Victims for Sale

by Nish Amarnath

  ‘Oh, I’m really sorry,’ a little old lady said when I spun around. She adjusted the rim of her thick eyeglasses. ‘My eyesight does me no favours when it gets dark.’

  I nodded. ‘No worries.’

  The dame ruffled her skirts, walked ahead a few yards and squinted at the departure board. A few other commuters joined us on the platform. In the far distance, a red blob glistened on the pebbled tracks as it zoomed towards us. I turned sideways and glanced at the old lady.

  ‘The train’s pulling in,’ I hollered, convinced that she hadn’t been able to read the notice on the departure board. The lady turned to me. Her eyes grew as wide as saucers.

  A split second later, I felt a palm slam against the small of my back. I teetered on the edge of the platform and fell headlong on to the tracks below. The last I saw was the greasy underside of the approaching train.

  14

  Horsepower

  3 April

  I re-adjusted the floppy cowboy hat over my blonde bob wig and ran a finger over the sleeve of my oversized red duffle coat, reconsidering my decision to commute on the trains like a travesty. But I couldn’t shake off the smorgasbord of haunting snapshots from that night at Wood Lane: The scuffle of feet, the shrill cries of a young couple, the grip of hands pulling me to safety, the horrible squeak of wheels as the train screeched to a halt right before my face …

  My phone buzzed.

  ‘Yes, Detective Krantz?’ I answered.

  ‘We’ve made progress with a CRCMD committee member,’ Krantz reported. ‘Aiden McLeod from Pinwheel Interactive attributes his CRCMD membership to a recommendation from Paul Rubalcabo, a partner at EuroFirst, which is a client of his firm.’

  EuroFirst. Carl. That was the missing link.

  ‘Apparently, Rubalcabo actively supports disability rights,’ Krantz rattled on. ‘Meanwhile, McLeod says he has no clue about Bread Breakers’.’

  ‘How can he not know about that care home when he’s a committee member?’ I spluttered.

  ‘We’re digging. McLeod put us on to Paul Rubalcabo’s secretary and Verizon’s communications director, Evelyn Weaver. She’s another Pinwheel client. She introduced McLeod to Rubalcabo at EuroFirst.’

  ‘Rubalcabo isn’t a committee member, is he?’

  ‘No. But he’s in close contact with two private charities in Warsaw, three not-for-profits in New York, and many refugee shelters and care homes in London. He’s also made donations to some special schools around here. Now, the Squad has seen the ninety-minute film Alfred sent us as well as the video footage from the surgery clinic. They’ve given a shout to the magistrates’ court. We should be getting search and arrest warrants soon.’

  ‘Thanks, Detective.’ My hands shook as I rang off. Was Paul Rubalcabo Carl’s boss? Were he and Carl behind four killings?

  I re-read Aiden McLeod’s LinkedIn profile. A boy scout, an alumnus of Goldsmiths, and a media relations consultant for the London office of a Hong Kong-based PR firm before joining Pinwheel Interactive ten years ago. As I continued digging on my laptop, I stumbled upon an image on Flickr. In the picture, McLeod and Rubalcabo had their arms around each other and smiled into the camera from a steel suspension bridge above the Thames against the backdrop of a massive building with taupe walls and steel girders. The Tate Modern Art Gallery.

  A pair of birds perched atop the roof behind them. They looked like eagles. Curiously, I ran a Google search for Tate Modern eagles. I clicked on a link to an article in The Evening Standard and began reading: ‘A pair of peregrine falcons have ruffled a few feathers in the art world with regular appearances at the Tate Modern …’

  A fusillade of memories descended on me. Nidhi embracing her date in a limousine, five months ago, as a falcon car-hanger swayed before them from the rearview mirror … the glimmer of the gemstone on her date’s finger in the limo … Nidhi outside the Barbican with her companion, a fedora masking the man’s face on both occasions. And then, there was the large garnet ring Aiden McLeod wore regularly.

  Inspector Davenport’s words, after the ‘accident’ with Gretchen, tumbled into my mind: A passerby saw something brown or yellow dangling from the rearview mirror. He said it looked like a bird.

  I enlarged the Flickr image on my screen. One of Paul Rubalcabo’s arms disappeared behind McLeod’s back. His other hand was in his trouser pocket. I had no way of knowing whether he was wearing a gemstone ring. Aiden’s garnet ring was clearly visible in the picture, though.

  And the falcon … McLeod and Rubalcabo … Was one of them Nidhi’s boyfriend? Did the boyfriend have a fetish for falcons?

  ‘Ms Raman, we were discussing the principles enlisted in the Code,’ the instructor’s voice rang out. ‘Didn’t you get any sleep last night?’

  A polite smatter of laughter followed from the media policy class I was sitting in.

  ‘Um … I was just thinking about the possibility of a public interest element in this piece,’ I lied, waving a paper before me.

  ‘Is that the Attard Vs Manchester Evening News case?’ the instructor boomed.

  I nodded meekly.

  ‘We’ll come to public interest soon enough. In this case, no information, under the Code, can be private if it has already emerged in the public domain.’

  Relieved that I had saved my face, I slumped back into my seat.

  Once class got over, I blazed out of the campus, realising that Nidhi could be in danger.

  ‘My brother and his wife told you, you were never to contact any of us again.’ Nidhi scowled as we sat in the Southall Black Sisters offices, an hour later. ‘I agreed to see you because you sounded as if you were in trouble. But questioning me about my non-existent love life is an insult beyond my imagination!’

  I wondered if I was naïve in expecting Nidhi to believe my thesis that the man she was dating could be involved in one or more deaths.

  ‘Perhaps you just had business dealings with him,’ I said finally. ‘Anyhow, what you do is none of my business, all right? But the Squad behind Operation Douglas needs to know the identity of this man. And I’m cautioning you only because your life could be in danger!’

  ‘I’m not obliged to disclose his identity,’ Nidhi replied tartly. ‘Look, I’m swamped with a campaign for a new homicide law. I have no time for your claptrap. I need you to leave.’ She pointed at the door.

  ‘Could you at least tell me if this man is Aiden McLeod or Paul Rubalcabo?’ I urged.

  ‘Shahana!’ Nidhi yelled across the room. ‘Escort Ms Raman to the door, will you? I’m running late for a meeting.’

  A timid-looking girl appeared by my side as Nidhi rose from her seat and stuffed a stack of folders into a briefcase.

  ‘I think he’s taking you for a ride,’ I whispered to Nidhi before Shahana led me away. ‘Please watch out.’

  4 April

  I discovered that my Cranford roommate, Kimberly was infected with a contagious HIV-linked retro virus. Despite her refusal to let me leave, I managed to escape from that bedsit one night after securing the confidence of another landlord in Charlton, thanks to a letter from Alfred, stating I was a stringer with the BBC, and an electronic rental reference from Ritchie. I awoke in my new box room on Wednesday morning.

  My phone rang as I made some tea and chatted with my new housemates in the kitchen downstairs. ‘Hello?’ I mumbled groggily.

  ‘Sandy!’ Megan cried breathlessly. ‘Charlotte is coming out of her coma.’

  I mouthed an apology to my housemates and hustled upstairs.

  ‘When did she come to?’ I shrieked.

  ‘She spoke her first words yesterday. Around seven p.m.’

  ‘Are they allowing visitors?’

  ‘Check in with her Mum. Mrs Hale has hardly left her bedside.’ Megan left a number with me.

  I remembered her voicemail from last week, saying she was out of office. ‘Everything okay with you?’

  ‘There was a family emergency in Belgium so I was there for a few days. All good now,
’ Megan said.

  ‘Take care, Meg.’ A niggling thought chewed on me when I hung up. Charlotte was dating someone too, wasn’t she? I wondered if he had ever visited her.

  Charlotte was swaddled in blankets under a veil of contraptions in the Surgical Critical Care Unit in Kings College Hospital’s Cheyne wing. An indomitable woman who was now no more than a pasty lump. Tears congealed in my eyes.

  ‘She’s sleeping now,’ Charlotte’s mother whispered.

  I looked up at Mrs Hale. On a better day, her trim frame and carefully styled hair would have belied her age. But now, her face was taut with anxiety. I remembered that Keisha had once told me she was divorced. But Charlotte’s father hadn’t flown in to London to visit his ailing daughter. For that matter, it looked like the man Charlotte was seeing hadn’t visited her either. Maybe things hadn’t worked out between them.

  ‘She’ll be fine,’ I assured Mrs Hale.

  ‘She’s been taken off the ventilator,’ Mrs Hale mentioned optimistically.

  ‘What do the docs say?’

  ‘That it’s a miracle she’s made it this far after what she’s been through. They were on the verge of giving up after the first few weeks. But an MRI scan last week showed some brain activity. She opened her eyes shortly after that.’ Mrs Hale sounded eager and hopeful that her daughter would be back on her feet soon.

  ‘What about the swelling in her brain?’ I persisted.

  ‘It’s come down after the surgery,’ Mrs Hale informed. ‘But it may be a while before she can recover all of her functions.’

  ‘Something beyond modern medicine is helping us here. And Charlotte’s a fighter,’ I said.

  As if on cue, Charlotte’s eyes fluttered a little.

  Mrs Hale rushed to her daughter’s bedside. ‘Honey? Are you awake?’

  Charlotte blinked once and squeezed her mother’s hand weakly. I debated on whether I should speak to Charlotte, who might not remember me at all. But Mrs Hale took my hand and led me to her. ‘Look who’s here, baby!’ she whispered, kissing her forehead. ‘It’s Sandy. You worked with her.’

  Charlotte gazed wanly at me. A flicker of recognition misted her eyes. Her lips started moving, but no words came out. ‘What is it, baby?’ Mrs Hale prodded gently.

  Charlotte stared at her mother, perplexed and disoriented. After a few moments, she looked right at me.

  ‘H-horse,’ she spluttered.

  My heart skipped a beat.

  ‘One,’ she added, after some thought.

  Mrs Hale looked confused. ‘Horse one?’

  I knew I was shooting in the dark, but I went for it. ‘Who hurt you?’

  ‘Horse,’ Charlotte said decisively.

  Mrs Hale turned to me. ‘She got hit by a horse?’

  ‘Do you want to write that down?’ I asked softly.

  Charlotte’s eyes watered as she looked beseechingly at her mother and tried again. ‘H-horsse … is … the one.’

  That I was commuting in disguise after the Wood Lane incident did little to quell my fear of hopping into a train and becoming an easy target for the Mafioso who took the image of Sonny Corleone in my mind. Remembering that I could afford to be more lenient with my finances, courtesy of Lord Melvin Bradshaw, I flanked a cab outside Kings College Hospital.

  As the taxi sped towards Westminster, a meliiflous string of chords and melodies resonated from the radio. A sense of déjà vu swamped me as I listened to the airy beats of the guitar. I jerked forward in my seat. ‘Um, you wouldn’t know this song, would you?’ I asked the cabbie.

  ‘Nope. It’s on Radio 3 though. It’s, uh …’ the driver squinted into the display before him. ‘Jazz on 3, I think. Jez Nelson’s show. You a fan of jazz?’

  ‘Um … yeah, thanks,’ I mumbled.

  A brief memory played out: my jovial razzing about Charlotte’s ‘fateful’ tryst with the man she was dating … ah yes, he was the unsigned jazz guitarist she had interviewed on radio. I had even seen him – or rather, his frame – hidden behind a bright blue umbrella when he picked her up from the BBC studios weeks ago. Charlotte had mentioned his name too …what was it? It began with an H. Hemmings? Hawks? No, no. It was …

  Horace.

  That was it. My fingers grew cold and clammy.

  I have to talk to the Squad.

  The new comfort level I had developed with Jesse Krantz since our Bread Breakers’ expedition, made him the first port of call. Krantz picked up on the fourth ring, sounding preoccupied.

  ‘I’m in an apartment in Clapton. Our new briefing room,’ he said sarcastically. ‘A bloodied spray painting around this poor guy. Our team and two other boroughs are wrangling over which unit will take this on. We’ve got just three teams on call at any time too. Anything important?’

  ‘Charlotte Hale is waking up from her coma,’ I began before filling him in on my thoughts.

  ‘Gordon Bennet! What a coincidence!’ Krantz interjected.

  ‘Gordon who?’

  ‘Sorry – old British expression,’ he chuckled.

  ‘Did the Squad find anything?’

  ‘Yesterday, our investigators found a driver’s license under a floor liner in the Wrangler that was used to run Charlotte down. The license belongs to a British national, Horace Frederick Fitzgerald. It expired five years ago. One of us’d have called, but we got embroiled in this Clapton …’

  ‘Is Horace the person who…?’

  ‘Horace Fitzgerald is dead.’

  ‘So, Horace isn’t his real name,’ I mumbled dizzily. ‘How did you find out that he died?’

  ‘Remember David Cooper from Moor Park? The guy whose Wrangler was stolen. We spoke to him and his wife, Justine, this morning. Justine is Horace’s daughter. The Wrangler belonged to Horace, who later transferred its ownership to David. Horace died of a stroke twelve years ago.’

  ‘David Cooper probably knows the guy who took his father-in-law’s identity.’ I surmised.

  ‘Probably,’ Krantz agreed. ‘Wheeler is looking into whether someone applied for a passport in Horace Fitzgerald’s name in the last three years. His death certificate isn’t listed on any database yet, so the passport office wouldn’t have suspected a thing. Try to find out if Ms Hale is referring to Horace Fitzgerald. Looks like we need more horsepower than we would for an entire caseload.’

  5 April

  ‘Is Horace Fitzgerald the man who hurt you?’ I asked Charlotte gently at her hospital bed, the next afternoon.

  Megan stood by, watching curiously.

  Charlotte fumbled around at the bedside table. I rushed to her side. She looked up at me and closed her fist as if she were holding a pen.

  She wants to write something down. I ferreted in my tote and produced a notepad and pen.

  ‘Did they find fresh clues in that jeep?’ Megan asked hopefully.

  I nodded and peered over Charlotte’s shoulder. When I saw what she had written, I turned back to Megan grimly. ‘It’s Horace all right. Charlotte thinks she saw his face as he drove up to her side and bumped her car over the median. Where’s Mrs Hale?’

  ‘She’s at the pharmacy, getting meds for Charlotte. I’ll let her know.’

  I squeezed her hand lightly. ‘I’ll keep you posted, Meg.’

  When I let myself into my new home in Charlton forty minutes later, the snowballing effects of exhaustion sank in. I steamed some soup in the kitchen and thought about Ritchie as I ate. Until now, I hadn’t realised how sorely I missed him. Through the blitzkrieg that had besieged my life in England, Ritchie had remained a steady constant, right from the beginning. Lonely for him, I curled up in bed upstairs until my phone roused me from my siesta.

  ‘Hello?’ I rasped.

  ‘We’ve got plenty of good news,’ Davenport reported briskly. ‘The INDIS approval from Interpol came through this morning.’

  ‘INDIS?’ I mumbled, struggling to reorient myself.

  ‘The International DNA Index System I mentioned earlier. We found a DNA match for a Lorenzo Merd
anovic. Bosnian origin. Chap was arrested in Sarajevo for cocaine possession in 1998, at the age of 18, while still in high school.’

  ‘A DNA match for the guy who knocked down Charlotte?’ I responded, surprised.

  ‘Yes. And it’s the same person who murdered Keisha Douglas.’

  Blimey!

  ‘Can we track him down?’

  ‘We’re getting closer,’ Davenport rumbled. ‘Wheeler got the details from the passport office yesterday. We think Lorenzo moved to the UK three years ago and applied for a new passport as Horace Fitzgerald. Our biometrics lab is examining Horace’s passport photo and Lorenzo’s picture from Bosnia’s national police database to ensure that it’s the same person.’

  ‘Oh, when will we hear back from them?’

  ‘In a couple hours. And, oh yes! We raided that care home this morning. Arrested a bunch of folks and moved the residents to other care homes.’ Davenport cleared his throat hesitantly. ‘But we found no trace of those kids, Ms Raman.’

  My heart slammed in my throat. Oh Lord!

  ‘Everyone our cozzers rounded up denied there had been any kids,’ Davenport continued. ‘I think those children have been moved elsewhere in a hurry … an attempt to shield them from police.’

  ‘God knows if they’re safe! We need to find them!’ I hissed. ‘How many were arrested?’

  ‘The quack in the surgery clinic, a director and four support workers. We seized a box of bright violet and purple teddy bears from a storage facility. Those teddies were presented as gifts for residents to keep them quiet during …’ Davenport gave an uncomfortable pause, ‘… their sexual abuse.’

  Just like it must have been a tool to gain Asha’s compliance when she was raped two years ago. No wonder Asha had run away on seeing the purple teddy Rosie brought during her visit to the Sawants’, last November.

  ‘A lady called Evie Mardling was supplying these teddies to the care home from Kent,’ Davenport revealed.

  ‘Right,’ I said, remembering that Carl had once told me he ordered all those violet teddies I had seen in his pushcart from the same woman.