A Chance Encounter Rae Shaw (ebook reader with built in dictionary .txt) 📖

father if it wasn't about the money? It's always about money. In any case, I've destroyed the letter. I suppose it counts as more evidence of my father's guilt.’

‘Bill gave you Haydocks.’ The piece of information was filed away, she understood the significance. Mark was a pawn. But whose?

Mark frowned. The obvious thoughts were racing through his mind. ‘Most large accountancy firms have hundreds of clients. Only a handful of Haydocks' were involved in illegal activities and Henderson managed those accounts. The only obvious way Dad would know about a bent accountancy firm was from another crook. I just find it hard to believe that it's a coincidence.’

‘See, don't knock karma.’ She squeezed his leg. The weight of her hand was reassuring.

Maybe he and Julianna still had a chance to come out of this intact. A partnership of some kind even if it meant starting afresh. The more he thought about Ellen's desperate bid to be an archaeologist, the more he appreciated why. Scraping away the dirt, uncovering harmless objects, she was safe. The things she found, no matter their original purpose, would not threaten her. Julianna craved something different, a more visceral approach to digging up the past and finding the truth. Alex's deceit had been a cruel blow and it had knocked her confidence. Yet, here she was, giving up her time and energy to find his sister. She'd proved herself to him, and hopefully Jackson. Her ambitions lay somewhere and he fancied she wanted in to Opportunitas itself. Whatever her original motives for spending time with Mark, whether self-serving sex or raw ambition, she’d rediscovered herself.

‘You've not lost it,’ he said softly, covering her hand with his.

She furrowed her eyebrows; his words were lost to the engine noise. However, she smiled. The first one in a while. ‘We're coming in to land. Pop your ears.’

  27

Ellen

Ellen arrived at the hotel by taxi. ‘Is it a hostel or a hotel?’ she asked the driver. The sign outside blinked, “Vacancies”.

The driver continued to roll his cigarette. ‘Depends. If you were told it's a hostel, it's a hostel. It's not my kind of place. But they say it's better than most for what you need.’ He took her money and drove off.

The suitcase weighed a ton. She'd carted it through bus terminals, airport lounges and the taxi rank. The flight unnerved her because she'd only flown once before and that was to Jersey for a rare family holiday prior to the downward spiral of Bill's criminal life. Throughout the flight to Dublin, she'd gripped the armrests, turning her knuckles white. The man next to her played on his tablet. She'd none of those kinds of luxuries. She kept her phone turned off to conserve the battery life.

The skinny guy at the reception desk didn't raise an eyebrow at the time – a little past ten o'clock. He shook his head when she asked if a Freddie Zustaller, or the other names she'd been given, had left a message. After signing the registry book and snatching the key out of his spidery hand, she wondered if Freddie had given her the wrong address.

‘Money?’ He kept his hand out – dirt was etched into the creases of his palm. ‘The deposit. Twenty Euros.’

She fumbled in her purse and handed him the note. ‘Is there a kitchen?’

‘At the end of the hall. No room service.’ He chuckled. ‘We don't provide anything but you can use it. There's Sammy's cafe a street away if you're wanting breakfast. It's popular enough.’

‘I guess I'll wait for the morning.’ She hadn’t the energy to tackle an unknown kitchen.

He jerked his head at the entrance. ‘I'll keep an eye out for your friends. Send them up when they come, shall I?’

‘Thank you.’

A creepy grin split across his face. The hostel couldn't be more than a stopover. Freddie said the dig was in Wicklow to the south and there was a chance to live somewhere closer. The receptionist said something else to her, but she ignored the unpleasant sentiment and gesture.

The feeling of wrongness was heightened when she entered the musty bedroom. The wallpaper had curled away in places under the cracked coving and a threadbare patch of carpet was stained with heel marks. If the mattress served any useful purpose, sleep wasn't it. It creaked as she rested the suitcase on the bed and groaned when she moved it back off again. There was nowhere to hang her clothes and only a chest of wobbly drawers. Abandoned in the back of one was a dusty Gideon New Testament dated 1987 on the inside jacket. The room might have been cleaned, but not with anything that left a sheen. She winced at the salmon pink bathroom, its grouting decorated with black ribbons of mould. Having peed without sitting on the seat and washed her hands in the cracked sink with a squirt of liquid soap she carried in her handbag, she decided to email Freddie and seek some advice. The lack of both signal and wi-fi stymied the idea.

She lay on the bed with her hands pressed to her sides and chewed her lip. The ceiling was stained with yellow rings of cigarette smoke. She tasted the lingering tobacco on her tongue. Trying hard to dismiss the nagging worry that she'd misunderstood Freddie's plans, Ellen closed her eyes and hoped the morning would cast the room in a friendlier light.

She wasn't the slightest bit sleepy. A surprising level of cacophony impinged: stomping footsteps; giggles, then a shriek; the hoot of a car horn; a door slamming. She burrowed her face into the stale pillow. More footsteps running, this time along the corridor. A knock. Whispering. More doors closing; their latches clicking. The percussive sounds rumbled on until a woman screamed, the cry muffled by doors and walls. Ellen shot upright, held her breath while