Silently, Nicole eased herself out of bed, acutely aware of the slow rhythm of Brad’s breathing. His computer was on the desk, no more than six feet from where he was sleeping. Before turning off the light, she’d memorized the machine’s position. In the dark, it was relatively easy to disconnect the electric cord; a firm yank pulled it free.
Next, she put his cell phone on top of the computer, picked up the computer and tiptoed across the room. The phone was where he kept the passwords needed to get into his computer and run the software. Brad had explained about this several months before, after a food-poisoning episode incapacitated him. While he was alternately moaning in bed and dashing for the bathroom, his office had called with an urgent need for information kept only on his computer. The job of retrieving it had fallen to Nicole.
She was just walking out of the room when Brad stirred and called out.
“It’s okay,” she said. “Go back to sleep.”
The light snapped on. “Nick — that you? What’s wrong?” He sounded a little less groggy now; she wondered how long it would be before he glanced over at the desk and noticed that his beloved laptop was gone.
“Nothing,” she said. “Can’t sleep. I’m going downstairs to read. Night.”
“Night,” he mumbled. The lamp went out, and she could hear the bed creaking as he worked to get comfortable again.
In the kitchen, she went through half the passwords before she found one that admitted her to the hard drive (password: Hercules, in honor of a Doberman Brad’s family had once owned). That was how Brad’s system worked. A password began with the same letter of the alphabet as the program or online service it opened. Not written down were the numbers appended to the end of the name. It was 1984, Brad’s birth year, sometimes reversed to 4891. Walter, which was Brad’s father’s name, opened Westcom Financial Network. Peggy, his mother’s name, went with Points West Data Management, and so on. Then she got to an application called GlobalTrader — password Georgia. Who was Georgia? She decided it merited closer inspection.
After tinkering for a while, she figured out that GlobalTrader was a database for tracking financial transactions made through an online service of the same name. The files had two letter names followed by the extension .ACCT. The largest and most extensive file was AH.ACCT. Staring at it, she wondered if AH stood for Alexander Hayes and AH.ACCT for the Alexander Hayes account.
The file contained hundreds of transactions documenting the movement of money around the globe through a series of banks. Although no clue was given about the nature of the initial deposit, subsequent transactions were made electronically, as the money moved from bank to bank, often across international boundaries.
Columns in each row were headed, alternately, Money In and Money Out with the last column marked Commission, F.V.N., which she surmised, was Financial Ventures Network, Brad’s new venture.
Each entry showed a date, the amount of deposit or withdrawal, the name of the bank, and an account number. For example, on March 22, £44,910 was deposited in an account at the Federated Bank of the Seychelles Islands, which seemed the hands-up favorite for money-in transactions. On April 1, it was withdrawn and shifted to the National Bank of Nassau. Movement of the £44,910 continued for two rows — a total of eight transfers — until June 3, when it made its way to the Hibernian Bank of Scotland. The Scottish bank, she noted, was where most of the deposits eventually ended up. At this point, £1,796 was deducted from the total and entered in the final column, headed Commission, F.V.N. The £1,796 went into a numbered account at Bank Lucerne.
A web search for Bank Lucerne showed it in Switzerland. Arriving at the bank’s website, she consulted the organizer again. The password for this account was Nicole. With some disgust, she wondered why on earth he’d used her name when it didn’t even match her initial. But she knew. In some twisted way, he told himself he was doing this for her.
She followed the instructions on the web page, pulling down the menu options to get information in English, amounts in U.S. currency. Then she typed Nicole1984 into the password box, and the balance came up — a whopping $512,000.
Oh, Brad. What have you done?
Just then she glanced at the clock and noticed that it was a little past 5:00 a.m. The sun would rise soon, and Brad would be up. She had to get the computer back.
When she reached the bedroom, the sky was already beginning to show light. This made it easy to put the computer back and plug it in. Even so, she had a few bad moments when Brad stirred and seemed on the verge of waking.
She climbed into bed just as the first rays of sunlight slanted through the window; Brad’s eyes fluttered open. He didn’t get up right away, but lay there with his hands behind his head, his elbows forming wings on either side.
Neither spoke. Brad was fairly uncommunicative at this hour. As for Nicole, she was stunned by the weight of her discovery. There was no longer any question that Brad was laundering money. He wasn’t a small-time chiseler, but a full-fledged criminal. He’d gotten himself in so deep that he’d put her life — both of their lives — in danger.
Even so, it was clear to her — at least from Alice’s account — that Chazz and Kevin’s campaign of terror hadn’t been directed at Brad but at Frederick Lowry, who’d absconded with a sizable shipment of drugs. This suggested that the two men had mistaken her for Muriel Lowry, just as she’d first suspected.
Mistaken identity or not, Nicole thought, Brad was to blame for getting involved with these people. For that she couldn’t forgive him. The part that really staggered her was the way he’d disregarded the risks. How could he possibly imagine that he’d get away with this?
What was going to happen when Lowry, Hayes, and the others were caught? Would they bring Brad down with them? This, she decided, was no longer her concern—if Brad was determined to destroy himself, there was nothing she could do.
When Detective Keaton came by the next morning, Nicole was still in a state of shock. Perhaps Keaton misinterpreted this as the lingering effect of the explosion, for she was especially solicitous. As they walked out to the car, she inquired about Nicole’s health and the progress of Brad’s work. From there, she moved into polite chitchat about the traffic, the weather, the merits of shopping at Marks and Spencer compared to Selfridges or John Lewis.
Only as they sped away from Chiswick did Keaton change the subject, her voice crisp and official. “I’m afraid we found the young woman you knew as Alice McConnehy.”
Nicole stared at the woman as goose bumps rose on the back of her neck.
“A man walking his dog along the Thames Embankment last night spotted a woman’s shoe among some flotsam,” Keaton went on. “On closer inspection, he saw it was a body and called us. Although the woman had no identification, we were able to identify her as the Lowrys’ tenant.”
“She isn’t … You don’t mean …” Nicole’s voice trailed off. Somehow, she couldn’t form the words.
“Dreadfully sorry,” Keaton said gently. “It appears to have been foul play.”
Nicole swallowed hard. “How did it happen?”
“We’re not sure, but we have reason to believe she was killed elsewhere before being dropped in the river. We’ll have more information when the medical examiner completes his report. That may take several days.”
As hot tears began to spill down Nicole’s cheeks, Keaton pulled a white, lace-edged handkerchief from her purse and handed it to her.
After the first jolt of shock, Nicole began to feel guilty she hadn’t done more to help Alice. At the very least, she could have found her friend a place to hide. The Lowrys’ house would have made an ideal hiding place: so obvious no one would think of looking there.
They rode for a while without speaking, the detective intent on negotiating a traffic snarl while Nicole snuffled into the handkerchief. Over and over, she replayed the moment the previous afternoon when Alice disappeared into Mr. McGiever’s yard, as if there were a way to summon her back.
At last the car jostled over a curb and they entered a parking lot. Keaton maneuvered the vehicle into a tight space next to a tall iron fence. Getting out of the car, she bustled around to take Nicole’s arm. “This is it,” she said with a smile. “Our local headquarters.”
Nicole gazed vaguely around at the unpretentious office complex; she followed Keaton into the main building. Inside, the corridors were buzzing with activity. About half the people they passed were in uniform, the others in casual business attire. Keaton, in her beige suit and peach silk blouse, looked somehow dated and out of place, a relic from another era when women tried to dress for success.
Keaton led Nicole up several flights to a small room furnished with several chairs and a table holding a computer. Keaton sat down and went through several screens until a database of mug shots popped up. Then she turned the computer over to Nicole who began looking through the photos, one by one.
Nicole was amazed by the number of people who resembled Kevin with his thin face and shaggy, dark hair. Even so, Kevin himself wasn’t among the mug shots. As for Chazz, he seemed to be one of a kind, for she saw no one with his beady pig eyes and ruffles of chins.
The whole time she was going through the mug shots, Nicole was thinking of Alice. Finally, she turned to Keaton and said, “How can you be sure that body really was Alice, if there was no ID?”
“Before the body was found, we received a tip about the killing—informants, that sort of thing,” Keaton said. “The body had deteriorated somewhat, but …”
“Wait,” Nicole said. “How long had she been in the water?”
“The coroner estimated two or three days, maybe longer,” the detective said.
“But …” Nicole caught herself. She had been on the verge of blurting out the truth — that it couldn’t have been Alice; she’d seen her the previous afternoon. “That’s terrible,” she finished lamely. Then she took a deep breath; feeling enormously relieved, she turned her attention to the photographs.
When a couple of hours had passed, Keaton asked if she was getting tired. Nicole had to admit that the faces were all looking alike. They agreed that she’d come back the next morning to finish.
Only as they were on their way back to Chiswick did Nicole begin to wonder if Keaton’s story about the dead woman might have been a deliberate lie, something the detective cooked up in hopes of squeezing more information out of her. If so, it had almost worked.
Nicole took precautions before going out to check on Alice’s backpack, first making sure Keaton’s car was gone, then pretending to take out the garbage before nipping into the shed.
The backpack was leaning against the wall, just as Alice had left it. Nicole quickly thrust the pack into a trash bag she’d brought along for the purpose.
A minute or so later, she was in the Lowrys’ bedroom, unbuckling the flap on the backpack. Carefully, she removed each item and placed it on the bed.
On top was the envelope Nicole had returned to Alice the previous afternoon, still holding the same £300. It seemed odd that Alice hadn’t returned for the money. The other contents didn’t amount to much — a change of underwear, a T-shirt, a toothbrush, toothpaste, and a comb. She found another £20 note, tightly folded into a tiny square inside of a cheap plastic wallet that lacked photos, credit cards, or any sort of ID.
She returned everything to the backpack. After a moment’s thought, she hurriedly selected a few basic toiletries and a couple of items from the closet and threw them into a plastic shopping bag. Putting on her jacket, she gathered up the shopping bag, her purse, and Alice’s backpack and carried them downstairs.
From the kitchen, she called the railway information number; while she was on hold, she decided to leave a note for Brad to explain her absence. Not that he deserved an explanation, but if she didn’t leave one, he was sure to call the police, and that was the last thing she needed
“Brad,” she wrote, “I’ve decided to see a little of the English countryside while I make some decisions about the future. I’ll be gone a couple of days, maybe more. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be all right.”
She’d almost forgotten the phone propped against her ear when a woman came on and said brightly, “Rail services information.” It didn’t take long to get the information she needed.
Nicole left the note for Brad on the dinette table, anchored under a bottle of Worcestershire sauce. Then, after returning the backpack to its spot in the shed, she was on her way.
When she reached the Turnham Green Station, she paused in the gloom of the entryway and looked around. Spotting the sign, WOMEN’S TOILETS she headed purposefully through the swinging door.
The restroom was clean, although the lighting was a bit on the anemic side. The ancient black-and-white tile floor looked freshly scrubbed, and the air was filled with fumes of an especially noxious disinfectant. Placing her shopping bag on a shelf, she pulled the pink raincoat out of the bag and put it on. This time she didn’t bother altering her makeup, except to blot off her lipstick.
When she was done, she put on the white-framed sunglasses and the pink hat. After inspecting herself in the mirror, she decided she would do. If anyone had followed her here, he probably wouldn’t recognize her. She checked her watch, noting with satisfaction that she’d allowed plenty of time to get to Euston Station and catch the train to Glasgow. She wasn’t planning to get there by tube but had only stopped at the Chiswick station as a diversion, in case she was being followed. Her plan was to return to the street and hail a cab.
As she walked back through the station lobby, she spotted Reinhardt. He was leaning against the wall, talking on his phone. Her heart began to pound as his eyes swept over her without a flicker of interest. Not too fast, she cautioned herself, although it was hard to keep from running. As she reached the exit, she couldn’t resist stealing a backward glance. Still engaged on the phone, he now had his back to her and was leaning with one elbow propped against the wall.
From that moment on, everything seemed to click. As soon as Nicole stepped out on the sidewalk, a cab pulled up, and she climbed aboard. They made it to Euston Station with over an hour to spare. Despite the recent bomb scare, the station seemed to be doing business as usual. Joining one of the long ticket lines, she fidgeted, nervously watching the clock as the queue inched forward. When she reached the window, she handed over her credit card for a first-class round trip to Glasgow. From there, she stopped at the tourist information booth and then headed for the train.
Once onboard, Nicole made her way directly to the lavatory, a coffin-sized compartment where a rank, organic stench competed with the reek of chemicals. Over the toilet, a sign warned, DO NOT USE WHILE TRAIN IS STANDING AT A STATION. As Nicole eyed the message, trying to sort out its implications, the train began to move.
Bracing her feet against the motion, she struggled out of the pink coat and hat and did her best to cram both items into the room’s only trash receptacle, a small wire wastebasket. She looked in the mirror, gave her hair a final fluff, and reapplied her lipstick.
She walked unsteadily along the swaying corridor, past a series of unoccupied compartments toward the front of the train. She chose the second compartment and, once inside, locked the door. Here, she reasoned, she’d be undisturbed. It seemed unlikely that many passengers would walk this far forward in search of a seat.
Nicole sat back and watched as the bleak apartments on the outskirts of London gave way to open countryside. Fences of thickly grown shrubbery sectioned off the rolling fields into a patchwork of neat green squares.
She had the most delicious feeling of release as the wheels clickety clacked, carrying her away from her troubles — away from Brad and Brenda, Chazz and Kevin, and Detective Keaton. She’d even managed, at last, to shake Reinhardt. All she had to do for the next few hours was relax and enjoy the Scottish countryside.