“Let me get the key to her room so you’ll have a place to sit while you wait.”
Before Nicole could say don’t bother, he was gone. She got out her phone and tried to call Sacha, but there was no answer. She left a message. By then Daniel was back, unlocking the door to Sacha’s room. He went in with her and they both sat, Nicole on the chair, Daniel on the bed.
“In case you haven’t guessed, Sacha and I are dating. We were supposed to have dinner and study together last night, but she didn’t show up or call to say she couldn’t make it. She didn’t sleep here last night either.”
Nicole nodded. She could see how worried he was. She noticed the flyer with the nanny ad on Sacha’s bulletin board and pointed to it.
“Did she mention to you that she was considering signing up?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I asked her about it when she put up the poster. I hope she doesn’t. I’d hate for her to be away a whole year. But she’s having a tough go trying to support herself.”
They waited a while, chatting. Nicole asked Daniel questions about King’s College. But her mind was on the nanny job Sacha had talked about. Maybe the girl’s appointment yesterday had been with Nannies International. It bore checking out.
Daniel said his life at King’s had been a wonderful experience. He explained that he’d majored in graphic arts and minored in computer science. He already had a job lined up for after graduation.
After forty-five minutes, Nicole figured Sacha wasn’t going to show. Now she shared Daniel’s worry.
She removed the flyer from Sacha’s bulletin board. “Can I get a copy of this?”
“Sure thing. They have a copying machine downstairs. I’ll take you there.” He followed her out of the room and locked the door.
“Is there a way for you to voice your concern about Sacha’s disappearance?”
He nodded. “Of course. We have the residence hall advisor. It’s not unusual for a student to disappear for a couple days, so I don’t think they’d do anything at this point. But I’m certain something’s happened to her. Staying out like this isn’t at all like her.”
Before leaving, Nicole handed him her card. “Thanks for all your help, Daniel. Please call me when she turns up, okay?”
He nodded. Still looking worried, he waved goodbye.
On her way back to the tube station, Nicole thought about Nannies International. She remembered reading articles back home about girls who’d been duped with promises of well-paid nanny and housekeeping jobs abroad. Instead they’d been turned into household slaves or prostitutes. From what she’d gathered, these girls were recruited by word of mouth. Many of these cons took place in third-world countries. But human trafficking took place in the US as well. Her own office had handled research on several such cases. She knew traffickers wouldn’t risk advertising openly in the US like Nannies International did here. She promised herself she’d look into it as soon as she had time.
Eleven
It was almost 4:00 p.m. by the time Nicole got back to the flat with a few items she’d picked up at the market near the tube station—bread, butter, and a package of prepared Indian food. She put the groceries away and went to the computer. She’d already done background checks on the names Yo had given her. But these profiles were only part of the picture. There was no substitute for a personal interview.
From the time she was in her teens, Nicole had a knack for getting people to confide in her. For one thing she was a good listener. Another asset was her appearance. People seemed to perceive her as sweet, harmless, and naive. When it came down to it, she was none of those things. But her dimples and ready smile made the people she interviewed underestimate her, and she easily won their trust.
She got out her notebook and looked over the list of names Yo had given her when they met at Fortnum & Mason. He’d provided phone numbers and cautioned her not to go around knocking on doors. Best to call these people ahead and set up appointments to meet in a public place.
At the top of Yo’s list was Abdullah Hakim, an imam at the Muslim community center at the edge of East London. Next to Abdullah’s name she’d written what Yo had told her. Sami hadn’t been religious, but he’d known the imam since he was a boy and often visited him.
Nicole called Abdullah’s number, and to her surprise, he picked up right away. He spoke softly with an accent so slight it was hard to guess his native language.
“Sami was a friend,” he said. “I am grieved by his loss. If it would help, I’d be happy to speak with you.” They made an appointment at the Muslim center for the next afternoon.
After hanging up, she got busy with the other numbers. She made at least a dozen calls, but only two people picked up, and neither would agree to meet with her or even answer questions by phone. This put an end to the possibility of any more personal interviews. Yo had warned her to stay away from the East London altogether. But tomorrow was Sunday, the day for the famous Brick Lane Market, which would attract crowds of shoppers. It would be safe to go there on her way to the Muslim center. A chance to see one of London’s most prized street markets was a definite plus.
By now it was 6:30 p.m., and she was physically and emotionally drained. She heated up the Indian meal she’d bought earlier, a container of chicken tikka masala and rice. After reading a while, she made it an early night.
§
The next morning Nicole called Jerry and brought him up to speed on Abigail’s case. She also used her computer to write up a detailed report of every contact she’d made since she began her investigation. This put her behind schedule, and she didn’t arrive at her tube stop until nearly 11:00 a.m. By the time she reached Brick Lane, the market was in full swing. She was dazzled by the sights, sounds, and smells as well as the size of the market, which ran on for blocks, occupying the entire boulevard—it was too broad to be considered a lane—as well as the sidewalks. Despite the cold misty weather, the street was packed. Some shoppers were Indian or Middle Eastern, who might very well live in the neighborhood. Judging by the way people were dressed, the turnout included foreign tourists and people from every ethnicity and socio-economic class.
She walked along slowly, taking in the booths in the street, as well as the shops on either side. The sheer variety of goods was overwhelming. It seemed to Nicole that there was nothing that couldn’t be found here. Food was a major attraction, and it smelled wonderful. But there was so much more on offer. Clothing of all kinds was for sale—new and used—as well as vintage attire and handmade garments from young designers.
One stall featured bright multi-colored cowboy boots that looked like they might be straight out of Frida Kahlo’s wardrobe. Their brilliant colors took her breath away. One pair in particular caught her eye. The boots were red, with gold and blue embroidery up the sides, along with animal-shaped appliques of lime green and deep purple. Nicole looked them over, and at the urging of the stall owner, tried on a pair. She loved the way they contrasted with her jeans. Before she knew it, she’d handed over eighty pounds and was wearing them, carrying her sneakers in a clear plastic bag.
Venders were selling new handmade furniture, as well as antiques. Others hawked a huge variety of kitchen equipment. Like the clothing, the cooking utensils were both new and used. Some of the merchandise was so odd that Nicole wondered who would buy it, such as ancient typewriters, and even an assortment of taxidermied animals. The creatures ranged from mice to owls to a huge bear on his hind legs with his claws out, teeth bared. One booth held stuffed reptiles, including a small alligator. There were vintage maps, lamps, umbrellas, and cartons and cartons of books which she found tempting. She could picture herself spending hours browsing through them, if only she had the time.
The art on display was tantalizing, and she lingered to gaze at prints, original paintings, sculpture, handicrafts, ceramic figurines, and bric-a-brac. But the best art appeared on the sides and fronts of buildings. These huge, colorful works included graffiti, unbelievably convincing trompe l’oeil rend
erings, brilliantly colored abstracts, and hyperrealism, both gorgeous and gruesome.
Nicole walked backward all the way across the street to take in an enormous image of the head and upper torso of a beautiful woman lying on her side. She was wearing roses in her hair. This painting covered the entire front of a one-story building. A huge heron painted on the side of the tall structure next door seemed to be staring down at her.
But the most plentiful and varied product on offer was food. Temporary stalls, as well as shops lining the boulevard, touted everything from curries to bagels to fried chicken, fish and chips, and grilled meat.
Buskers were stationed along the route. Among them were a bagpiper, an African drummer, and a small rock band. They positioned their instrument cases or other receptacles in front of them with a showing of coins to remind passersby to leave tips.
Nicole walked along, too distracted by each new sight to focus on any more shopping. The scene was overwhelming. Finally she ducked into a small Indian restaurant called Aladdin Brick Lane. She wasn’t sure how hot the curry might be, and the waiter wasn’t proficient enough in English to understand her question. So she ordered samosas to start, followed by tandoori chicken with rice and tea. The meal was delicious, and she finished every bite.
Now fortified, she got out her London street guide to figure out the best route to the Muslim center where she was to meet the imam. She looked at her watch. It was now 2:00 p.m. How had it gotten so late? The street market had put her into sensory overload, obliterating her sense of time.
She paid the check and returned to the street. As she looked around, she promised herself she’d return to the market again and make a day of it. A picture of herself and Reinhardt popped up in her head—the two of them walking along, enjoying the art, sampling the food, and joking about the more bizarre items for sale. She thought of all the good times they’d had together and how it had ended. If only things could go back to the way they were. But she couldn’t unlearn the lesson the experience had taught her—a long-distance romance rarely worked out, and never with a spy.
She was getting tired, and her new boots were beginning to hurt. She knew better than to wear new shoes without breaking them in first, but she had been so taken with the purchase that she couldn’t help herself. Rather than risk blistered feet, she decided to change back into her trusty old sneakers. The market was so crowded it was impossible to find a place to sit. So she turned the corner and walked a long block to a house with a steep staircase leading up to the front door.
Before sitting on the steps, she looked around to make sure the street was safe. That’s when she spotted the same man who’d been following her before. He was approaching from the market. She walked faster, half-jogging, and turned another corner. Only after she entered did she realize it wasn’t a street but an alley, dead-ended by a brick apartment house.
She looked around for a place to hide, but there wasn’t any. She headed for the only building in sight that had a door leading to the alley. She tried to open it, but it was locked. She scrunched herself into the shallow recess in which the door was set and fumbled in her purse for her pepper spray.
A moment later the man rounded the corner into the alley and headed straight toward her.
Nicole held up the pepper spray. “Leave me alone, or I’ll blast you with mace!”
When he was a few feet away, he reached out as if to grab the pepper spray. She pressed the button, squirting it directly into his eyes. The man screamed and staggered backward, his hands over his face. A bit of the spray floated back to her, and her eyes stung as she ran back to Brick Lane. The market was still crowded, and she felt safe enough to slow to a walk.
That does it, she thought. She’d have to leave the market even though her appointment with the imam wasn’t for another half-hour. She’d go to the Muslim center early and splash cold water on her face to cool her burning eyes. The place must have somewhere quiet where she could sit and calm herself.
Nicole was just passing an attractive newly renovated building when she noticed the address, got out her notebook, and checked her list. Yes. Someone she’d skipped on her last trip lived in this building. Part of the bottom floor was occupied by yet another convenience store. There seemed to be one every other block. But the top floors had been modernized with new windows and painted white with dark gray trim. An exterior alcove held an intercom with a list residents and corresponding numbers to reach them. The name Yo had given her was Shirley Hallihan.
A woman carrying a couple grocery bags passed her and opened the door to the lobby. She looked at Nicole over her shoulder.
“Can I help you?” she said. “Do you need directions?” Her voice had a cheerful Irish lilt.
Nicole explained that she wanted to talk one of the building’s residents.
“Do you mind telling me who it might be?” the woman said.
“Shirley Hallihan.”
“That would be me. I’d love a bit of company. Come along.”
Nicole followed the woman inside. They boarded an elevator that was barely big enough for the two of them. Their proximity gave Nicole a chance to study Shirley. She was tall, slender, and distinctive-looking. Her white hair was done up in a bun with what looked like a chopstick stuck through it. She was dressed in a kaftan with colorful embroidery down the front. She appeared to be in her sixties, maybe older, with plenty of lines and wrinkles.
Shirley was observing Nicole as well. “You look like you’ve been crying, dear. What’s the matter?”
Not wanting to alarm the woman, Nicole attributed her bloodshot eyes to an allergy.
“Why, you poor thing,” Shirley said. “That must be quite an allergy.”
When they arrived at her floor, she squeezed out of the elevator and held the door while Nicole got out.
“I’ve just the thing for sore eyes.” Shirley slipped off her Birkenstocks as they entered her apartment. “First you’ll have to take off your boots. Rule of the house. Sorry. Hope you don’t mind.”
Nicole pulled off the new boots, and Shirley lined them up next to her own.
“Go down the hall to the first door on your left. That’s the washroom. Splash your face with water. In the medicine cupboard you’ll find a brown glass bottle containing ampules of eye drops. That will sort you out.”
Nicole did as she was told. The cold water helped. The bottle containing the eyedrops lacked a label, as did the other bottles of pills and liquids in the medicine cabinet. Picking up the eyedrop container, she noticed there was a tiny label on the bottom. Chung’s Herbal Tinctures.
Okay, here goes. Quickly—before she could think about it—she put a few drops in each eye. The stinging instantly disappeared.
Refreshed, Nicole walked back into the living room. The place was clean but cluttered with books everywhere. Shirley had to clear several stacks from the couch to make room for Nicole.
“Oh, dear,” Shirley said. “I just realized you must be the one who called yesterday and left a message. I was going to give you a ring, but it went straight out of my head.”
“That’s okay,” Nicole said. “How did you know Sami?”
“I was a teacher, but I’m retired now. He was one of my students in primary school. Even then I could see his potential. He was very bright, but unmotivated. He got no encouragement at home. His father is a day laborer, the mother’s at home, and their lives revolve around their religion. They never considered the idea that Sami might go to college. So I made him my special project. I encouraged him to take the right exams and get through his A-levels. I tutored him when he needed it and helped him write his applications for university. I was thrilled when King’s offered him a full scholarship.” Shirley got up. “I’m sorry. I should have offered you tea. It’s that time of day, and I’m dying for a cuppa. I’ll be right back.” She headed for a small galley kitchen that was open to the living room.
As Shirley pottered about, Nicole got up to read several framed certificates on the wall. One of
them named Shirley teacher of the year at Clarendom Primary School. Another commemorated the woman’s retirement two years before.
Nicole moved on to examine one of the bookcases, which held a number of copies of the Koran, several in English, but a few others in different languages.
Shirley was back with a tray. She set it down before placing the teapot, cups, saucers, and a plate of shortbread cookies on the coffee table. Once they were both seated again, Shirley served the tea, and they each took a piece of shortbread.
“It broke my heart when Sami was sent down for the drugs thing,” Shirley said. “I couldn’t believe he’d do something that stupid. But the girl he was so crazy about had rich parents. I think it made him feel inadequate to be without money. Not that it’s any excuse. After it happened he came to see me several times. The first time he didn’t appear upset about what happened at King’s. He seemed to know where he was going and felt good about it. This was just a feeling I had, mind you. He didn’t say anything of the sort.” Shirley picked up the plate of shortbread and held it out to Nicole. “Help yourself to another.”
“I’m fine, thanks. Please go on.”
Shirley took a piece for herself and looked into the distance while she ate. She seemed sad, as if considering the way her prodigy’s life had ended. Then she looked back at Nicole.
“The last time I saw him, he asked if he could stay with me for a bit until he found a new place. He said his landlord turned him out because he was converting the apartments into condos. From the way he acted—all jumpy and nervous-like—I knew he wasn’t telling the truth. Frankly I didn’t think he should stay here. I believe in letting young people handle their own problems. Besides, I like my privacy. So I told him no. I can’t tell you how much I regret that. I think someone was after him. He needed a place to hide, and look what happened.”
“The police think Abigail, his girlfriend, killed him.”
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