Nicole was back in the kitchen when the front door opened and banged shut. She hurried into the living room. Reinhardt was carrying several bags of takeout food. He also had a bag from a convenience store, which he tossed onto the sofa. They moved to the breakfast bar in the kitchen, where he began to unpack the food. He’d ordered several varieties of omelets, what Nicole knew as Canadian bacon but was simply called bacon here, and a pastry basket. The food had cooled. Nicole divided it onto two plates and reheated them in the microwave.
The two of them chatted through the meal. When they were done, he retrieved the bag he’d brought in and pulled out a black burner phone.
“I got this for you to use for the time being. You did turn off you own phone, right?”
“Of course. Before we left the hotel.” She took the phone and dropped it into her purse.
“Good. I have some reports to read this afternoon. But first I’ll show you how to get started on my computer. You can take it from there.”
She retrieved a pen and her notebook from her purse before following him into his office. He told her to take his desk chair, and pulled up another for himself so he could show her several websites he thought might be useful. One held criminal records. Another had a database for deep searches into UK residents’ backgrounds, much like the resources her firm used for US residents. Yet another website was linked to London’s CCTV system of street cameras.
“I’ve heard there are cameras on every street in London, and the police use them to solve crimes,” she said.
“It’s huge. We have a network of cameras that belong to the government, shops, corporations, transit systems—you name it. Here, let me show you how to access a location.”
His fingers flew over the keys as he explained the steps he was taking to find a specific street camera. He pulled up footage that was time dated 11:42 p.m. the previous evening. It showed a brief video of several cars driving past his building.
“See?” he said. “The police can blow up the image and read the license plates if they want to know whose vehicle this is.”
“Can we watch in real time?” she said. “Like right now in front of your building?”
“No. The police do have about a hundred live cameras in public spaces throughout London. But we have laws to prevent this kind of surveillance elsewhere. It goes to the right to privacy. The government feels this right is more important than solving crimes.”
“What do you think?”
He shrugged. “That’s not my bailiwick anymore, is it? But I think solving crime is bloody important, and sometimes the government carries the right to privacy too far.”
Nicole withheld comment. He was a cop, and that was how he thought. No sense trying to change his mind. In her view, the right to privacy was by far more important. The police had many other ways to catch and identify criminals. And who’d want to live in a place where you were constantly being observed by cameras and possibly the police? It would just take a few authoritarian leaders to turn the country into a police state, where any anti-government action—a march or protest—would be illegal. The next step would be to find and arrest dissenters captured on these cameras.
“I’ll leave you to it, then.” Reinhardt got up. “Good luck!”
Nicole pulled out her notes with the list Yo had given her, and began looking up names on the people finder. She was surprised that most of these people, even some of the nineteen-year-olds, had had encounters with the police. Some of the younger ones had been involved in incidents before they turned eighteen, and those records were sealed.
The one exception was Sami since he was nineteen at the time of his run-in at King’s College. Abigail had said the university had expelled him for drug dealing without a hearing. What she didn’t say was that he’d first been arrested and charged by the police. Perhaps he hadn’t told Abigail this part of the story.
She paged back through her notes until she found the name of the convenience store owner—Rakib Ahmed. Ahmed had a history of arrests. He was convicted of illegal money lending—known in the States as loan sharking—and money laundering. A 2006 conviction bought him five years in prison, although he was released in thirty-six months for good behavior.
She looked up Yo under the name Sacha had given her, Yaman Hajjeer. This turned out to be an alias for a man named Elias Jones, who was a dual citizen of the US and UK. His mother was American. His father English. Elias was born in Georgia and moved to London in 2000. He had a police record, but it was marked unavailable for viewing and she couldn’t access it.
She printed out the relevant page and brought it to where Reinhardt was sitting, absorbed in a report. She sat next to him and waited for him to look up. He gazed at her over his reading glasses, raising his eyebrows.
“Run into a snag?”
She showed him the page and pointed to the line that said Yo’s file was unavailable.
“What does this mean?”
He took it from her. As he started to read it, his face registered surprise. He opened his mouth as if about to speak, then closed it.
“Okay,” she said. “You know this guy. I can see it on your face. Tell.”
“I can’t. This is a police matter.”
“Right, but you’re not with the police anymore, are you? Just give me an idea what this might be. You know I’ll keep it to myself.”
He was quiet, thinking it over.
Finally he said, “I’ll tell you this much. When they freeze a file like this, it might be because the individual is a police informant. Or he may be the subject of an ongoing investigation. Or he could be in some kind of witness protection scheme. Or all of the above.”
“Help me out here. If you had to guess, which would it be?”
“I’d say he’s an informant.”
Reinhardt was quiet, looking back at the report in his lap.
Finally he said, “Look, Nicole. I do know this bloke—ran into him when I was with the Met. He knows everybody in East London and every single bit of dirty business that goes on there. Did you actually meet him?”
“I did. He gave me a lot of names, friends and contacts of Sami’s to look up, but only after I crossed his palm with two hundred pounds.”
She went on to describe his strange conversion into the dignified Brit she’d met for lunch at Fortnum & Mason.
Reinhardt chuckled. “Tricky bastard. Either he was trying some elaborate scam, or he didn’t want anyone to recognize him.”
“But someone did. This man came over who seemed to know him as Henry. And Yo told him he was working for some kind of charity.”
Reinhardt was laughing. “Typical. He can be entertaining. And he’s highly intelligent and resourceful, but he’s basically a con man. You can bet he’s looked you up. I’m sure he knows about your inheritance and is figuring out how to get a piece of it. If I were you, I’d keep away from him.”
“I don’t expect to see him again. Do you think he had something to do with Sami’s murder?”
“I have no idea. But his past misdeeds were scams—white-collar cases, as opposed to violent crimes.”
“Okay.” Nicole got up to return to his computer. “I’ll keep digging.”
Around noon, the two of them walked to a small wine bar nearby, where they had lunch. They’d just returned to the flat when Nicole remembered her appointment at the US Embassy to apply for another passport. Reinhardt drove her there. She filled out some forms at the embassy and let them take a copy of her driver’s license. They were back an hour later, and Nicole spent the rest of the afternoon doing background checks on everyone she’d come in contact with since she’d arrived. By the end of the day, she felt she’d gotten nowhere. She was about to sign off when she realized she’d skipped one person—Sacha Bahar, Abigail’s neighbor at the dorm.
Sacha’s file turned out to be disappointingly predictable. A photo confirmed that she was who she said she was and had no criminal record.
By now Nicole’s eyes were burning from worki
ng on the computer so long. She was just turning it off when Reinhardt appeared in the doorway.
“Quitting time,” he said. “Let’s go somewhere for a drink, then find a place for dinner. And I have a lovely idea for the evening.”
“I thought we might want to come back here, put a log in your fireplace, and hang out. Maybe popcorn and a movie?”
“That’s exactly what I was planning.” He grinned at her and bent to give her a quick kiss on the mouth.
He got their coats out of the closet and—always the gentleman—helped her into hers.
“Let’s go.” He reached over to set the security system.
Nine
Abigail, becoming bored with British daytime TV, had fallen asleep. She woke with a start when she heard someone unlocking the door to her room. She was instantly alert. Had Niamh and her pals gotten hold of the key? She sat up, barely able to breathe.
But it was only the guard, the nice one who’d asked Abigail to call her Gretchen. She was carrying a box, which she set on the bed.
“Your solicitor sent over some clothes. Get dressed. We’ll stop at the office to pick up the envelope with your valuables. A van is waiting for you downstairs.”
“Am I getting out? Did they find the real murderer?”
“No. You’re being transferred somewhere else.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know, so don’t ask.” Gretchen’s tone was impatient, almost hostile.
This mystified Abigail when the guard had been so friendly before.
“Wash up and get dressed as fast as you can. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.”
As the guard headed for the door, Abigail called, “Wait! If I go to the washroom, those girls will find me and beat me up again.”
The guard shook her head. “They’re all at their lessons. I checked and there’s no one in the showers. Hurry up!”
Abigail got up and opened the box, surprised to discover that it didn’t contain any of her own clothes. These were new, with the price tags still on. They were from a store called Marks & Spencer, and in her opinion, super ugly. A brown wool sweater with a matching cardigan was on top. Next came a brown plaid wraparound skirt, and—ugh!—brown tights. She supposed all these browns were meant to go together so she’d be all matchy-matchy. As she lifted them from the box, she saw that the solicitor had included a second outfit, this one in even more appalling taste. It included a pink T-shirt with long ruffled sleeves, and worst of all, denim pants with an elasticized waist. At the bottom of the box were several pairs of underwear—big, boxy things—tube socks, and a pair of white sneakers. She was horrified. She wouldn’t be caught dead wearing stuff like this.
Then she looked down at the snap-front beige uniform that the detention center had issued her. It was even uglier. After being worn and slept in, it was all wrinkled. She didn’t have any choice. She’d have to change into one of these dorky outfits.
She decided to washup first. When she got to the bathroom, it was empty. She worked quickly, hoping to be gone before anyone walked in. After a freezing thirty-second shower, she ran a toothbrush around in her mouth and splashed cold water on her face. She wrapped herself in a towel and scurried back to her room. She put on the old-lady underwear was starting to pull the brown sweater over her head when she heard whispered conversation and froze. Niamh appeared in the doorway, flanked by two others.
Niamh spoke in a low voice, as if she thought a guard might be nearby.
“Well, what a shyme. Looks like you’re leavin’ us. We’ll all be missin’ our girl, won’t we?”
Her buddies nodded.
Abigail pretended to ignore them as she finished putting on the sweater and tried to figure out how to wrap the plaid skirt so it wouldn’t flap open when she walked. As soon as she picked up the brown cardigan, Niamh wrested it away and held it up for inspection.
“Nice jumper.” She turned to the others.
Once more, they nodded.
Abigail’s bottom lip trembled, and she tried to blink back tears. Where is Gretchen?
“Oh, look,” Niamh said. “She’s afraid I’ll nick her new jumper, and she’s about to bawl.” She paused. “No, sweetheart. Here it is.” She wadded up the cardigan and threw it on the floor. “We just came by to tell you what’s goin’ to ‘appen to you. You’re charged with murder, yeah? You know what they do to murderers? They ‘ang ‘em. They take you right from the courtroom and string you up.” Niamh studied Abigail’s face for a reaction.
Abigail was trying hard not to look scared. But Niamh’s words brought back the memory of an old movie she’d seen as a child. It had to be English because the lawyers were all wearing those silly white wigs. A man was convicted of murder. The judge put a black handkerchief on his head and sentenced the man to death. The guards dragged him out of the courtroom. They didn’t show the actual hanging, just the trap door and the man’s feet falling through. She felt sick with fear. Could this happen to her?
Satisfied she’d gotten a rise out of Abigail, Niamh said, “Oh, I almost forgot. That place they’re takin’ you to? Turns out we got friends there. We let ‘em know you’re coming. They’re arranging a little welcome party, aren’t they girls?”
Her followers assumed the same smirk as Niamh’s.
The guard appeared in the doorway. She pulled herself up straight and put her hands on her hips.
“Niamh! Georgina! Daisy! What are you doing out of class? Report to the director’s office right now.”
“Aw, Gretchen,” Niamh said. “You don’t want to make us do that. We were just saying goodbye to Abigail here and wishing her all the best in her new digs. Aren’t you always tellin’ us to be kind to others?”
Gretchen softened. “Go on with you then. Get back to your studies. I’ll leave you be this once.”
Abigail was flabbergasted. These girls were evil and violent. Gretchen knew they were the ones who beat her up in the cafeteria. She’d have been happy to leave this lockup if Niamh hadn’t told her about the welcoming party awaiting her at the new place. Would the girls there be like Niamh and her posse? Abigail’s stomach clenched. It was so unfair! How could she end up like this when she hadn’t done anything wrong?
“Why are you just sitting there?” Gretchen’s tone was supremely impatient. “Hurry up and finish dressing! Oh, I’ll do it.”
Gretchen picked up the cardigan, which was now wrinkled from being balled up. After turning it right side out, she pulled Abigail’s arms through the sleeves, none too gently. The guard handed her a pair of socks. Once Abigail put them on, Gretchen made quick work of jamming the girl’s feet into the new sneakers and tying the laces in a double knot.
Gretchen started to leave, then turned back when she realized Abigail hadn’t moved from her perch on the bed.
“For God’s sake, follow me. Do you think I hurried you into your clothes so you could sit there all day? And don’t forget that box with your new things. Do you realize how lucky you are to be getting out of here?”
Abigail trailed Gretchen down the stairs and into the office. The woman who’d admitted her had her sign a paper before she handed Abigail her purse, the envelope containing her jewelry, and the rest of her things.
“You’ll have to surrender this to the management at your next placement. Don’t forget. If you bring your valuables in with you, someone will steal them.”
Gretchen led Abigail out to the parking area behind the big gate. Except for the driver, the van was empty.
He greeted them with an impatient, “About time!”
“Here she is, Little Miss Privilege,” Gretchen said. “Had to dress her myself.”
Abigail was floored by the guard’s hostility. She couldn’t imagine what she’d done to deserve it. Then something occurred to her. It must have been Abigail’s sudden transfer, presumably to a better place. Gretchen thought Abigail was getting special treatment because her parents were rich. This was probably true, but it didn’t take away the sting. Gretchen was the
only person who’d been nice to her since she got here, and this rejection stung. She tried to tell herself the guard was no better than a servant and her opinion didn’t matter. But it did. It mattered a lot.
As soon as Abigail was buckled into the seat behind the driver, the van started up and the gate slowly opened. They drove for what seemed like a while, through neighborhoods that gradually changed from shabby to upscale. At one point they passed a palatial building with green awnings, each bearing the word Harrods. She realized she was passing London’s most famous and luxurious department store. She regretted that she’d never made the effort to see it, or much else in London.
They passed designer shops and restaurants, big government buildings, a huge arch, and a row of what looked like castles. For a while they drove alongside a river, and passed several bridges. Abigail might have enjoyed the sights if she hadn’t been so worried about what was waiting at the end of this ride.
Their destination proved to be a plain brick two-story house on a block of almost identical structures. It was distinguished from the others by a single feature, an after-thought of a third story that looked like a giant pigeon loft, except it had windows. The place had no front garden, just a slatted wood fence that enclosed some trashcans and a low gate. But the windows were clean, the white trim and front door freshly painted, and a new-looking lace curtain was visible through the picture window.
As Abigail climbed out carrying her box of clothes, the curtain was pulled back and three girl’s faces appeared, two white and one deep tan.
A red-headed woman answered the door with a big smile, as if this were a happy occasion.
The Entitled Page 11