REDEMPTION (Ongoing)

54. THE MALLET OF THE HEART

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Theresa Young
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"LOOK AT THIS, you look so flushed. How much wine did you have?"

Sarah smiles at her phone and I know what she's looking at. Another picture from last night and probably one after my backstage ventures. It pulses blood anew to my face.

"Sarah. Focus. Did you bring what I asked you?" I cough, trying to not appear too obvious.

"Yeah, here." She hands out a chained file folder to me, that I take eagerly, unzipping it and flipping through the pages.

"Who's Vernon Victor anyway? Never heard his name around here." 

I look up at her curious frown. "Just someone I know."

"And do you insist on a background search by our best PI for everyone you just know?"

She was getting sharper, that I was glad about.

"Personal relations, don't worry about it okay?" I smile at her assuredly.

"Cool. Do you want to look at this photograph thou-"

"No, I don't, Sarah, I was there. Now will you please find Ashe and brief him for the interview this weekend? Thank you."

I raise my voice jokingly with an emphatic tone and she leaves with a pout.

I smile after her and then look down with a cold sigh. What am I even doing?

I flip pages after pages, trying to find something that even I didn't know yet. Just something out of place, some black mole in the white.

The profile listed his business ventures from the last five years, a family of four based in Hampshire natively with a younger brother who worked under the same company and two long term romantic relationships.

He traded in branding, promotions, investment banking, a construction line and the sort.

A few scandals down the line, some failed mergers and a violence episode with the press.

No raids, no drugs, no fraud and then—

Fuck, my eyes widen in a mixed feeling of victory and despair.

I dial up a number, once, twice, thrice. Nothing.

Groaning, I press a button on the intercom to see if my competent assistant was still outside.

She pops her head through the opened door and I stand, picking my bag, planner and car keys.

"Find out where Hardin Scott is this morning."

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The July sun blazes over my head as I walk behind the staff worker who was guiding me in. Out of the million places in London, of course he had to be here.

Can there ever be a normal to him?

I walk through the wooden pathway, trimmed velveteen green lawns on either side of me with extravagant fountains spraying the clearest water. 

Finally I close in on a privately reserved stretch of land the wooden deck ending at a sophisticated seating arrangement of white fence on the side with stereotypical British umbrellas going up from the centre of the tables.