Abigail refused to answer any of Biaggi’s questions, but he seemed to take this in stride as if it wasn’t unusual.
“I’m going to explain the best way to conduct yourself during a police interview,” he said. “Remember, the police do not have your interests in mind. They’re looking for something you might say, even inadvertently or in error, that they can use as evidence against you. That’s why I strongly advise you to remain silent during this interview. You are not required to answer their questions. If you feel compelled to give a response, say I refuse to answer, or something in that vein. Do you understand?”
“Fine,” Abigail said. “I’m ready and I have a solicitor. Can we get this over with?”
Biaggi got up and opened the door to summon the detectives back. Kirby entered, carrying an extra chair for the solicitor. Once they were seated, Norton began questioning Abigail.
“Did you know Sami Malouf? Were you romantically involved with him?”
Abigail answered both questions with a tremulous yes. Nicole and Biaggi exchanged glances, acknowledging that the girl was ignoring the solicitor’s advice. Biaggi shrugged, as if to say that this decision was hers to make and neither of them could do anything about it.
“I understand Mister Malouf was expelled from King’s College,” Norton went on. “What do you know about that?”
“They claimed he was selling weed—cannabis—on campus. At King’s that means automatic expulsion. He didn’t even get a hearing. It wasn’t fair.”
Nicole reached over to touch Abigail’s arm, hoping to remind her not to give the detective more information than he asked for. Abigail pushed Nicole’s hand away.
“When Mister Maloof left university,” Norton said, “you stopped attending classes and began staying at his apartment on Brick Lane in East London. Is that true?”
“I wasn’t living there if that’s what you mean. I spent at least half my nights at the dorm.”
Nicole stared at Abigail. According to what Sacha had said, the girl was lying. But why?
“On the day of Mister Maloof’s death, CCTV caught you having an altercation with him on the street. You were hitting him and appeared to be shouting at him. Can you tell me what you were fighting about?”
“I’d stayed with him the night before and went back to my dorm to pack for my trip home. I was almost done when I got a message with a video showing Sami with another girl. They were kissing. Then they went into his room. Just that morning he’d said he loved me. What kind of love is that when he’s cheating on me as soon as I leave? It made me mad.”
“Mad enough to want him dead?”
Abigail shook her head. “Of course not. He’s the last person I’d want dead.”
“Is that video still on your mobile?”
“No. It was on Snapchat. It deleted itself as soon I opened it and looked at it. So it’s gone.”
“May I have your mobile, please?” Norton said.
Abigail looked at Nicole questioningly, as if to ask if she had to do what he said. Nicole nodded. The phone might be evidence, and the police were allowed to take it. Abigail blinked back tears as she picked up her oversized bag and began to dig through its contents. Nicole recognized the designer whose name appeared discreetly at the top. This purse was the well-known bucket bag, fashioned of woven strips of black, orange, and beige leather. It would have set Abigail’s parents back several thousand dollars.
After scrabbling around in the bag’s capacious interior, Abigail located the phone. She pulled it out, and looking very unhappy, slid it across the table to the detective.
“Did Mister Malouf have any enemies that you know of?” Norton said. “Someone who might want to kill him?”
“Not that I know—” Abigail stopped and seemed to think it over. “Wait!” she finally said. “He told me someone had threatened him and he was looking for a new place to stay. Maybe a squat.”
“Did he say what the threat was about?”
Abigail shook her head.
“Can you please give a verbal response for the recording?”
She sighed and rolled her eyes, as if his request was unreasonable.
“No! I asked, but he wouldn’t tell me.”
“When was this?”
“About a week ago.”
“He wasn’t in a big hurry to move, then?”
“I don’t know. Now that I think about it, he’d been quieter than usual, sort of worried-like. And he did install an extra lock on his door.”
“After your argument on the street, you left. But the video shows you returned a few hours later. Why did you come back?”
“I wanted to make up. I love—loved him.” Her voice shook, and she bit her lip before continuing. “I didn’t want to leave London while we were in a fight. But I never got a chance to talk to him. He wasn’t home, or if he was, he didn’t answer the door.”
“Did you see anyone else in Mister Malouf’s building?”
“Yes. As I was leaving, these two guys were coming up the stairs. They hit me in the eye and stomach. Then they stuck a needle in my arm and gave me a shot that knocked me out. It was almost midnight before I woke up.”
“Can you describe them?”
“Not really. It was so sudden. I didn’t get a good look at them.”
There was a beep from the detective’s phone. Before pulling it out of his pocket, he said, “For the record, I’m pausing this interview at 11:20 a.m. to review a message on my mobile.”
He read the message to himself, then raised his eyebrows and read it again before putting in a quick call and slipping the cell back in his pocket. He punched a button on the recorder and spoke into it once more.
“Continuing this interview at 11:22 a.m. Abigail Fletcher, I’m placing you under arrest on suspicion of the murder of Sami Malouf. You’ll be held for twenty-four hours while we pursue our inquiry. If we don’t find enough evidence to charge you within that timeframe, you’ll be released. It’s 11:23 a.m. We are now concluding this interview.”
Abigail appeared stunned. She opened her mouth, but no words came out. Nicole placed a hand on the girl’s shoulder and shot a look at the solicitor, who seemed to be considering this development.
“What has changed that made you decide to arrest Miss Fletcher?” Biaggi said. “I understood she was told she just had to come in to answer some questions.”
“New evidence turned up that we believe might incriminate Miss Fletcher.”
Biaggi nodded, as if this made sense to him.
But Nicole said, “What evidence?”
“At this point in our investigation, I’m not at liberty to say. As Mister Biaggi knows, any evidence we gather will be presented in court if it’s sufficient to charge Miss Fletcher with the crime.”
Nicole thought about the implications of a twenty-four-hour hold.
“Does this mean she has to spend the night in a cell?” She could feel Abigail stiffen.
For the first time, she looked scared.
“As for her accommodations,” the detective said, “Miss Fletcher will spend the night in youth custody—not in an adult jail. We’ll find a facility that’s appropriate for her.”
“What happens next?”
“I want to emphasize that Miss Fletcher is not being charged with a crime at this time,” Norton said. “She said she was drugged the night of the murder. We’ll be giving her a blood test to verify this and see which drug was involved.”
There was a knock on the door, followed by the entrance of two uniformed officers.
“Come with us, Miss Fletcher,” one of them said.
Abigail sat immobile, hunched over the table, with her hands covering her face. When she didn’t move, the men each took an arm and helped her stand. She offered no resistance and went along quietly.
Nicole watched her go, then looked at Biaggi, who was digging around in the pockets of his suit jacket. He pulled out his business card and handed it to Nicole.
“We did the best we could,”
he said. “It’s hard for people to resist answering questions in a situation like this. I was called in to consult with Miss Fletcher for the duration of this interview. If you want me to continue working defense, or if you have questions, give me a call.” He excused himself and left.
Nicole followed Norton out of the room and down the hall, to the elevator. Despite Abigail’s childish behavior—or perhaps because of it—she felt sorry for the girl and frustrated by her own inability to help. Abigail seemed genuinely flattened by the news of Sami’s death. In addition, she was facing a night in police custody. She had to be terrified.
When the elevator reached the lobby, Nicole got out, while the detective waited inside with his finger on the Open button.”
“How soon will I be able to visit Abigail?” Nicole said. “I think she needs some emotional support right now.”
“Not for a while. She has to be processed, and we need to find appropriate accommodations. The cells in this station are strictly for adult detainees. You can wait if you like, but it could be hours before you’re able to see her.” His expression became less stern. “I’m afraid we’ve left you without transportation. Do you want a ride back to your hotel?”
“Thanks for the offer, but I have to make some calls. Then I’ll decide if I want to wait.”
The detective nodded and released the elevator’s button. The door closed and he was gone. Nicole found an empty bench, sat, and called Jerry.
“Jesus!” Jerry said. “This kid has managed to get herself in a heap of trouble.”
“The detective had a solicitor sit in on the interview once I insisted on it,” Nicole said, “but don’t you think her parents would want—”
“Absolutely. They wouldn’t want her in the hands of a public defender. When I told her father that Abigail’s boyfriend was murdered and what the implications for her might be, he had me contact his lawyer. The lawyer put me in touch with a London solicitor who comes highly recommended. Her name is Gemma Davies. Give her a call and let her know which station processed Abigail’s intake. She’ll try to get her released as soon as possible.” He gave Nicole Gemma’s phone number.
As soon as they hung up, Nicole put in the call. After introducing herself, Nicole asked if there was any way she could make herself useful.
Gemma, who had a pleasant voice, spoke with a different accent than Nicole heard around London. It was a bit harder to understand, but Nicole, a fan of British TV, recognized the accent as being peculiar to the north of England. This accent could be incomprehensible to Americans, although Nicole understood it well enough.
“Right now I’m concerned with getting her bail,” Gemma said. “If I’m successful, the court will require her to be under the care of a responsible adult. It would be helpful if you could assume that role. But it’s also possible she won’t be charged at all. If they don’t find sufficient evidence, they have to release her, and that will be the end of it. A police supervisor reviews the case’s progress every few hours and reassesses what they have. Whatever happens, it would be helpful if you’d look after her until her parents arrive.”
“Of course,” Nicole said. “Abigail’s bags are packed. She left them at her dorm. I’ll head over there and pick them up.”
Nicole left the station and summoned an Uber. She sat on a bench in front, waiting for her ride. She thought about what she might do to help Abigail’s case. Even if she wasn’t yet hired to investigate, there was no reason she couldn’t ask questions of people who knew Sami. He had a job. What was it? Who did he work for and where? Maybe she’d be able to find out who had been threatening him and why.
After what seemed like a long wait, her driver pulled up, an ill-groomed guy in his fifties, with a fringe of untidy hair poking out from under a tweed visor cap. He told her his name was Kevin, and he was full of questions, eager for a chat.
Nicole was too absorbed in Abigail’s troubles to give more than one-word answers to his questions. After a while, he gave up and started filling the silence with his own chatter. Nicole barely listened, although she noted that his claim to be a retired teacher seemed doubtful in view of his appalling grammar. When he was done talking about his financial problems and girlfriend troubles—from the little she gathered, he was involved with more than one woman—he began to complain about how unfriendly Americans were. Nicole was relieved when they reached Wolfson Hall and she could get out of his car.
She took the elevator to the fifth floor and went directly to Abigail’s room. The door was locked. She knocked, not expecting an answer, nor did she get one. Next she knocked on Sacha’s door.
“Just a minute,” Sacha called.
There was a delay before she opened the door. Even though it was past noon, she was in her pajamas. Her eyes were red, as if she’d been crying.
“Sorry,” she said. “I was up all night studying for an exam I took first thing this morning. I came back to get some sleep. But Daniel—the guy at the desk downstairs—called a little while ago to tell me about Sami. I just can’t believe it.” She ushered Nicole into her room. “Sami—murdered!” She shook her head. “Do they have any idea who did it?”
“Not yet.”
Nicole had already decided to keep news of Abigail’s detention to herself. The fewer people who knew, the better.
Sacha gestured toward two sizeable suitcases stacked against the wall.
“Those are Abigail’s. She has a lot of nice clothes, and things do go missing around here. So I decided to put the bags in my room. If you want, I’ll help you get them downstairs.”
“That would be great,” Nicole said. “But I’m wondering if you could help with something else. Do you know who Sami hung out with? I mean, besides Abigail?”
Sacha stiffened and gave Nicole a sharp look. “Why do you want to know?”
Nicole paused, trying to think of a simple explanation that wouldn’t reveal that the police regarded Abigail as a suspect.
“Abigail’s parents asked me to find out. They didn’t explain the reason.”
“Why don’t you ask Abigail?”
“She’s pretty upset right now. It’s hard to get anything out of her. Besides, I’m not sure she’d know his friends from the old neighborhood.”
“I didn’t really know Sami that well. We were classmates. That’s all.” Sacha’s tone had cooled. “I have no idea—” She paused, as if something had just occurred to her. “There is a bloke who has a mobile repair shop on the Brick Lane. His name is Yaman Hajjeer. He seems to know everybody’s business around there. He might be able to tell you something. His shop is called Lightning Mobile Repair. Look it up.”
“Do you think he’d be willing to talk to me?”
Sacha shrugged. “Americans aren’t so popular with Middle Easterners these days. But I don’t think he’s from the Middle East, so he probably won’t care.” She continued to be less friendly than before.
Clearly she didn’t like Nicole’s line of questioning.
“I’d better be going,” Nicole said. “You offered to help with the bags?”
“Sure. Just let me get dressed.” Sacha opened a cupboard and pulled out some gray sweats.
As she changed, Nicole turned to Abigail’s suitcases and lifted one to see how much it weighed. It was heavy—perhaps fifty pounds—almost as if it was filled with books.
“Wow,” Nicole said. “These are heavy. Lucky they’re on wheels.”
Sacha didn’t answer. Without a word, she accompanied Nicole down to the lobby, and after a perfunctory goodbye, got back in the elevator. Nicole wondered why Sacha would be so touchy if she didn’t know Sami very well, as she’d claimed. The girl had been more than willing to talk about Abigail and even spy on her. Maybe it would be worthwhile to find out more about Sacha.
§
Nicole delivered the bags to the Dorchester and asked the bellman to bring them up to her suite. While she waited in her sitting room, she used her phone to look up the address of Yaman Hajjeer’s shop. Lightning Mobile
Repair was at 121 Brick Lane, which, according to the computer’s directions, was a twenty-minute cab ride from the Dorchester.
With Abigail’s suitcases stowed in a closet, Nicole checked to be sure she had her pepper spray in her purse, and placed the small can on top where she could get to it in a hurry. She never went into unfamiliar territory without it. She’d been surprised to discover she was allowed to bring it with her in her carry-on. The FAA even allowed small cans of mace, as long as the contents didn’t exceed the 3.4-ounce limit for liquids.
As she set out for Brick Lane, she had the doorman hail a taxi. Only after the cab turned onto the first main road did she realize her mistake. Traffic was almost at a standstill. They inched along for about twenty minutes, before coming to a complete stop.
“Sorry, luv,” the driver said. “Must be a smash-up ahead. We’re not getting to Brick Lane any time soon. Best get out and catch the tube. Look, there’s a station right over there.” He pointed at a red and blue underground sign across the street.
Nicole got out of the cab, pulled out her wallet, and stepped up to his open window.
“How much—”
He waved her away. “Can’t take your money if we didn’t go anywhere, can I?”
Thinking of the time the cabbie had spent trying to get her to her destination, Nicole handed him a ten-pound note.
“I insist.”
At moments like this, she was grateful she was on an expense account.
“Thank you, sweetheart,” he said. “Appreciate it. Now to get out of this mess.”
She retreated to the sidewalk, watching in awe as the cabbie made a U-turn across two lanes of opposing traffic. Now heading in the direction they’d come from, he slipped into a lane of moving cars and drove away.
The tube station was filled with people who, like Nicole, were escaping the gridlocked streets. Nicole was left on the platform twice while passengers shoved onto already-packed trains. When the third train pulled in, she used her elbows to maneuver to the front of the platform and force her way onboard. It was only a short time before she reached her station. When she got to the street, she used her phone to find directions to Lightning Mobile Repair. It was a twenty-minute walk, and she was getting tired. It was only 3:00 p.m., but her jetlag made it feel like the middle of the night. Still, Brick Lane was interesting, a world away from Park Lane, where the Dorchester was.
The Entitled Page 5