In the morning Nicole ordered breakfast from room service. When it arrived she pictured the breakfast Abigail must be having and felt guilty. The girl had probably stood in line for cold toast or lumpy oatmeal, with reconstituted orange juice, in a malodorous cafeteria. All the more reason for Nicole to eat quickly and get to work.
Before getting dressed, she looked out the window to check the weather. The sky was gun-metal gray and threatening rain. This time she’d be prepared. She got out her raincoat. As she was putting it on, she couldn’t help thinking of her former lover, Ronald Reinhardt. He’d bought this coat for her when they were caught in a storm here in London. They’d run into Burberry’s to escape the downpour. Reinhardt had plucked a trench coat from the rack and urged her to try it on. It was honey tan, a shade that went well with her coloring. It fit as if it had been made for her. He insisted—against her protests—on buying it for her and had torn off the price tag when he paid for it. Only later did she discover it had cost almost £2,000.
At the time, Reinhardt had been a detective chief inspector for Scotland Yard, also known as the Met. Judging by his swanky Knightsbridge flat and expensive sportscar, Nicole assumed he was independently wealthy. But Reinhardt never talked about money, and it was impolite to ask. The raincoat was just one of the expensive gifts he’d given her while they were together. She always tried to refuse, but he ignored her protests. This intimidating generosity was part of his M.O., as were his regular disappearances on work assignments, which he was rarely willing to discuss.
“It’s just work,” he’d say. “I don’t want to bore you.”
But she was sure his job was anything but boring.
Nicole and Reinhardt had sustained a long-distance romance—L.A. to London—for about a year, until he changed jobs. Although he refused to admit it, she suspected he’d gone to work for MI6, or perhaps an even more secretive agency. Whatever he was doing, his absences stretched from weeks to months. She reached her limit when she came to London at his invitation, only to find him gone and unreachable. She’d waited around for a week, before returning home and didn’t hear from him again for months. By that time, she’d decided she’d had enough. Now that she was in London again, she couldn’t help wondering about the odds of running into him while she was here. Not likely in a city of nearly nine million.
It wasn’t as cold as the day before. Instead of calling Uber or taking a cab, she decided to walk to the tube station. On her way out of the hotel, she borrowed a big black umbrella from the doorman. Her first destination was the building that held the convenience store where Sami had worked and the fifth-floor walk-up where Abigail had sometimes stayed with him. It might be useful to get a feel of the place.
By the time she reached her stop and emerged from the underground, the sun was out. No clouds were visible except for a few puffs of white drifting overhead. She’d brought along the umbrella just in case, and this seemed to confirm the superstition that preparing for rain would guarantee good weather.
Signs in front of the convenience store advertised a multitude of services and products, in both English and Arabic. The biggest sign was reserved for the store’s name, QUICK SHOP, and a featured service, MONEY TRANSFERS.
Beneath these words, in much smaller letters, it said R.A. Enterprises, LLP. This, Nicole jotted down in the notebook she kept in her purse. Several small notices were hung in the window, offering courier, copying, and faxing services, as well as money orders and lottery tickets. Nicole also noticed the flyer she’d seen in Sacha’s room, advertising nanny positions. A weather-beaten ATM sat on the sidewalk by the front door. Metal gates covered with graffiti were pulled halfway over the windows. Nicole wondered if this meant the store was closed or about to close. But as she drew abreast of the front door, she saw it was open and filled with customers.
To the right of the store’s entrance was another door. Figuring it probably led to the apartments upstairs, she turned the knob. It was unlocked. Inside was a tiny lobby with mail slots and a flight of stairs.
Nicole went in and read the names above the mail slots. Sami Malouf wasn’t among them, but the name label for the last slot was missing. She looked up at the stairway where Abigail had been assaulted. The carpeting on the steps was dirty and worn, and the place smelled of mold. The walls were in bad need of fresh paint.
Nicole was curious about Sami’s place. Even though it must have been searched by the police, there was no telling what might have been overlooked. True, the building looked dodgy and Abigail had been assaulted here. But that had been at night. Nicole decided it would be worthwhile to hurry up the stairs and give Sami’s apartment a quick inspection.
Crime scene tape had been left across the door. She pulled it aside and was surprised to find the door unlocked. It was a bare-bones studio apartment, empty except for a hot plate and a grimy electric water kettle on a sorry-looking end table. The carpet had been rolled up, and several unopened paint cans stood in one corner.
Nicole walked around the small space. There wasn’t much to see. Any furniture or personal effects Sami might have had were gone. When she opened the door of a small closet, something in a far corner caught the light. She reached in and picked it up. To her disappointment it was just the foil wrapper of a candy bar.
She heard footsteps out in the hall and murmured conversation. She pulled the closet door closed behind her and stood inside until a door slammed down the hall and everything was quiet. She quickly left, and after putting the crime tape back up, hurried down the stairs.
She’d almost reached the bottom when the door to the street opened and a man entered. He stopped and stared before moving toward her. She reached into her bag and fumbled around for the can of pepper spray. When she located it, she left it in her purse but held onto it, her finger on the button.
The man was of substantial build with iron-gray hair combed straight back and a thick mustache. He wore round wire glasses and an angry scowl.
“Madam! Madam!” he said, in accented English.
He was so close she felt enveloped by his breath—a toxic mix of garlic and cigar smoke.
“You’re not allowed here. This is private property.”
“I heard there was an apartment for rent.”
“You want apartment? In this neighborhood?” The man gave a snort of mirthless laughter. “Look at you! You don’t belong here. And there is no vacancy. You must leave.”
He reached behind him to open the door, but she had to squeeze around him to reach it and exit to the sidewalk. Apparently satisfied, the man followed her out and turned into the convenience store.
Nicole waited until he disappeared among the customers before entering the store herself. At least half a dozen men were working behind a long counter. Behind them was a large solid-looking safe. Customers stood in line, waiting their turn at the counter. Shelves throughout the store displayed liquor, cigarettes, and a huge inventory of junk food, but no one seemed to be buying these goods. The place was noisy, filled with the cacophony of several different languages.
She watched the men behind the counter for a while. One of the clerks would disappear into a backroom, carrying a flat white business envelope that a customer had given him, and return with a bulging manila envelope. Nicole wondered what sort of enterprise this was—some kind of informal bank, or perhaps a money-lending operation.
As she was observing this, someone tapped her shoulder. It was the same man who’d confronted her in the apartment lobby. He looked angry.
“What you want, madam…?”
“Graves. Nicole Graves. And you are?”
“I am Rakib Ahmed. This is my store. I told you we have no apartments for rent. Why are you here?”
Nicole hesitated. He’d already ordered her out of the entry to the apartments, and she didn’t like the way he was looking at her. Still she’d come to get information, and she wasn’t going to leave without asking a few questions.
“I’m a private detective. I’ve been asked to look into the background of Sami Malouf, the young man who was murdered. I understand he worked for you. What kind of work did he do?”
The man shrugged, as if Sami’s function in his business was of little or no importance.
“He ran errands and made deliveries.”
“Did he confide in you at all? He told someone that his life had been threatened. Do you know anyone who might want to harm him?”
“No more questions,” he said. “I’m a busy man, and you are wasting my time. The police were here. I told them everything. Now I’m done. Sami was a good boy. We miss him. This person who killed him is dangerous. It’s not safe for you to come around with your questions. You have to leave.”
“When did you last see him?”
“I’m telling you to go!” he shouted, spittle bursting from his mouth. Then louder, “Get out!”
His shout silenced all conversation, and everyone was staring. Without a word, Nicole did as he said. After reaching the door, she glanced back. He was still watching her, as were the men behind the counter and the customers.
Nicole headed right, passing the doorway to the apartments. Despite her bad luck with Ahmed, she still hoped to speak to some of the people Yo had mentioned. She’d just pulled out her notebook to consult it when her phone rang. The caller ID said it was Gemma Davies, Abigail’s solicitor.
Nicole looked at her watch. It had been twenty-four hours since Abigail was arrested. She hoped Gemma was calling to say the girl had been released.
“I’m afraid I have bad news,” Gemma said. “They’ve extended Abigail’s hold to thirty-six hours while the case is under review.”
“On what grounds?”
“Apparently the evidence they’ve gathered seems to incriminate her. But it’s not conclusive enough to charge her with murder, or they would have done so.”
“Do we know what evidence they have?”
“Not yet. If she is charged, they’re required to turn it over to us at her first court appearance, which will be before a magistrate. We already know several things—her coat had bloodstains on it, and they have that. They’re sure to test the stains for Sami’s DNA.”
“Doesn’t that take months?”
“Not anymore. With the latest technology, they can have a match in ninety minutes. It’s almost as fast as the current system for identifying fingerprints. The prints are electronically transferred to an international testing center, where a computer does the work. Obviously Abigail’s prints would be all over the apartment since she was staying there at least part of the time. But maybe her prints were on something that implicates her in the murder. We also know Sami and Abigail exchanged phone messages. The police have their mobiles, and we have no idea what might be in those messages. Perhaps they contain evidence against her.
“One thing I was able to get was the CCTV footage of her visits to Sami’s apartment, and that doesn’t look good. It shows Abigail leaving Sami’s place before noon. A few hours later, she returned. When the two of them came out of the building, they were arguing and she started beating his chest with her fists. Late in the afternoon, the tape catches her returning to his apartment. She’s there for several hours before leaving. He may have been killed during that time frame. As you can see, they have a lot of evidence to process.
“I do have a bit of good news. I’m to represent Abigail in court this afternoon. I’ll ask for bail, and given her age and lack of a criminal record, the magistrate might grant it. If he does, she’ll probably be released with conditions, into your custody until her parents arrive. Did I tell you they’re on their way?”
“Released with conditions? What does that mean?”
“Since she’s not a British citizen, they’re likely to demand her passport to be sure she doesn’t leave the country while she’s under arrest. They may limit her movements as well.” Gemma paused. “Wait, I have another call coming in.”
While Nicole was waiting, she thought about the Fletchers’ pending arrival. Did that mean she’d be expected to go back to L.A.? She wasn’t sure she wanted to. Now that she’d gotten involved in this case, she felt invested in the outcome. She remembered the condition the girl had been in when she arrived at the Dorchester that night. She was injured and under the influence of some kind of drug. If she had been drugged and lay unconscious outside Sami’s room, this would have given the killer a chance to plant evidence incriminating her. He might have put the murder weapon in her hands so it bore her fingerprints.
Once Gemma was back on the line, Nicole said, “I’d like to remain in London and work on this case. Is that possible?”
“I understand from your employer that you’re an excellent investigator,” Gemma said. “But you don’t know London. You’re unfamiliar with our judicial process. I don’t think you have the background you’d—”
“Wait. I do know London. I’ve spent a lot of time here. Do you remember that case several years ago involving the drug lord Alexander Hayes? His men were unloading a huge shipment at his estate on the Isle of Benbarra, when his yacht exploded. It made headlines. The police were able to close the books on a long investigation of Hayes’s drug ring. I was involved in that case. I’m sure I could do a good job for you.”
“I’ll take it under advisement.”
Gemma was being cautious Of course she was going to check out Nicole’s background. Nicole would have done the same if she were in Gemma’s position.
“Our in-house investigator is occupied with several other cases,” Gemma said, “so we probably will need to bring someone in if Abigail were to be charged.”
“One problem, though,” Nicole said. “I’d need access to an investigative database for background checks. My firm has some, but they only include US residents.”
“My firm has several. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Abigail hasn’t been charged. At least, not yet. One thing would be helpful. You’ve struck up a bond with her. That means she might confide in you, so it would be good if you’d strengthen that relationship. Visit her while she’s in custody. Bring her something to read or a box of candy. By the way, she said she wants to stay with you if she gets bail.”
“Stay with me? Does she know her parents are on their way?”
“She does. They spoke by phone. She told them she didn’t want them to come and that she doesn’t want to see them.”
“She expresses a lot of anger and resentment when she talks about them. What do you make of that?”
“Most teenagers have a certain amount of resentment toward their parents.”
“But this seems like something more.”
“Did she tell you about her background?” Gemma said.
“A bit. They adopted her from a Ukrainian orphanage when she was six. But why wouldn’t she be grateful? They rescued her from an institution. In Ukraine, like other Eastern European countries, those places are miserable.”
“You have a good point. But sometimes parents and children just aren’t a good fit, even when there isn’t an adoption. Listen, I have a meeting in a few minutes. I’ll keep you posted if there are any new developments.”
After they hung up, Nicole thought about Abigail’s plight—what had happened in the past, and her current situation. That poor girl! Nicole wished she could go back to that first night and insist Abigail accompany her back to the Dorchester. But she knew it wouldn’t have made any difference. The girl certainly wasn’t open to her advice.
She looked at the names and addresses in her notebook and used her cell phone’s map function to figure out locations. One of the addresses was only a few blocks away. It turned out to be another brick apartment building, similar to Sami’s.
As she started up to the second floor, the stairs and hallway were littered with discarded flyers, takeaway food wraps, and cigarette butts.
She found the right apartment and rang the bell. A boy of sixteen or seventeen opened the door. Nicole said she was looking for Omar Shadid. He nodded to confirm that this was his name. He looked at her with an expectant smile, as if she might be there to let him know he’d won the Irish Sweepstakes. But when she asked about Sami, he started to close the door.
“Wait!” she said. “I heard you were a friend of his. I’m looking into his background. Won’t you just answer a few questions?”
He paused, looking at her through a crack in the door.
“I knew him when I was little”—he pronounced it lit-ull— “in primary school. That’s a long time back, innit? He was a year older.” He gave a self-deprecating smile. “I thought he was a good bloke ‘cause he stuck up for me when the bullies were beatin’ on me. But later…”
“Later? What happened then?”
The young man shrugged, closing the door more so he was peeking through a slit.
“Anybody who talks about it…” He shook his head and shut the door.
Nicole heard him slide a lock into place. Did he really think she was going to enter his flat and force the information out of him? She knocked again and called his name through the mail slot. She’d almost had him, but now his footsteps were moving away and the place fell silent.
Back on the street, she began to have an uneasy feeling, as if she was being watched. She looked around, but no one seemed to be taking any notice of her. She took in the people around her and tried to commit their appearance to memory so she’d recognize them if they turned up again.
She went to the next address, which belonged to a Mo Antebi. It was on a side street off the main boulevard. Though modest, this apartment house was new and better maintained than the first one. She could see the numbers on the apartments from the sidewalk. The one she wanted was on the ground level. At her knock a woman came to the door. She was wearing a loose-fitting black garment and a matching hijab.
“I’m looking for Mo Antebi,” Nicole said.
The woman turned away from the door and called, “Mohammed!” The rest of what she said was in Arabic, or perhaps Turkish, and she sounded angry. She left the door slightly ajar but didn’t invite Nicole in.
Mo, or Mohammed, was short and wiry. He was about twenty, with a thin face and a sour expression.
“Yeah?” he said.
Nicole explained that she understood he was a friend of Sami Malouf, and she wanted to ask him a few questions. Once again she was asked if she was with the police. She explained who she was and showed him her license, which he barely glanced at.
“Sami was a good guy,” he said. “I feel really bad, but I had nothing to do with what happened. I hadn’t seen him since he started that poncy university.”
“That was last September.”
“Right. I don’t know what he’s been up to.” He whispered, “You don’t belong here. It’s not safe.”
“Mohammed,” his mother called, from another room, then shouted what sounded like a command in her own language.
Nicole was pretty sure she was telling her son to come in and close the door.
Mo stepped toward Nicole, pulling the door almost shut behind him. He gestured, first pointing to the street, then to his eyes with two fingers before pointing at her eyes. From what Nicole could make of it, he was indicating that she was being watched by someone on the street. A shiver went down her spine as she turned to look. There was no one in sight, yet she still had the feeling she was being observed. By the time she looked back, Mo had slipped inside and shut the door.
She thought about his warning as she walked away. Once again she glanced at the people nearby, behind her, and on the sidewalk across the street. No one displayed the least bit of interest in her. Besides it was broad daylight, and Yo had told her East London was safe. He did caution her to be discreet, and her interaction with Ahmed had been anything but discreet. On the other hand, police cars passed by regularly, and she’d just seen two foot-patrol officers less than a block away. How much danger could she be in?
Her next address was for Raji Kassis. It was a small wood-slat house, a remnant of an earlier time, sandwiched between two apartment buildings. A woman answered the door. She was attractive, wearing a cotton-print dress revealing a bit of cleavage. Two toddlers—twins, it appeared—were hanging onto her legs.
When Nicole asked about Raji, the woman said, “He’s at work.”
“Can you give me the address? I’m not with the police, but I want to ask him a few questions about Sami Malouf. He and Raji were friends, right?”
“Right,” the woman said. “They were mates since they started school together. My brother is really torn up about Sami’s death. You’ll find him at S & F Motor Repairs. It’s just down the road on Plumbago Street.”
She gave Nicole directions. But instead of the usual go five blocks and make a right, she used imprecise terms, like head of the street, and go for a bit, and pass a Ladbrokes—or some other landmark unfamiliar to Nicole—then make a turn and walk five minutes on.
When Nicole was back on the sidewalk, she checked once again to be sure no one was following her. When she was satisfied, she used her cell phone to look up the repair shop’s address. This wasn’t much help either. For some unknown reason, the directions were substituting the usual turn right or left, with east and west. Unfortunately, on this side of the Atlantic, her sense of direction had all but disappeared. She had to retrace her steps several times before she found the huge barn-like structure that housed S & F Motor Repairs.
Inside, the place appeared empty. Finally she spotted a pair of legs sticking out from under a car.
Nicole called out, “hello,” a couple times, before going over to the car, leaning down, and shouting, ”Pardon me! Can I speak to you?”
A man slid out from under the vehicle and stood. He was tall and muscular and appeared to be of English or Irish descent, unlike the others she’d spoken to that day.
“What do you want?” His tone wasn’t friendly.
Nicole explained that she needed to speak to Raji Kassis, careful to put in the disclaimer that she wasn’t with the police.
“You can talk to ‘im all you want,” he said. But you’ll have to find ‘im first. He didn’t show up today. He done this before, and I tells him—I says, you skive on me again, and you’re out the door.” He paused and seemed to be considering this. “But I’ll probably have to keep ‘im. It’s too bloody ‘ard finding a good mechanic. But ‘e’d better show up tomorrow. You tell ‘im.” He waved his hand around the garage in a broad gesture. “Me shop’s full of broken motors, innit? I’m ‘ere alone, and they’re not fixin’ themselves.” He turned, lowered himself to the ground, and slid back under the car.
Nicole’s list included several addresses nearby, and she decided to press on. She rang perhaps a dozen more doorbells, but not one of the occupants opened the door. Some apartments were silent enough for her to conclude that no one was home. A number of times, she heard movement inside—the sound of people retreating into a back room.
She was almost at the end of her list. She stopped on the sidewalk to consult her map, and once again had the feeling of being watched. Looking around, she spotted a man she’d seen before. He was half a block behind her, short and muscular, wearing jeans and a plain white t-shirt, but no jacket despite the cold. He’d altered his appearance slightly with a soft tweed visor cap he hadn’t been wearing before.
She turned abruptly into the next restaurant, which featured Middle-Eastern fare, with bright-colored photos of shawarma and kabob dishes in the window. She sat, and when the waiter approached, she ordered tea. Through the window, she watched the man cross the street pretend to be window shopping, although the store was empty with a big FOR LEASE sign across the facade. While he had his back to her, she put three one-pound coins on the table to pay for the tea she wasn’t going to drink, and went to the women’s room. She took off her coat and turned it inside out so the iconic Burberry plaid lining showed. It looked odd, but from a distance might lend a measure of disguise.
When she came out of the women’s room, she left the door ajar so she couldn’t be observed darting into the kitchen, where the staff greeted her with mystified looks. She hurried through before anyone could object, and exited through the backdoor into an alley.
She followed the alley for less than a block before turning onto Brick Lane, and half-ran to the tube stop. Whoever this man was, she didn’t want him to know where she was staying. On the train back, she considered what had come of her day’s efforts. In terms of learning more about Sami, it had been a waste of time. What did stand out was people’s general unwillingness to talk to her. And there was the hostility of the convenience store owner, who’d known Sami and might have been able to provide useful information.
That she didn’t fit into the neighborhood was part of the problem. But that someone was following her convinced her something else was going on.