Page 63 of Between the Lies

The university’s graduates register would be a good place to begin. Even if it meant hunting for such a common name amongst thousands of other students.

Nina hadn’t been to the university’s archives before – had never needed to. Most of the important city archives were in Glasgow’s Mitchell Library. Though compared to the library’s archives department, Strathclyde’s was much smaller and more modern.

The archivist had picked out the files Nina had needed plus a copy of the university’s prospectus from 2011. Adding a prospectus to her pile of data was like adding orange colouring to a bottle of Irn Bru – unhelpful. Still, Nina smiled at the blond woman. Then she dug in.

Hours later, Nina’s list of hundreds had shrunk to two digits. Only now, everyone on her list was an Anne, and Nina realised she had no idea what the woman’s maiden name had been.

‘Ah!’ Nina remarked, causing the archivist to shoot her a look.

‘Is everything alright?’

Nina waved her hand, nodding. ‘Aye, sorry. Can I access a computer?’

The archivist frowned. ‘You would have to step out into the main library and leave the registers with me. There are several computers in there. If you speak to the librarian on this floor, they can give you access.’

Nina stared at the work spread out around her. If she had her laptop, she wouldn’t need to leave all this behind. But she needed to prune that list and track down her Anne. And… ‘Do you happen to have newspapers?’

The archivist shook her head. ‘I’m sorry.’

She thanked the archivist, returned the registers and left the department. She could always return if need be.

Or you could ask Robert!

She would kill herself before she called that man. As she’d learned time and time again, she worked best alone.

The librarian behind the desk smiled and helped Nina get set up on a computer. Sitting in front of the screen, surrounded by students focused on theirs, it struck Nina how out of whack her life had become. These people had friends, potentially a significant other, a roof over their heads, freedom to go and do as they pleased. She’d lost all that.

Nina smacked the keyboard with more force than needed. And the poor mouse almost jammed when she pressed down on it a bit too hard. Either way, she foundThe HeraldandGlasgow Timesfrom the period she needed and scanned the obituary section.

When the newspapers turned up nothing, her vigour increased. Why hadn’t Robert published an obituary for his wife?

Nina smashed out ‘Anne Muller’ so hard, the lad sitting on the computer opposite hers shot her a look. Nina ignored him. Her little search had received a few hits.

The police hadn’t released the name of the victims to the press, so there weren’t many articles to wade through – thank God! – but one article caught her attention. It had tagged Anne in a photograph. This article was on immigration, and the lawyers helping asylum seekers and refugees with their visas. One of the law firms listed was Malcolm and Associates. Hell, the article even had a picture of the law firm’s office – the same law firm Nina had visited before her life had been turned so completely upside down. On top of the image was the firm’s logo. In front of the sign, by the reception desks, were a cluster of people grinning at the camera. And in the centre of that cluster stood Anne Muller.

‘Oh fuck,’ Nina muttered, drawing a grin from the lad this time.

‘I fucking hate dissertations too.’ He rolled his eyes, then resumed his note-taking.

She’d kill to be banging out a dissertation right then.

Nina reached for her tote – fucking Dickheadson had her backpack – and withdrew a notepad.

Using the same page she’d written her list of Annes on, she scribbled down two names: Anne Muller and Malcolm and Associates. Then she stared at them.

‘Fuck!’ The names told her nothing. Not a single thing. She let out a sigh. Sometimes letting things ferment resulted in delicious whisky or wine. On that note, perhaps she could visit the student union and find a pint or two to drown herself in.

Nina was about to hit the key to sign out of the computer when a thought struck her. Refugees and immigration. A grin exploded on her face. Fuck alcohol. She had something headier to dig into.

Dickheadson had browsed through her notes and found nothing. But like she’d told him, this wasn’t her first time investigating something incendiary.Unlikewhat she’d told him, however, she didn’t prefer good old paper either.

Her notes were stored on an email ID she’d created as a teenager: nblovesjb<[email protected]. Most people her age had found themselves in their adolescent years, creating an email ID so embarrassing you couldn’t attach it to your CV. This had been hers.

And now, it proved useful.

The keyboard clattered under Nina’s fingers as she logged into her account. She received the odd promotional email she never opened; otherwise, she only accessed one tab within this email account: drafts. Her notes all sat in fifty draft emails, safe and ready for her to comb through.

When Nina had begun her investigation for the article, she’d focused on marriages immigrants entered into so they could live in the UK under a spousal visa. Back then, it hadn’t been a huge assignment, just a follow-up on an older article a colleague had published. However, after diving into the issue, a new angle had presented itself. An angle that involved a sort of human trafficking ring.

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