As befitted the street’s name, many of the buildings were brick—unadorned boxes, unlike the ornate, brick Victorians she’d seen elsewhere. Signs over the shops were in a multitude of alphabets and languages. Quite a few were vacant, many emblazoned with colorful murals of graffiti. Cafes featured bright photos of the food being served, mostly a variety of curries. As she passed each one, tempting aromas wafted out.
Nicole had only been walking a few blocks when a particle of something cold hit her cheek. Seconds later, there was a downpour of tiny hailstones that came with such force they stung when they hit her face and hands. She ran under an awning and waited until the ice shower gave way to rain. Her map said she was more than halfway to her destination, so she kept walking. By the time she reached Lightning Mobile Repair, she was drenched.
The shop was tiny. In the window several flyers were posted, including the one she’d seen in Sacha’s room—advertising for English-speaking nannies. There were no customers inside, but a man smoking at the rear of the store looked like he might be the proprietor. She walked toward him, passing display cases filled with cell phones and accessories.
“Yaman?” She hoped she was pronouncing it correctly.
“People call me Yo. Can I help you?” He smiled at her.
Nicole was surprised that he spoke with an American accent. He was big, well over six feet, and muscular. He wore aviator sunglasses, even though the shop was dimly lit. His skin was deep brown, making him much darker than the Middle Easterners and East Indians she’d passed on her way here. In fact he appeared to be of African descent. He wore dreadlocks, a shaggy beard, and a battered leather jacket with the collar up. Under this was a black T-shirt accessorized with a heavy gold chain necklace. His hair was beginning to gray and he appeared to be in his forties.
Nicole had decided beforehand that the only reasonable explanation she could give for asking about Sami was the truth. She didn’t mention that Abigail was in custody. Instead she said that the girl’s parents were worried the police might think she was involved in the killing since she was at Sami’s apartment that night. And that she, Nicole, had been asked to talk to people who knew Sami and see if he had any enemies.
Yo frowned. “You some kind of cop?”
“No. I’m a private detective.”
“Show me your license.”
Nicole took it out of her purse and slid it across the counter.
He glanced at it. “This is from the States. It’s no good here.”
“British law doesn’t require a P.I. license,” she said.
This seemed to annoy Yo, and his demeanor was more than a little intimidating. He tossed the license on the counter.
“What do I care if this girl’s arrested for murder? Maybe she did it.”
“I can assure you she didn’t. Did you know Sami? His friends?”
“Why should I tell you? What’s in it for me?”
She tucked her license back into her wallet and pulled out a one-hundred-pound note.
He shook his head. “What I know is worth twice that. Give me two hundred pounds and I’ll tell you everything I know.”
“That’s all the cash I have.”
He pointed to an ATM machine at the front of the store. She nodded, walked back to it and made a withdrawal. She allowed an extra forty pounds for taxi fare back to the hotel, although she doubted she’d ever find a taxi in the rain and would probably have to walk back to the tube station.
She handed Yo the £200.
He smiled, his good mood restored. “That’s more like it.” He came around from behind the counter, retrieved a couple of folding chairs that were leaning against the wall, and set them up. “Have a seat.” He selected one for himself. “Do you need some paper to take notes?”
She pulled a pen and notebook out of her purse. “I’m all set.”
He talked for at least a half-hour, telling her the names of Sami’s friends and where they hung out. He explained that Sami had been working as an errand and delivery boy for Rakib Ahmed, who owned a convenience store on the first floor of the apartment building where Sami lived. He told her the names of Sami’s family members and where they lived. He knew each person’s address and phone number, all from memory, pouring out information as fast as she could write.
When he was done, Nicole said, “I don’t know this part of London. Is it safe for me to visit these people so I can talk to them in person?”
“Sure. During the day it’s cool. Just be discreet.”
Nicole got up and shook his hand. “Thank you so much. This is a tremendous help.”
He gave her a warm smile. “You’re welcome. You staying at a hotel?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “How about a ride back? That rain is really coming down. It’s a long walk to the tube, and it’s almost rush hour.”
“That would be wonderful.”
He got up and opened a door that led to a storage room. “Wake up, you lazy piece ‘o shit!” he shouted at someone inside.
After a long moment, a young man came out. He was rubbing his eyes as if he’d been sleeping. Meanwhile Yo pulled a package out of a display case, removed the cellophane wrapping and shook out the contents. It was a clear plastic raincoat with a hood, the kind Nicole’s grandmother had worn years before. He handed it to her.
“My man Erik here is going to give you a ride. Have you ever been on a motorcycle?”
“Uh, no.”
“Well, you’re in for a treat. Get her a helmet, Erik.”
Erik disappeared into the storage room and returned carrying a white biker helmet, none too clean. She thanked Yo again, and Erik led her out the backdoor where a battered motorcycle was parked under an awning. Erik got on, and she boarded behind him. She wished she could keep looking into Sami’s background, but already, not yet 5:00, it was getting dark and she didn’t know the area. She’d have to start fresh in the morning.
“’ang on,” Erik said, his voice still froggy from sleep. With her arms around his waist, her face against the back of his denim jacket, she caught a strong whiff of unwashed body. The smell dissipated as soon as the motorcycle started up, enveloping them in a bitterly cold wind. Erik zigzagged along at frightening speed. The bike tipped this way and that as he wove between lanes of traffic.
Nicole hung on tight, fearing for her life. They arrived in front of the Dorchester at the end of a terrifying skid on the wet street that made them jump the curb, onto the sidewalk. This caused the doorman to retreat into a corner of the entryway, cowering. Only when he recognized Nicole as a paying guest did he straighten up and come forward. His face was a study in horror and disgust at her choice of transportation, tempered by the courtesy demanded by his job. Nicole couldn’t help giggling as he helped her off the motorbike.
Five
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 ne
ver 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 ha
d 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.
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