She reached the tube station and carefully walked down the wet stairs. Once she was seated on a train, she took out her pocket guide to London, which included a map of the underground. After studying it, she saw she had to transfer to the Piccadilly line to get back to Knightsbridge and Reinhardt’s flat.
She got off at the next station and switched lines. As she rode the escalator down to the train, she noticed a figure behind her, a young man who looked not much taller than she was. He made an odd figure in his brown raincoat and matching brimmed hat. The coat was too big. It was wrapped around him almost twice, the belt cinched to keep it closed. He looked familiar. Is he following me?
By the time she got down to the platform, the guy in the brown raincoat and hat was nowhere to be seen. She chalked her alarm up to being done in by the morning’s events and that she was cold and wet. She boarded the train after checking to be sure the young man in brown wasn’t on it. Reassured, she rested her head against the window and glanced at her watch. It was 12:40. Reinhardt had promised to be back by 12:30. By the time she got to his flat, he’d be waiting for her. They’d have lunch delivered, and she’d have time for a hot shower before changing into dry clothes. The thought of it warmed her.
Fifteen
Abigail walked for what seemed like hours after leaving the group home. She’d planned to spend the night with the fellow student who’d kept asking her out. But as soon as she was on the street, she realized she hadn’t thought this through. She knew where he lived, but it was too far to walk and she didn’t have money for bus or tube fare.
She was already shivering with cold when it started pouring. She ran until she came to a sizeable park. The place was deserted, no little tents sheltering homeless like the ones she saw in parks back home. This made her wonder where such people went in weather like this. Perhaps they slept under bridges or the eaves of buildings, covered with the heaps of blankets and clothes they pushed around in shopping carts.
Abigail had never given much thought to the homeless, except to keep away from them. At least half of those she saw in L.A. were crazy or drugged out. The aggressive ones—the shouters who followed people around and screamed obscenities—scared her. She’d never felt sorry for them until now, when she realized how miserable it was to be out in bad weather .
In a far corner of the park, she spotted a public bathroom. It wouldn’t be warm, but it offered shelter from the wind and rain. She’d just reached the structure when someone grabbed her arm. She turned to face the bulky shape of a man who appeared to be wearing many layers of clothing.
The man held onto her. “What are you doing out in weather like this? You’ll catch your death of cold. I know where—”
“Let go of me!” Abigail pulled, trying to free her arm from his grasp.
But it only grew tighter. Instinct took over, along with the self-defense moves she’d seen on TV. With all the strength she possessed, she brought her knee up between the man’s legs. He fell to the ground, moaning and holding his crotch.
“Why’d you do that?” He gasped. “I wasn’t going to hurt you. Just wanted to help.”
She didn’t believe him. When he started to struggle to his feet, she turned and ran.
“Wait,” he called. “I know where we can get a bed and a hot meal.”
Abigail ran faster. She had no idea where she was going, just that she had to get away.
After a few blocks, when she was sure he wasn’t following her, she slowed to a walk and looked around. The houses on this street were tiny and rundown. Several had their windows boarded up. Except for an occasional porchlight, the houses were dark.
She’d eaten the sandwiches she’d packed soon after she left the group home. She felt a pang of hunger and craved something hot to eat or drink. She’d been coughing off and on since she got up that morning. Now she went into a fit of coughing. The backs of her thighs and butt hurt where she’d been punctured by the rosebush. She was too tired and miserable to take another step. She found herself wishing she’d never attempted to escape. She was sick, cold, hungry, and she had nowhere to go and no money to get there.
She glanced around. To her right was a stunted-looking house constructed of stone. It was dark and, at least to Abigail, looked prehistoric. The front windows had boards across them, and the place appeared to be deserted. She headed down the path, climbed to the porch, and tried the door. It was locked. She went to the back, where a shredded awning flapped over a back entrance. She tried this door, but it, too, was locked. It did have a window in it that was begging to be smashed. She found the stone figure of a goose on the ground nearby—it looked like it had once been a doorstop—and used it to break the glass. She reached in and opened the door from the inside.
The house was no warmer than it had been outside, but at least she was out of the rain. The lights didn’t work, which meant the electricity had been shut off. Even so, the place was minimally furnished with a couch and chair in the living room, a table and a single chair in the dining room, and a mattress with no bedding in the bedroom. She went to the kitchen and looked in the refrigerator, the cupboards, and the tiny pantry, but there was no food or drink. She turned on the faucet, but the water had been shut off.
It was obvious that no one lived here, not even squatters. She went back into the living room and lay on the couch. That’s when she noticed several logs stacked by the fireplace. She got up to take a closer look, and found a box of matches on the mantel. She put a log on the grate and tried to light it, but it was hopeless without newspapers or some kind of kindling.
She walked around the house, looking in cupboards and closets. In one bedroom she found some men’s clothes draped over a chair—a pair of overalls, a long-sleeved undershirt, and a grotty old green slicker. She peeled off her wet clothes and put these on. They smelled moldy, but it was such a relief to get into dry clothes that she hardly noticed. In another bedroom she found a desk with a mass of papers and unopened mail. This was just what she’d been looking for. She scooped it all up and headed back to the living room.
She used the papers to light a fire under the log. When it caught, she piled on a second one. She sat in front of the fireplace. Soon the logs were burning, and Abigail could feel the area around the fireplace heating up. She sat cross-legged on the hearth. The warmth was heavenly.
As the flames danced, she thought about her predicament. Was there anywhere she could go to get away from the trial and its possible consequences? With a sinking heart, she realized she had only one choice. The river Thames was somewhere around here. She could throw herself off one of London’s bridges and drown. But she knew she was too much of a coward to go through with it. Even if she could, what would be the point? There was still a chance her solicitor and Nicole would find evidence to prove she was innocent. She had to face that she had no real choice but to go back to the group home and face whatever awaited her.
She sat for a long time as the night sky began to grow light. It occurred to her that she should hurry back to the group home before anyone noticed she was gone. But how? She didn’t even know where she was.
When it was almost full daylight, she abandoned the comfort of the fire and left the house. The neighborhood looked just as unfamiliar as it had in the dark. She started walking in what she hoped was the right direction. The sad truth was that even if she met someone who might give her directions, she couldn’t remember the name of the group home. It had Elizabeth in it, but not Queen Elizabeth. It was someone with a last name. She racked her brain, wishing she’d paid more attention.
About six blocks on, the houses and yards gradually became better kept, as if people lived in them. Some were lit up. A woman came out of a house up ahead. She was wearing a coat and carrying a briefcase, apparently headed to work.
Abigail shouted, “Wait!”
The woman glanced around, then started walking faster. Abigail ran until she caught up with her.
“Please, miss.” She tried to make her voice high so she�
��d sound young and innocent, but her words came out in a hoarse croak. “I got lost and need directions back to where I’m staying.”
The woman stopped and looked at her. “Where are you staying?”
“I’m not sure of the name. It was the Elizabeth—oh, now I remember. The Elizabeth something academy.”
The woman frowned. “I’ve never heard of it. Is it a school?”
“Sort of. It’s a group home. They have classes there, too.”
The woman pulled her phone out of her purse and typed something in.
“Is it the Elizabeth Fry Residential Academy?”
Abigail smiled in relief. “Yes. That’s it! Can you tell me how to get there?” She started coughing and turned away. The cough, wet and phlegmy, hurt her chest.
The woman reached out and touched Abigail’s forehead.
“You’re running a fever.” She stood there, regarding Abigail, as if making up her mind about something. “I have a daughter your age. I wouldn’t want her out in the cold and rain, especially if she was sick. “Get in my car.” She gestured toward a runty foreign car at the curb. “I’ll give you a lift to your school. But first I’ll get a blanket out of the boot. You can wrap yourself up to keep warm and spare my seat covers, yeah?”
When they arrived at the address, Abigail tried to thank the woman, but talking brought on another coughing fit.
“That’s fine.” The woman moved as far away as possible within the confines of the tiny car. “No need to thank me. Just hurry inside. You belong in bed.”
Abigail continued coughing while she got out of the car, went up to the house, and rang the doorbell. Sarah opened the door.
“Thank heaven you’re back. We’ve been so worried.” She looked Abigail over. “Where’d you get that raincoat? It smells.” She took Abigail’s arm and hurried her up the stairs. “Just listen to that cough. Let’s get you out of those clothes and into a hot shower.”
By the time Abigail was out of the shower, someone had picked up the wet clothes and taken them away. A pair of flannel pajamas and thick, fuzzy socks were laid out on the bed. She put them on and climbed in. Soon Sarah appeared, carrying a tray table with a dome-covered plate and a steaming mug.
Sarah put the tray on the bed, pulled out a thermometer, and stuck it in Abigail’s mouth. After a minute or so, she pulled it out.
“Thirty-nine degrees Celsius. You’ve got a quite a fever going on.”
To Abigail’s puzzled look, Sarah converted the numbers.
“One hundred two point-five Fahrenheit.” She took the dome off the plate, revealing two slices of toast and a tiny jar of honey.
Abigail tried a bite of toast, but it scratched her sore throat. She put the rest of it back on the plate, poured the honey into the tea, and took a sip. It was wonderfully hot and sweet.
“I really should call the police,” Sarah said. “I had to report that you’d left the group home. It’s a rule we have to follow when someone goes missing. But first I’m going to let you call your solicitor so she can advise you what to do.” She handed Abigail a phone.
“I don’t know her number,” Abigail said. Then in a small voice, “I don’t even remember her name.” She felt ashamed that she’d paid so little attention to things that were now so important.
“It’s Gemma Davies,” Sarah said. “Hit redial on my phone. I just spoke to her.”
When Abigail made the call, Gemma picked up right away.
“What’s that cough? You sound terrible. I’ll be right over, but first let me speak to Sarah.”
As soon as Abigail gave the phone to Sarah, she fell asleep.
She woke up at the feel of something cold being pressed to her chest. A woman was using a stethoscope to listen to her breathe. The doctor turned to Gemma and Sarah, who were seated on folding chairs nearby.
“She has bronchitis, maybe a touch of pneumonia,” she said. “I’ll prescribe an antibiotic. But I’ll take a swab so we can see exactly what the infection is and…”
Abigail couldn’t seem to stay awake. When she opened her eyes again, Gemma was the only one there.
“If you can stay awake long enough, I’m going to advise you about the next step forward. Sarah was kind enough not to report that you’ve returned. This means you can turn yourself in to the police, and it may help get you leniency from the court. I imagine you want to stay here rather than going back to the big youth detention center.”
“Yes, please.” Abigail felt like crying. “I wish I’d never left. But the girls at the detention center told me that they’d hang me if I got convicted. A long time ago, I saw a movie about a man who was tried for murder here in England and found guilty. They took him out of the courtroom and hung him right there.”
Gemma made a tsking sound. “No need to worry about that. The death sentence was outlawed here fifty years ago. And you’re a long way from a conviction, Abigail. We’re working on some leads that might get you out of this mess. Meanwhile I want you to tell the court why you ran and what you were afraid of. That might help. Now you’re going to phone DCI Norton to let him know you want to surrender yourself. Don’t tell him where you are. That’s important. Just say your solicitor will bring you in to the Stoke Newington Station.”
Gemma dialed a number and handed the phone to Abigail. Between bouts of coughing, she told Norton what Gemma had suggested.
Sixteen
Nicole had just reached her entry point, the building two doors from Reinhardt’s. The doorman was seated on a chair inside the entryway alcove to get out of the rain. She was heading toward him when someone grabbed her arm and pulled her back into the alley. It was the young man in the brown raincoat.
Nicole was about to scream when he—or rather, she—whispered, “It’s me. Sacha. They’re after me. You have to help.”
It took Nicole a moment to recover from her surprise. Then she said, “Follow me,” and led Sacha out of the alley, to the front of the building. The doorman opened the door for them and they went inside.
Sacha took off her hat, and her dark hair tumbled down around her shoulders.
“Who’s after you, Sacha?”
Sacha choked up when she tried to speak, and helplessly shook her head.
“Never mind,” Nicole said. “You can tell me when we’re safe.”
They stepped out of the elevator and Sacha followed Nicole down the stairs, outside, and along the alley to Reinhardt’s building. Once they were in his flat, Nicole poured them each some brandy.
“Now,” she said. “Tell me what this is all about.”
Sacha, who’d sat on the couch, took a gulp of brandy. Her hand flew to her throat, and she gasped before setting the glass down.
“Oh, my God, what is that?”
“Brandy,” Nicole said. “It’s supposed to calm your nerves and warm you up. Would you rather have water?”
Sacha shook her head, coughing. “No, thanks. I’m okay.”
She looked away, avoiding eye contact. She was slumped against the back of the couch, with her arms folded across her chest. Nicole knew enough about body language to wonder what Sacha was hiding.
“So what happened?” Nicole said. “Where have you been the last couple days?”
Sacha met Nicole’s gaze, only to dart it away again.
“I went online and applied for a job with that agency I told you about—Nannies International. About an hour later, I got an email from them saying they thought I’d be a good candidate and they wanted to meet me in person. They sent me an address in East London, not far from where my family lives. I went in that afternoon. They told me the passport pages I’d scanned in weren’t clear, so I should bring my passport with me. When I got there, they took it away to get a copy, but I never got it back. Next thing I know, the office door opens and these two huge blokes walk in. They grab my arms and march me out of the office, down the lift, and into the back of a van.”
Sacha covered her face with one hand. With the other, she pulled a crumpled tissue ou
t of her pocket and wiped her eyes.
“Please. I-I don’t want to talk about it.”
Something about Sacha’s story was off, and her reluctance to go on made Nicole even more suspicious.
“You’re here because you need help, right?”
The girl nodded, sniffling into the crumpled tissue.
“How can I help if I don’t know what happened?”
Sacha seemed to be thinking this over.
Finally she said, “Those big blokes? They cuffed my hands with plastic strips. There weren’t any windows in the back of the van, so I couldn’t see where they took me. I was really scared. I thought they were going to rape me, or worse. We drove for about an hour before they stopped. When they let me out, we were in front of an old abandoned inn—windows all boarded up, trash all over the ground. They dragged me inside and locked me in a room with three other girls. They were all scared, and one of them couldn’t stop crying. They’d applied for nanny jobs, too, and went through the same experience as me. They said whoever was in charge was waiting until there were at least six girls, enough to fill a small plane to Saudi Arabia. They didn’t know what was going to happen there, but they didn’t think they were going to be nannies.”
“How did you escape?”
“There was a window, but it was narrow and pretty high up. Of the four of us, I was the smallest. They decided to lift me up so I could climb out and go for help. I’d just jumped out when one of those blokes came ‘round the corner with a torch. I was terrified. I ran until I couldn’t run anymore. I went into a back garden and hid behind a shed until it started to get dark.”
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