Page 31 of When You're Alone

He shook his head. “No, more like a ledger. It’s packed with financial info—loans, debts, payoffs. Looks like a history of Geoffrey’s obligations stretching back years.”

Amelia’s eyes narrowed. “Any suspicious spikes that could relate to a poker game or a sudden debt?”

Finn’s finger traced across lines of figures. “The debts fluctuate a lot… then here, on March 11th, 2003, there’s a massive sum—over two hundred thousand pounds—wiped out overnight. It went from that to zero in the space of a day.”

Amelia straightened, her brow furrowing in thought. “He suddenly cleared a huge debt in one day?”

“Exactly. Something big happened on or around that date.” Finn closed the ledger carefully. “We’ll need to see if that was a private loan, gambling debt, or hush money.”

Amelia folded her arms. “I’d like to compare that to Sir Richard Doyle’s finances. If both men had the samepattern—sky-high debts that vanished—maybe it’s connected to whoever’s leaving these poker chips.”

“Rebecca?” Finn said loudly.

Rebecca quickly reappeared. “Yes? Did you find something?”

“We found a poker chip and a ledger that might be connected to what happened,” Amelia explained. “Do either of these look familiar?”

“No. Sorry,” Rebecca said. “Please, if you find anything, you have my permission to use it as you need to find who did this.”

“Thank you,” Finn said. But Rebecca looked weary and only nodded before leaving again.

Finn slid the ledger into his bag, picking up the keys Rebecca had given them. “So what’s next?”

Amelia guided him out from behind the desk, shooting a glance at the closed door. “I think we should split up for a few hours before you… well, before you meet Lady Pembroke at The Monarch tonight.”

“Split up? Why?” Finn asked, arching an eyebrow.

“So you can get some rest,” Amelia replied, her tone firm. “You need to be sharp for whatever that midnight gathering is.”

“And you?”

She paused, chewing on the inside of her cheek. “I’m going to track down Sir Richard’s financial data. If his debt pattern or big payoffs match Geoffrey’s, we’ll have a clearer angle on the killer.”

Finn considered protesting but saw her determination. Besides, they had separate roles in this complicated puzzle. “All right. But be careful, okay?”

A faint smile played on her lips. “I could say the same to you.”

They exchanged a knowing look, one they had exchanged far too many times before. This was dangerous work, and Finn would have to keep his head, because within the walls of The Monarch Club, earpiece or no earpiece, he would be alone.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Amelia sat alone in a specially assigned conference room on the third floor of the Hertfordshire Constabulary Headquarters. Although it was already late into the evening—nearly ten o’clock by her reckoning—she felt more awake than she had all day. A deep sense of purpose, tinged with urgency, kept her at her computer, eyes flicking across rows of digital spreadsheets. The station around her was mostly quiet at this hour. A few night-shift officers strolled the corridors or busied themselves at desks, but the constant bustle of daytime inquiries had long subsided.

The space she occupied had been turned into a war room dedicated to unraveling the perplexing “Monarch Club Killings.” The usual police desk clutter filled the corners: boxes of evidence waiting for cataloging, folders stuffed with forensic photos, and multiple flip charts scrawled with leads. But the primary focus was pinned neatly on the walls.

A large whiteboard stretched along the left side of the room, illuminated by harsh overhead fluorescents. On it, Amelia had taped photographs of Sir Richard Doyle and Geoffrey Wardlow. Each portrait had bright red sticky notes listing what the team knew about their backgrounds and last movements. Sir Richard’s note pointed to the Monarch Club’s opulent study, the site of his grisly stabbing. Wardlow’s note highlighted his quiet townhouse on the outskirts of London—also the scene of a mysterious, violent end. Above the photos hung a timeline of recent days: discovery of Sir Richard’s body, the subsequent forensics, Wardlow’s murder, and the mounting suspicion that a single killer was striking people connected to something going on at the club.

On another wall hung a large corkboard. There, pinned with color-coded tacks, were news clippings and small printed photos of The Monarch Club's imposing entrance. A few images showed the interior—rich wood paneling, velvet curtains, a grand staircase winding up to private rooms. Next to them, she'd stuck a map of Mayfair, highlighting the club's location and places where possible witnesses had spotted members coming or going. Bright lines of twine connected these pinned items, forming a rough web of who and what they needed to investigate.

A single desk lamp glowed on a side table. Amelia often found the overhead lights too harsh for late-night work, so she’d angled the lamp to throw a softer sphere of illumination across her computer screen. She sipped from a cardboard cup of coffee, grimacing at the bitterness. It tasted burnt and slightly stale, the unfortunate hallmark of station coffee that had been left on the burner too long.

Yet she barely noticed its flavor, entirely focused on the spreadsheets open before her. On the monitor, columns of names, bank statements, and highlighted amounts scrolled by in an Excel file. She was currently deep in Sir Richard Doyle’s financial history, courtesy of the niece’s permission. Amelia thought it fitting that the niece was now going to be the inheritor of the entire estate. Alongside the file, she’d also pulled up older notes on Geoffrey Wardlow’s debts. Her plan was to compare them side by side, scanning for any suspicious overlap. Her hunch was that money—and the discreet but powerful draw of gambling—united these two murder victims. After all, each of them had been found with a poker chip in or near their body. That was more than mere coincidence.

Despite her concentration, she remained attuned to footsteps in the hallway. Now and then, a shadow would pass the frosted glass window set into the door, but no one knocked—until she heard the distinctive shuffle of someone with a heavier tread.She glanced up as the door opened, and Rob stepped into the room. The day had clearly worn on him; his tie hung loose around his collar, and a slight slump in his shoulders betrayed the long hours they all were putting in.

“Hey, Chief,” Amelia said, saving her file with a click. “Thought you’d gone home for the night.”

He shook his head, shutting the door quietly behind him. “Finn just rang me,” he replied, crossing the room to join her at the long table. “He said he’s getting prepared for that midnight meet-up with Lady Pembroke over at The Monarch.”

---