” And then he’s gone.

—

I’m broken, confused, and incredibly thirsty. I pour myself a tall glass of ice water from the fridge door. I stare at our beautiful kitchen. The handmade work surfaces, the integrated wine refrigerator, the slate tile floor, radiating underfloor heating up through my socks. I look at our kitchen decimated by my crazed search, pots and pans, packets of food, and cleaning products scattered everywhere. And there among it all is my laptop. I don’t stop to think; I stumble across to it and I flip the lid on the computer, pull the USB out of its wrapping and slide it into the port.

A new device icon flashes up on my desktop. I double-click. A window opens. Files. I click on the first. It opens. Text.

—

Encrypted. Pages and pages of encrypted text. Files on files of encrypted text. Nonsense stares back at me. I don’t know what it says. I don’t even know what it is.

I don’t understand it, I can’t make it work, and it terrifies me. Perhaps Mark knows what it means? Perhaps it’s a banking thing? A numbers thing? But why then warn me away? I don’t know what I’m looking at. But my breath is shallow now because even I can tell that this is important. Even I can see that. We shouldn’t have this USB. It’s not for people like us. And I can’t tell Mark I looked. Now I know with crystal clarity that I am completely out of my depth.

Who are they? And what is this? Is this what they killed the Sharpes for? Why is it so important to them? Why aren’t they concerned about the money or the diamonds? Why is this worth two million euros?

Are we going to die for this?

I need to think. I eject the drive and place it carefully back into its plastic. Breathe, Erin. Think.

Okay. What should I do?

First of all, I really need to know what is on this USB. If I can find out, I’ll know the kind of people I’m dealing with. I remember the emails I saw in Bora Bora. The shell companies. The papers floating in the water. Who are these people? What are they capable of? How much danger are we in? If somehow I can get these files unencrypted, I’ll know. If it’s something awful, maybe I should go to the police? Maybe I should go now? But I want to know. I need to know what this is.

I haven’t the faintest idea how to decrypt files. But I think I might know someone who does. I stuff the USB into my pocket, grab my coat. Eddie’s mobile number is scrawled on the back of the card that came with his bouquet this morning. I, Erin Roberts, have direct access to Eddie Bishop’s illegal prison burner phone. And what’s the point of having contacts if you’re not going to use them? I pluck the card from the flowers as I pass them in the hall and dash out of the house.

—

There’s a smashed-up phone box on Lordship Road. I’ve driven by it enough times to wonder (a) why no one ever sweeps up or repairs the broken glass and (b) who on earth uses the terrifying-looking thing. Well, I realize as I stride purposely down the long stretch of suburban road toward it, today that lucky someone is me.

I honestly can’t remember the last time I used a pay phone. Maybe school? Calling home with my ten-pence pieces lined up along the shelf in the booth.

When I reach the phone box, it’s worse than I remembered. The booth is a hollow plastic cage carpeted with milky shards of glass, and clumps of weeds have burst through the cracked tarmac. There are spiders suspended from the empty windowpanes, slow and befuddled in the wet air. At least the open air diffuses the stale stench of piss.

I rattle my coat for change. A fat two-pound coin hits my palm. Perfect. I dial Eddie’s number.

When he answers he’s chewing something. I look at my watch: 1:18, lunchtime. Oops.

“Hi, Eddie, sorry to bother you. It’s Erin. I got this number from the flowers; I’m on a pay phone, so…” I think that means we can talk safely but what do I know; he’ll be the judge of that.

“Oh, right. Hello, darling. You all right, sweetheart? Problems?” He’s stopped chewing. Somewhere in Pentonville I hear Eddie wipe his mouth with a paper napkin. Do the guards know about Eddie’s burner phone? I wouldn’t be surprised if they did and they just looked the other way.

“Um, no, no problems really. But I’ve got a question. I don’t know if you’d know—or if you know someone else who might know—but…” I stop. “Can I talk on this?” I don’t want to incriminate myself. I don’t want to make things worse.

“Uh, yeah, should be fine, sweetheart. Anyone near you? Watching you? Street cameras?”

I scan the tops of lampposts along the residential street, my breath catching in my throat. I chose this road because it’s the emptiest road near us, hardly any passersby, but now I start to wonder: do all London streets have CCTV in some form? But the angled cameras or small circular pods I’m searching for are nowhere to be seen here.

I think we’re safe. “No people, no cameras,” I say into the receiver.

“Then it’s fine.” I hear a smile in his voice. I’ve caught his interest.

“I’m sorry to bother you again, it’s just I’ve got a slight, well—a situation. Um, do you know anything about file encryption, Eddie? Do you know anyone I could talk to about it? It’s important.” I need to mask the urgency in my voice. I don’t want to scare him off. I don’t want to seem overly familiar either. At the end of the day, I’m asking for another favor and this time I really have nothing to give in exchange for it.

“Computer stuff, right? Yeah, we’ve got a guy. Here, look, tell me the gist and I’ll give my guy a ring and we’ll go from there. You like those flowers, by the way, sweetheart? I asked ’em for something nice and tasteful but you never know with those places, do you?” Eddie’s a very sweet man. I think of my monstrous bouquet back in the hall. Under different circumstances I think Eddie and I would have really gotten along.