Nicole was filled with apprehension as the police cutter carried her away from the Isle of Benbarra and from Reinhardt who, with several members of his team, remained behind to finish the investigation.
The day was gray with a thick mist that reflected her mood. As soon as they arrived on the mainland, she was handed a phone so she could let her family know she was all right.
Knowing that Brad had been picked up by the police, Nicole didn’t bother to call his cell or the house in Chiswick. Instead, she called her sister in Los Angeles. “My God, Nicole,” Stephanie had said when she heard about her sister’s ordeal. “I’m going to drop everything and catch the next flight over. You shouldn’t be alone right now.”
“Please don’t do that,” Nicole said. “I’m fine. Besides, I’ll be coming home in a couple of days.” The truth was, she needed some time to herself so she could digest what had happened and try to make sense of it.
Around 10:30 a.m., when she was delivered to the house, she was astonished to find Brad pacing anxiously in front. Only as she stepped out of the police car, did she realize she was no longer angry; she no longer felt much of anything at all for him.
As soon as the police were gone and Nicole and Brad were alone, he confessed that the new business he’d said had belonged to his employer was, in fact, his own. He wasn’t entirely truthful, however, in that he made it sound more like an investment management firm than a money laundering service. “I got greedy and made some stupid mistakes,” he admitted. “And now I’m in trouble with the police. I might even lose my job.”
Under Nicole’s questioning, he explained what had happened when the police picked him up. “They had a bunch of questions about this outside business I started. The truth of the matter is that some of the stuff we did was, well, pretty questionable, and they started making noises about money laundering charges. But then I volunteered to turn over my records and some other…” he paused and seemed to consider this, “assets and help them sort out information about my clients. So they released me. I’m on leave from work now, helping the police on several high-profile cases.”
Brad continued, “Everything was going pretty well until this morning. I wake up and they’re out there banging on the front door. They show me a search warrant and say they’re looking for some package they claim you shipped to the house. I swear to God, Nick—I never saw it. Then, as they’re leaving, one of them says to me…”
At this point he screwed up his face and affected an exaggerated British accent: “‘By the way, old chap, did you hear? Your wife has been released by those kidnappers who were holding her up in Scotland.’ I almost croaked. I didn’t even know you were missing. I mean, you never said when you were coming back, and I figured you were too mad at me to answer when I tried reaching you on your cell.”
Nicole nodded, waiting for Brad to finish speaking so she could retreat upstairs. He hadn’t mentioned Hayes, and she was too weary to pursue the point. Nor did she question him about the missing package. She knew he was telling the truth about this. Muriel had found it and disappeared with the money long before Brad arrived home from work. Or was that the day the police picked him up? Somehow these questions didn’t seem worth pursuing.
“But you haven’t told me anything about what happened,” he said, as she started up the stairs. “Are you all right? Don’t you want to talk about it?”
“Not really,” Nicole said. All she wanted to do was wash up, change into a clean nightgown, and climb into bed. Brad had the good sense not to follow her.
She had a shock when she reached into the bureau and found a hefty bundle of £50 notes nestled among her bras and panties. Tucked in with the bills was an unsigned note that said, “Buy something lovely for yourself, Nicole.”
She recognized the handwriting, just as she knew the money, £5,000 in all, was a payoff for retrieving the drug loot from the storage locker. Her first reaction was indignation, a resolve to march it right down to the police.
She was looking around for a bag to pack the money in when she began to have second thoughts. She could see that returning the £5,000 might focus unwanted attention on the infinitely larger sum she’d taken from Lowry’s storage locker. True, she’d admitted this to Reinhardt. Apparently he’d handed the information on to the London police, who’d come banging on Brad’s door that morning. But she had a hunch that Reinhardt had minimized her role as Muriel’s messenger. With a closer look, the London police might take a dim view of this behavior.
She also questioned the use British authorities were likely to make of the recovered money. No doubt it would be tossed into the general fund where most government revenues end up. Ultimately, it would be used for something really stupid, like the next coronation. The amount was too small to accomplish much.
Nicole had a sudden urge to see the money used to undo some of the harm Hayes had done. For the rest of the day, she remained upstairs, napping and gazing out the bedroom window, deep in her own thoughts. She saw Brad leave and, much later, heard him come back. Around 7:00 p.m., when she went downstairs to fix something to eat, he was sitting at the kitchen table, reading the newspaper.
“Take a look at the afternoon paper,” he said, holding up the front page. A huge headline across the top read, “Drug Yacht Blown to Kingdom Come”.
Below that, in smaller letters, it said, “Search on for Missing Drug Lord”. Taking the paper from him, Nicole sat down at the table and quickly devoured the stories about Hayes, his operation, the failed drug raid, and the yacht’s explosion. As a sidebar, the paper even ran a body count.
List of Dead and Missing in Hayes Drugs Case
The following includes those dead or unaccounted for in connection with missing international drug lord Alexander Hayes. According to sources in West Scotland, the loch surrounding Hayes’ Isle of Benbarra compound is too deep to be dragged for bodies.
Dead: Edgar McGiever, 67, retired manager of the maintenance department of the Greater London Council’s Board of Public Works; victim of the Chiswick car bombing, now believed to have been the work of Hayes’ operatives.
Dead: Alice McConnehy, 30, the Lowrys’ tenant, whose body was found in the Thames. Police believe she was murdered by Hayes’ operatives.
Dead: Frederick Lowry, 52, of gunshot wounds. Body discovered in a shallow grave in the Hayes compound on the Isle of Benbarra.
Dead: Kevin Smithson, 28, of head injuries, also on Isle of Benbarra.
Dead: Benjamin (Ben) Manning, 45, Hayes’ top enforcer, of injuries suffered during a struggle with police on Isle of Benbarra.
Dead: Andrew Crump, 23, Greg Lawson, 25, and Colin Durfield, 28, crew members of Alexander Hayes’ yacht, the Summer Wind. They were killed when the vessel exploded as the result of an unexplained engine fire.
Missing: Alexander Hayes, 55, believed to have been in the vicinity of his yacht, the Summer Wind, at the time of the explosion; body never recovered.
Missing: Charles (Chazz) Reilly, 26, employee of Alexander Hayes, also in the vicinity of the yacht’s explosion. Body never recovered.
Missing: Muriel Lowry, age unknown, wife of Frederick Lowry (see above). Police believe this woman may have fled the U.K.
When she was done reading, she tore out the story, put it in the pocket of her robe and began to assemble ingredients for an omelet. Every once in a while, she’d pause, pull out the clipping, and consult it again, as if it could explain why so many whose lives had touched hers were now dead or missing. Perhaps the real issue was how she had managed to survive, a question that continued to mystify her. For here she was, unharmed (at least in any visible way), and perfectly able to function at normal daily tasks, like cooking.
“Look, Nick,” Brad said while she looked through the cupboards for an eggbeater. “I want to tell you what happened, but I’m afraid— Well, why not just come out with it?” He gestured toward the newspaper. “This guy Hayes, the one who kidnapped you? Well, I was doing some, uh, business with him. That’s how I heard about Lowry and ended up getting us this house. What I mean to say is that I’m to blame for the whole thing, all that horrible stuff you went through. But I had no idea. I mean, if you only knew how bad I feel about it, you’d forgive me.”
Nicole listened without comment while she finished the omelet, sprinkling it with cheese, and placing it under the broiler. Almost without thinking about it, she’d made enough for both of them.
It wasn’t until they’d finished the meal that Brad had talked himself out. At that point, Nicole told him their marriage was over. She was heading back to L.A. to file for divorce. “But there’s no reason you can’t stay here at the house in Chiswick,” she added. “The agreement we signed with the Lowrys gives us the house until mid-September.”
Brad refused to accept her decision about the divorce as final. He did seem to understand, however, that he’d been evicted from the bedroom. Even so, Nicole took the precaution of locking the door.
The next day, she arranged for the two of them to consult with the solicitor who was handling Brad’s case. She had no intention of getting involved in his defense. But with community property, her finances were entangled with his, and she thought it was important for her to have a clear picture of his legal problems.
The solicitor explained that money laundering carried a fairly heavy maximum penalty in the U.K. — fourteen years. Although Brad was giving the police his full cooperation, the British courts had no formal system of plea bargaining. So there were no guarantees. “At the end of the day,” he added, “I think it’s very likely that Mr. Graves will be facing some prison time.”
After they left the office, Brad shrugged off the solicitor’s assessment. “Talk about worst-case scenario,” he said. “What a total load of crap!”
“I checked out his references, Brad,” Nicole said. “This guy knows what he’s talking about.”
“He’s just trying to cover his ass,” Brad scoffed. “They’ll never send me to jail.”
What surprised Nicole was the way Brad refused to accept the idea that he might have to pay some kind of penalty. He didn’t believe charges would be brought or, if brought, that they would stick. Nor did he seriously think he’d lose his job. In fact, he seemed to regard his predicament as a minor scrape that could, if he played his cards right, open some great opportunities. He mentioned the possibility of a book contract, or starting a brand new business to shepherd small investment companies through the thicket of laws governing international currency exchanges. He was so doggedly upbeat and optimistic that she realized this was no act. He was truly delusional.
From the solicitor’s office, Brad took the tube to the police station, where he was spending long days helping investigators with cases related to his money laundering scheme. Nicole caught a cab back to the house. On her way inside, she stopped to chat with Mr. McGiever’s son and teenage grandson, who were working on the blackened shambles of his front yard. They’d already begun hacking up the charred skeleton of the hedge that had formerly stood between the two houses. Young McGiever explained that he was fixing up the house so he could sell it. He was terribly nice—thin and wispy like his father—and kept apologizing to Nicole about her ordeal, as if it had somehow been the old man’s fault.
As he was talking, Nicole remembered her recent windfall and realized that Mr. McGiever’s garden was exactly the kind of project she had in mind. She’d spend the money helping them repair the damage, replant the garden, and replace the burnt hedge. It felt right: direct reparation, however small, of the harm Hayes and his men had done. After making some inquiries at a local nursery, she postponed her flight back to L.A.
She bought herself some gardening gloves and hired McGiever’s grandson, Edgar III, to assist her. The two of them spent several days planting Mr. McGiever’s ravaged flowerbeds with roses and a bank of azaleas. She also followed the nurseryman’s suggestion of putting in a small ornamental pear by the front window. This done, Nicole gave the boy a box of scouring pads and put him to work removing the sooty splotches the blast had left on the house’s brick facade. Then they repainted the front door while a crew from the local nursery rolled down a carpet of thick green turf. She’d had to bribe the nurseryman to avoid the usual three-to-six-week wait. Since it wasn’t her money, she didn’t haggle.
Until this moment, the neighbors had been peeking out from behind their curtains, but the sight of workmen laying down a ready-made lawn drew them outside to watch. Instant landscaping was taken for granted in Los Angeles, where a full botanical garden, complete with a grove of palm trees, could appear overnight. Clearly, this wasn’t the case in Chiswick.
For Nicole, the most therapeutic part of the project was the moment each afternoon when Reinhardt arrived, and the two of them retreated inside to work on Nicole’s “debriefing.” For the most part, these sessions took the form of languid hours upstairs in the Lowrys’ double bed, getting better acquainted, talking, or not talking, as the mood struck them.
On his first visit, Reinhardt arrived in official capacity, with a list of questions, including the very ones she’d been dreading. What did she know about the disappearance of the inflatable motorboat they’d found in the boathouse? More significantly, what had happened to the key to that boat, which he’d left in her charge?
She gave the answers she’d rehearsed, praying that they sounded convincing. About the boat, she explained, “I have no idea what happened to it.” And, in a way, this was true. Of the key, she told him she’d put it in her make-shift knapsack before leaving the stable. “Later,” she lied, “I noticed the knapsack was gone. I’m not sure, but I think Chazz might have grabbed it when I was trying to get away from him.”
At that, Reinhardt’s eyes brightened, as if she’d just imparted an important piece of information. “You know, that does explain a great deal,” he said. “It’s entirely possible that our missing suspects escaped in that boat.”
She knew, of course, they had done no such thing, but she said nothing to Reinhardt.
Between Reinhardt’s visits, Nicole continued to work on the McGievers’ yard. When that was finished, she had some money left, so she replaced the charred rose bushes in the Lowrys’ front yard. If anyone had asked, she couldn’t have explained why she was doing this. Whatever the reason, it gave her a sense of closure.
Even then, she still had more than £100 left over. She changed it into £5 notes and took a last ride on the tube, handing it out, two or three bills at a time, to panhandlers and street musicians.
Her destination was the Knightsbridge Station. There, she got off and headed into Harrods for a stroll through the hat department. To her disappointment, the stock had completely changed since her last visit. In place of the wide-brimmed, flowered hats, the display tables were filled with exaggerated stovepipes, squashed flowerpots, and bullet-shaped helmets. All were made of a heavy felt that seemed to suggest summer was over, although July had yet to begin.
When a salesgirl approached and asked if she needed help, Nicole’s eyes inexplicably filled with tears. Unable to speak, she dashed out of the store and down into the tube. At the bottom of the long escalator, she blindly dumped the remaining bills into the open cello case of an old man sawing out a weary rendition of Ravel’s Bolero.
On her last day in Chiswick, Nicole was able to pack her things in her one remaining bag. Memory of that long-lost bag brought back the moment when she noticed it was gone, that first sharp stab of loss. She still had no idea if its disappearance had been a random mishap or the starting point, the moment when Frederick Lowry’s vanishing act took possession of her life.
Since then, of course, she’d lost countless other belongings, as if shedding bits of herself all over Britain. There had been the wonderful rose-trimmed hat, which had disappeared during her scuffle in the National Gallery. Gone, too, was her purse, her cell phone, the butter-soft leather suitcase she’d bought in Glasgow, and the lovely clothes inside. She’d even lost the things she was wearing when Chazz and Kevin snatched her from the hotel room.
There were high-ticket items, as well, such as her marriage. Nicole knew their relationship had been in trouble before she and Brad arrived in London, but these last few weeks had sent it well beyond hope. Perhaps even more than the end of her marriage, she grieved the end of—What was it? Her innocence?—which had vanished when she brought the bludgeon down on Kevin’s head.
She gave the house a final check before she brought her suitcase downstairs. The entry hall still reeked of fresh paint. She set the bag down by the hall table, where the Lowrys’ mail was stacked in two neat piles. Although it was doubtful anyone would ever claim it, she’d saved everything, even a few soot-smudged envelopes that had survived the car bombing.
At the sound of a key in the lock, Nicole looked up. The door opened, and Brad was standing there.
She stared at him. “Damn it, Brad. We both agreed not to make a big deal about my leaving. No goodbyes, remember?”
He shrugged. “I told them you were going home today. And, well, they gave me the morning off. Look, Nick, I was a fool. I made some pretty terrible mistakes, and you have a right to be angry. But you’ve got to let me make it up to you.” He gave her a pleading look. “I love you.”
Without answering, Nicole turned away and picked up her bag. She’d explained at least a dozen times, as clearly as she knew how, that the marriage was dead. As for his professed feelings for her—she knew it wasn’t love, but a fondness for the comfort and order she brought to his life.
Brad reached for her suitcase, and they struggled over it until he pulled it out of her hands. “At least you could let me take you to the airport,” he said.
“I told you. I have a ride.”
Brad refused to be discouraged, following her out the front door, down the stairs, and along the path. From here, Nicole could see the new hedge that now separated the Lowrys’ yard from the next. She stopped a moment to admire the red and white blossoms on the bushes in the front garden. Then, leaving Brad by the front gate, she continued along the sidewalk until she had a good view of the McGievers’ yard, now brightened by the flowers and the square of perfect, velvety turf.
Somehow this activity had restored her soul. It seemed strange that a task as mundane as gardening could become a holy mission, yet, as she packed dirt around the roots of the new shrubs, it had felt as if she were setting the world back in orbit after finding it seriously off course.
After a long look, she returned to the Lowrys’ front gate, where Brad still waited with her suitcase. Nicole glanced at her watch. It was 12:03, and her ride was late. She felt a sudden flutter of anxiety. What if he’d been called away at the last minute? Just then, a black sports car appeared around the corner and rolled up to the curb. Reinhardt got out and walked around to take her suitcase from Brad, who handed it over without a fuss. With a nod in Brad’s direction, Reinhardt opened the door for Nicole and put the bag in the trunk. Until they turned the corner, she could see Brad in her rear-view mirror, staring glumly after them.
Reinhardt drove expertly, weaving in and out of the narrow streets along an unfamiliar back route. At first they passed houses much like the Lowrys’. After a few blocks, they turned in another direction, entering a business district where modern crackerboxes alternated with ornate brick Victorians and more austere Regency graystones.
They turned onto a block packed with tantalizing boutiques, as well as several large bookstores. Shoppers strolled up and down, looking in windows, while others queued for lunch at a packed wine bar. “What a wonderful street!” she exclaimed. “Will you bring me here when I come back?”
“Done,” Reinhardt said. He looked up from the road and smiled, releasing the gearshift to caress her right knee. She placed her hand on his and gave it a squeeze.
They zipped past a great green park ringed with a black wrought-iron fence featuring a gilded motif of lions and thistles. Next, they made their way through a dizzying labyrinth of roundabouts. Cars sped by, jockeying for position according to a rule of the road that everyone but Nicole seemed to understand. Then they were on the main motorway bound for Heathrow.
They passed the same bleak-looking brick high rises Nicole had seen on the ride in. She recalled the way she’d felt that morning, debilitated from the long flight and feverish with anticipation. That ride, less than three weeks before, seemed a lifetime ago.
Despite all she’d been through, she felt restored. Except for the flashbacks, she was almost herself again, ready to put her life back together. She could barely remember the Nicole who had embarked on this trip, the innocent who’d sat up late at night, composing a list of all the sites she was going to visit: museums, historic monuments, theaters, restaurants, shops. She’d done almost none of it.
But she would be back once the dust settled. This was something she’d promised herself. Oh, yes, she would be back.