She gathered up Abigail’s clothes, folded them, and put them back in the suitcases, which she stowed in a corner. While she was occupied, three hotel housekeepers arrived. They looked efficient in crisp white aprons worn over black blouses and skirts. Two of them began putting the rooms back together. When Nicole walked into the bedroom, she found her suitcase lying open on the bed. A housekeeper was busy folding her clothes and packing them.
“What are you doing?” Nicole said.
“I’m sorry, madam,” the housekeeper said. “I thought someone would have told you. We’re moving you to a more secure floor. The Dorchester is responsible for your safety, and we want to make sure this doesn’t happen again.”
Nicole sat wearily on the bed. The adrenalin triggered by the break-in had evaporated. It was all too much. She was dependent on her computer, and its loss made her feel helpless. It was almost like losing a hand, maybe even a whole arm. Worse yet, she couldn’t remember when she’d last backed it up. She shook her head, frustrated, and stared at the floor while the housekeepers buzzed around her.
When everything was packed, she followed the security detail, one of the housekeepers, and a bellman with the suitcases—hers and Abigail’s—to the sixteenth floor. A guard was stationed next to the elevator. He had a small electronic device that tested each room key before admitting anyone to the floor.
By the time she was alone again and settled into the new suite—larger and more grandly furnished than the first—it was nearly 5:00 p.m. She took a shower, changed into her PJs and the clean bathrobe that housekeeping had left hanging in the bathroom. She ordered a burger and a glass of wine from room service. She ate her meal, climbed into bed, and started reading a deliciously creepy novel, The Little Stranger, until she fell asleep around 8:30.
She slept soundly until 2:00 a.m., when she startled awake. She’d been dreaming that the ghostly little stranger from her novel had broken into her room and was going through her things, trying on clothes, and tossing them on the floor. By now she was wide awake. She picked up the book and read it to the last page. By then, with morning beginning to light the sky, she dropped off and slept until 10:00 a.m., when her phone woke her.
It was Gemma Davies, and she sounded upset. “I’ve just appeared with Abigail before a magistrate. The prosecution is charging her with murder. That means the case will be moved to a higher court.”
“Did they say what proof they have?”
“Indeed they did, and it’s even worse than I feared. They have her fingerprints on the murder weapon—a knife that severed his jugular vein. He quickly bled to death. They matched the blood on her coat to the victim’s. And of course they have the CCTV footage of their fight and of Abigail returning to his apartment later in the day.
Nicole’s heart sunk. How could things have gone so terribly wrong?
“But she couldn’t have done it,” she said. “When she turned up at the hotel, she’d been drugged and badly beaten. She’s being framed. I’m sure of it.”
“That she was beaten and drugged was noted in the police report. Her blood tests showed she’d been given Rohynol, which would have knocked her out.”
“That’s a roofie—the date-rape drug, right?”
“Exactly, but the blood test wasn’t given until the next day, and there’s no reliable way to pinpoint when it was administered. Prosecutors could argue she gave it to herself after the murder so she could say she was unconscious at the time.”
“What about motive?”
“She’s badly bruised. The prosecution could contend that Sami had beaten her and she attacked him with a knife in retaliation.”
“Wouldn’t that be self-defense?”
“Maybe. It depends on when the beating took place in relation to the knifing.”
“Like the woman who’s convicted of murdering her abusive husband. He’s beaten the daylights out of her and almost choked her to death. She has no way of defending herself while he’s awake, so she kills him in his sleep and the police charge her with premeditated murder.”
“That is a possibility,” Gemma said.
“What happens next?”
“I’ll appear with her before a judge in Crown Court this afternoon or early tomorrow. At that time she’ll be given a date for trial.”
“Doesn’t it take a long time for a murder case to be brought to trial? Will she be in custody the whole time?”
“It won’t take that long. For defendants under eighteen, they have a speedier process, and there’s still a possibility the court might grant bail, given that she has no criminal record. But with a serious crime like murder, bail is the exception. If it is granted, she’ll likely have to surrender her passport, as I mentioned before. Can you locate it and send it to me by messenger in case we need it? I just spoke to Abigail. She said she packed it in the smaller of her two suitcases—”
“Oh, no! If it was in her luggage, it’s gone. Someone broke into our suite yesterday. They dumped everything out of her bags. I repacked them, and her passport wasn’t there. They took mine, too, and my computer. I’m going to report the theft to our embassy as soon as we hang up. We won’t have a problem getting new passports, will we? Do you know how long it takes?”
“I don’t. But this seriously complicates things for Abigail. She wasn’t born in the US. She became a citizen when she was adopted. That means the embassy will require a certified copy of her adoption papers before issuing a new passport. Hopefully her parents have the papers at home or with their lawyer and someone can FedEx them to us. Even so, that will probably take another day or two. Let me notify the embassy about Abigail’s situation. They’re often helpful in cases when a US citizen is arrested here. By the way, the Fletchers have arrived. They’re planning to see Abigail today.”
“I plan to visit her, too.” Nicole said. “She needs all the support she can get.”
“Good idea. You’ll need to contact the youth detention center to set up your visit. I’ll email you the phone number and directions for getting there.”
After they hung up, Nicole made quick work of her calls. She contacted the embassy to report her stolen passport. They gave her an appointment to appear the next afternoon and present her drivers’ license as proof of her identity. She also put in a call to the youth detention center and arranged to visit Abigail at 2:00 that afternoon.
Next she called Jerry to update him on the latest developments.
“Nicole, Nicole,” he said, as if talking to a naughty child. “It’s awful that Abigail has gotten herself into such a terrible fix. But this goes beyond the limits of your assignment—way beyond. And I’m worried about your safety. A burglary in a hotel as secure as the Dorchester tells me you’re not safe. The minute you’re issued a new passport, you’re boarding a plane home. With the help of the solicitor, Abigail’s parents will be able to handle her problems.”
Nicole had to think fast. Gemma hadn’t asked her to work the case, but Nicole badly wanted to help solve it. A little fib, she thought, wouldn’t hurt anybody. “The solicitor wants me to stay and work with her,” Nicole said. “In fact I’ve already started investigating. I’ve also established a bond with Abigail. That means she might confide in me, which could help.”
“I still don’t like it. Our office does not put its employees at risk. I don’t mean this as a criticism, exactly, but—”
“What?”
“You always push things a little too far.”
“Not always—”
“Come home, Nicole. The English justice system can handle this without your help.”
Nicole drew in a sharp breath. Only now did she realize how much she wanted to remain on this case.
“Give me a week,” she said. “If I haven’t turned up anything by then, I’ll come home.”
There was a long silence.
“All right, “ Jerry said. “I’ll have to talk to the Fletchers about whether they’re willing to continue paying for an investigation. Even if they are, I’m just
allowing you seven days. Then you’re coming home. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
“While you’re there, you’ll avoid anything that might be remotely risky. If anyone’s following you, threatening you, or you have another break-in—even an attempted one—you’re on the next plane out. I want a promise here.”
“I promise.” Nicole said, in the meekest tone she could muster up.
She had an urge to point out the condescension in Jerry’s tone and tell him how annoying it was. But she wasn’t in a position to argue with her boss.
“Meanwhile,” he said, “I’ll get in touch with the Fletchers about payment for your services and expenses. One week. You hear me?”
“Yes, master.”
This failed to get a laugh out of him.
“I’m not kidding,” he said.
After they hung up, she went over to the window and stared out. She thought about the young man, Mohammed Antebi—Mo—who she’d tried to interview earlier. With his awkward gestures, he’d tried to warn her that she was being watched. She’d ignored him, but someone must have followed her back to the hotel. Or perhaps they’d hacked her phone and used its location function to find out where she was staying. It wouldn’t be hard to find out her suite number and break in while she was out. Sure, passports and electronics did have a certain retail value for any thief. But she was certain this burglary hadn’t been random. It had something to do with Sami’s murder. In retrospect she realized it had been a mistake to go around ringing doorbells and asking questions in East London. She’d learned nothing. What could they possibly imagine she had in her suite that would prove a danger to them?
Perhaps they’d just wanted to scare her. If that had been their goal, they’d succeeded. She didn’t feel safe in this hotel, even in the new suite with its heightened security. And what if Abigail did manage to make bail? The media was sure to find out about the murder if they hadn’t already. They’d be especially interested if they found out the accused was a beautiful American girl from a wealthy family. They’d be all over it. The Dorchester was too public a place for them to remain.
Nicole thought of Reinhardt and his experience as a DCI for London’s Metropolitan Police Service. This was his city. He’d know of a safer, more discreet place for them to stay.
She wondered if he was in the UK. Or was he abroad, working on a case? If he was with MI6, as she suspected, his work involved a certain amount of danger. Was it possible he’d been killed on one of his assignments since she last heard from him?
She still remembered his cell number and decided to give him a call. The phone rang once on the other end before there was a loud beep. A recorded voice came on. “This is a ceased number. If you think you’ve received this message in error…”
Ceased, she supposed, meant no longer in use. She looked up Reinhardt’s landline in her contact list. She’d rarely used it because he was almost never home. She punched in the numbers, and sure enough a recording picked up. She felt a pleased rush when she heard the voice, a sexy baritone that was unmistakably Reinhardt’s. His brief message made her smile. “You know what to do and when to do it.” After the beep, she explained that she was in town for a few days and would like to see him. She left her number and hung up. No sense going into detail since he might not get the message until after she’d returned home.
As she walked by the front desk on her way to breakfast, the clerk motioned her over and handed her an envelope.
“This was just dropped off by messenger.”
Mystified, Nicole carried the envelope into the dining room. She chose a small table and sat . Within seconds, a waiter with a silver carafe stopped by to pour her coffee. She took a sip before opening the envelope. It bore her name in handwritten block letters. Inside was a single sheet written in the same hand.
I have more information that might help you in your search. We shouldn’t talk by phone, and you can’t come to my shop. You attracted too much attention yesterday. Let’s meet for lunch on your turf: Fortnum and Mason’s Gallery restaurant at noon today. If you can’t make it, send a note by messenger. Don’t call.
It was signed, Yo.
That he’d chosen Fortnum & Mason for their meeting was odd. Yo’s appearance was sure to stand out among the well-heeled tourists who frequented Fortnum & Mason.
She arrived at the restaurant a little past noon. The place was almost full, but as she looked around, Yo was nowhere in sight. There was a single black diner, but he definitely wasn’t Yo. This man was beardless, with neat, close-cropped hair. He was dressed in a tailored tan suit, white dress shirt, and silk tie in a lovely shade of celadon green. His small wire-framed glasses perched down his nose gave him the look of a college professor.
She took a seat at one of the remaining tables to wait. The man she’d noticed got up and headed toward her. Only when he drew near did she realize it was Yo, completely transformed. He leaned down to give her an air kiss on either cheek.
“Would you prefer this table, or the one where I was seated? It’s a bit more private over there.”
To her astonishment, he was speaking in a posh English accent.
Looking over, she noticed that his table was in a corner by itself, while hers was surrounded by other diners who could possibly overhear them.
“Your table will be best,” she said.
As she followed him, she was confused. Which accent was real—the slang-filled one he used in his shop, or this polished Brit-speak?
“Yo, I have to say I’m a little overwhelmed by your transformation, especially the accent—”
“I have a gift for accents,” he said, with a Caribbean lilt. “I wanted to be an actor in my youth.”
“Your dreadlocks—did you have them cut off?”
“The dreads are a wig.” He was a Brit again. “I found that being viewed as an oppressed American black was a better fit in East London.”
“Are you English, then?”
“You’re a clever woman. I’m sure you’ll figure that out. Why don’t we order? Then I’ll share some information with you.”
After they placed their orders, Yo said, “I’ve thought of more people who knew Sami. Call first. Then if you manage to get in touch with them, be sure to arrange meetings outside East London. You attracted the attention of the wrong people yesterday. Some bad stuff is going down. A certain element wants to make sure the police don’t get wind of it.”
“What is it?”
“That, I can’t tell you.”
“Because you don’t know, or because you won’t?”
“Call it what you want. The bottom line is that you’re better off not knowing.”
He was quiet while their food was served—Welsh rarebit for her, a smoked Scottish salmon dish for him. Once the waiter was gone, Yo placed a folded sheet of paper on the table and turned it around so she could read the neatly hand-written list of names and phone numbers. He pointed to the name at the top, Imam Abdullah Hakim, and tapped his finger on it.
“Sami wasn’t a practicing Muslim, although his parents are devout. That’s one of the reasons he wasn’t staying with them. There was too much friction, especially over religion. But he was friends with the imam, and I think Sami might have confided in him. The others are friends of Sami’s. As I said, call them and have them meet you anywhere but East London. I can’t emphasize this enough. Do not go back there. Now let’s talk about something else. How’s life at the Dorchester?”
Nicole explained about the break-in and that she wasn’t comfortable there.
“That’s too bad,” he said. “Their security is as good as any in London. Short of going back to the States, that’s as safe as it gets.”
A white-haired man in a crisply pressed sports shirt and creased khaki pants stepped up to the table and tapped Yo on the shoulder.
“Henry, I haven’t seen you in ages!”
Yo gave a big smile and stood to shake the stranger’s hand.
“Nicole,” he said, “this is Ge
orge Foster, an old colleague of mine. George, this is Nicole Graves, who’s working on a project with me.”
George shook Nicole’s hand, then turned back to Yo.
“So Henry, what have you been up to?”
“I’m still with the Kirkwood Alliance.”
“Still fundraising for a charity? Smart guy like you could be earning a lot more. I’ve asked before and I’ll ask again. Why don’t you come work for me?”
Yo laughed. “Don’t tempt me. I’m happy where I am. I feel I’m making the world a better place.”
George shook his head in admiration. “England needs more people like you, Henry—willing to give up material comfort for the greater good.” Then he glanced at his watch and turned to Nicole. “Pleasure to meet you.” He shifted his attention to Yo. “Always good to see you, Henry. I must dash. But please give me a ring. We’ll meet for a drink. You can hit me up for a contribution.”
“Will do.”
Nicole was eaten up with curiosity. Who was this enigma who called himself Yo, at least to her.
“Henry? The Kirkwood Alliance? Who are you? And what’s the Kirkwood Alliance? Now I’m really confused.”
Yo laughed. “I think I’ll keep you guessing. I’ve got to get back to my shop. I don’t expect we’ll meet again. I wish you luck in your endeavor.” He held up a finger to summon a waiter, and paid the check with a hundred-pound note. Nicole was pretty sure she recognized it. A corner of the bill was missing, like one of the notes she’d given him the day before in exchange for information about Sami.
She looked at her watch. It was a little past 1:00 p.m. She figured she’d better start for the juvenile detention center to visit Abigail. She’d already mapped out the route, and her phone said it was thirty minutes by tube. First she had to pick up some candy, and hopefully a book Abigail might enjoy. But given her recent transportation mishaps, there was no telling how long the trip might take.
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