Victims for Sale

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Victims for Sale Page 24

by Nish Amarnath


  ‘One of the support workers we nabbed had a walker in her room. A wheel was missing. It’s a match to the one we found in Jeff Stuart’s office,’ Davenport added. ‘We also found a video surveillance technology in a car that she supposedly used. Her nifty little system was handy in gaining remote access to your conversation with Gretchen Friedland in that conference room at SIGNAL.’

  ‘You mean that room was bugged?’ I asked incredulously.

  ‘Yes, unknown to SIGNAL authorities,’ Davenport admitted sadly. ‘This little perp got a nice video of what was going on up there, and she saw it all from her car down below. When she reported what she heard Gretchen tell you, she was ordered to get rid of Gretchen right away.’

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Rosie Flynn.’

  ‘She murdered Jeff Stuart and Gretchen Friedland?’

  ‘Sure did. We wrangled a confession out of her, but she was remorseless as hell. Classic sociopath. She staged Jeff’s murder to make it seem like a disabled person was the perpetrator. Added a nice little voodoo twist of her own, too,’ Davenport grunted. ‘After Stuart, Friedland was next on her list of targets. She had been observing Friedland for a while. When the time came, she parked that sedan in an alley near the Paddington station and waited for her to come out before running her down.’

  ‘Good heavens!’ I moaned, wondering if Gretchen would have been spared if I hadn’t elbowed my way in and pressed her for information.

  ‘That’s not all,’ Davenport went on. ‘Flynn admitted to bringing teddies as gifts to the homes of a few former residents who had become new mothers … said she wanted to lure them back. My hunch is that these guys were collecting as many of those kids as possible so that they could be used for something else. We need to figure out the rest.’

  My mind went back to Nimmy’s description of his family’s history with Rosie, the day after his drinks were spiked. Rosie had wanted the Sawants to give Asha’s baby, Sunil, away to the care home. She had returned to the Sawants’ in November because her earlier persuasions had failed. And she was familiar with the house because she’d been there once before, during Asha’s time at the hospital.

  Davenport’s steady voice jolted me out of my reverie. ‘We’ve got the CCTV footage from that pub, too. We could do with some help identifying the person who spiked your friend’s drink. Can you and your friend be here at eleven tomorrow?’

  I peeled off my clothes and sank into the foamy bathtub. I was nodding off to sleep again when my phone rang. My heart leapt when I glanced at the screen.

  ‘Ritch!’ I gushed into the phone.

  ‘Sandy!’ Ritchie gasped excitedly. ‘The deal with Unilever’s done! There’s lots to tell!’

  The film project he had landed was part of Unilever’s integrated marketing campaign for an evolving European brand. I invited him to come over and rattled off the train routes to Charlton.

  Ritchie enfolded me in a bear hug when we met at the station fifty minutes later. Closing my eyes, I drew in his fragrance from the napped fabric of his coat.

  ‘When did you return?’ I demanded when we disentangled ourselves.

  ‘Just this afternoon. How’ve you been?’

  ‘There’ve been two more murders,’ I said quietly as we walked towards my place. ‘But we’re closer to cracking the case.’

  Pausing outside, I turned my key in the lock.

  Ritchie chuckled. ‘You sound like an investigator yourself.’

  ‘I’ve been talking to the Squad too much.’ I laughed, ushering Ritchie in.

  I felt his hand on my shoulder. I turned to face him.

  ‘Are you safe, San?’ he asked.

  ‘Uh, I …’ The intensity of his pupils thawed out the muddled mass in my mind. I broke my gaze.

  ‘…I don’t know,’ I mumbled vaguely. Then I told him about the Wood Lane attack and the checque I had received from Lord Bradshaw. ‘On the upside, I’ve landed a job interview with CNBC. I’m pinning my hopes on it,’ I finished.

  ‘That’s bloody brilliant, San!’ Ritchie exulted, following me into the dining area in the kitchen. ‘But your life’s in danger. We don’t have much time left to crack this investigation.’

  He wandered towards the large shingled windows and gazed out at the twilit gardens. ‘This cottage is so beautiful. Hounslow didn’t work out too well, did it?’

  I shook my head.

  Ritchie nodded pensively. ‘Kim may have seemed like a good sort, but I guess everyone is crazy at some level or the other.’

  I poured each of us a glass of wine. Ritchie lent me a hand as I set out to prepare rice and kidney bean stew.

  ‘The CCTV footage arrived from that pub,’ I mentioned halfway through dinner. ‘I’m heading to the police station tomorrow to find out who spiked Nimmy’s drinks.’

  Ritchie scraped the last portion of gravy from the casserole. ‘You think it might be Nimmy’s friend, the one you spoke to in the hospital?’

  ‘Carl.’ I rolled my eyes. ‘Let’s hope Nimmy finds something on that video.’ I wrapped a piece of cling film over the leftover rice and tossed it in the fridge. ‘He, uh, is also coming tomorrow,’ I added hesitantly when Ritchie raised a quizzical brow.

  ‘Care for a walk outside?’ he suggested.

  ‘Sure,’ I smiled.

  ‘Will you be okay tomorrow?’ Ritchie asked as we sauntered along the cobblestoned pathways. ‘I mean, seeing Nimmy again and all that …’

  I shrugged. ‘I’ll be fine.’

  ‘I worry about you, San,’ Ritchie went on. ‘And I’m not sure what Nimmy is capable of. Possessive as a gnawing blister. He’s hit you before, hasn’t he?’

  ‘It’s all behind me now,’ I whispered.

  Ritchie squeezed my hand gently. A strong current rippled through my arms. A blend of indeterminable expressions flitted over his face as his eyes searched mine. Then he drew me close to him with a steady, feral passion. I shuddered as his mouth explored mine in raptures of euphoric warmth.

  ‘Oh, Ritchie …’ I gasped when we came up for air.

  ‘Stay strong, San,’ Ritchie murmured into my hair. ‘You’re a fucking genius and you’re here to make a difference.’

  I entwined my fingers in his and led him down a sleepy residential lane.

  It wasn’t long before an uneasy sensation wedged itself in my chest. Ritchie’s animated ramble submerged into the rustle of leaves from a spray of bushes lining the sidewalk. I glanced over my shoulder discreetly. A lone car was parked near the sidewalk about a hundred yards behind us. It looked like a grey Cadillac under the canopy of fading neon lights.

  ‘San?’ Ritchie’s voice was a distant echo. The car engine sputtered to life. Swallowing the mounting hysteria in my throat, I grabbed Ritchie’s arm and began running. The engine roared over the din of screeching wheels.

  I looked around wildly, but there was no adjoining lane we could turn into. A muffled bang reverberated in the air. I screamed. Ritchie shoved me down to the ground. A string of cold, hard pellets tore through the tranquil night. A bullet missed my ear by inches. The impact of Ritchie’s blow sent us rolling down a hilly stretch of road, one on top of the other, until we slammed into a holly of fronds and berries. The car’s façade loomed ahead through slits of air between the leaves that concealed us. The glossy muzzle of an assault rifle peered out from the car’s passenger-side window. The finger on the trigger dithered a little, as if its owner was uncertain of our refuge behind the bushes. After a beat, more gunfire followed.

  Ritchie lay flat next to me and pressed me to the ground. All but immobilised with fear, I dug into my coat pocket for my phone, hoping to dial triple nine. Another loud hiss ripped through the hedge. Shards of searing pain shot up my arm.

  In the dancing shadows of a wall lantern from a neighbouring house, I saw streaks of blood spray Ritchie’s shirt. I shifted my gaze to my arm. The fleece on the sleeve of my coat hung in tatters. Ritchie was already dialing triple nine. More lights turned on and
a volley of voices emerged from surrounding houses. The car sped off into the distance.

  ‘Hang in there, San,’ Ritchie moaned weakly. ‘We’re getting you to a hospital!’

  15

  Steep Gradients

  6 April

  ‘Good grief! What happened to you?’ Craig Davenport exclaimed, waving Nimmy and me into his cluttered office on Friday morning.

  ‘Someone fired at me from a car last night, near my home in Charlton. The bullet grazed my arm a little.’ I attempted a brave smile. ‘The hospital folks said it would heal in a few days.’

  Davenport frowned. ‘You don’t have a license plate number or a description of this person, do you?’

  I shook my head. ‘It was dark. The car looked like a grey Cadillac. And the firearm was some kind of an assault rifle. That’s all I know.’

  Davenport sighed. ‘That doesn’t help much. But it’s evident that whoever is chasing you has figured out where you live. I think you should get the hell out of there. And stay safe until we get to the bottom of this racket. Meanwhile, I’ll see if I can get the Bobbies out there to keep a look out for trouble.’

  He turned to Nimmy, as though noticing him for the first time.

  ‘Ah, our new witness.’ He motioned for us to seat ourselves.

  Nimmy nodded stiffly. In a raven black Peabody coat, he looked more like a Tom turkey than a target for offenders on the Operation Douglas radar. Other than a puzzled exclamation at the gauze on my arm, he had said little during our short walk to the police quarters from the underground station where we had met.

  I turned back to Davenport. ‘Any news on the photo IDs?’

  ‘Same person it is,’ Davenport affirmed. ‘Rosie Flynn, Dario De Luca, David Cooper and this Bosnian chap, who is no doubt Cooper’s friend, and goodness knows how many others are all in this together. Also, during the Bread Breakers’ raid, care home director, Simon Webb, admitted that Aiden McLeod arranged for Pinwheel associates and clients as customers of care home residents that Simon handpicked as call girls.’

  I stared at Davenport. ‘Didn’t Paul Rubalcabo at EuroFirst introduce McLeod to the CRCMD?’

  ‘The National Crime Agency is looking into all homes and shelters that Rubalcabo made donations to,’ Davenport said tersely. ‘The FBI is investigating the three organisations under his patronage in New York, too. He’s got a clean record so far. Now, are you ready to watch that video? Krantz spotted something odd on there. We’re hoping either of you can explain it.’

  I nodded.

  Davenport reached for the phone. ‘Ms Raman and her friend are here for the Corney and Barrow footage …’ He paused for a moment. Then, ‘Bloody hell! When will they get that server up and running?’

  My heart was imploding like a sledgehammer.

  ‘Well, get it to my office then,’ the inspector barked into the receiver. ‘And see that you log and barcode it properly.’ He rang off and turned to us. ‘Looks like our storage area network has gone bust, so Krantz is fetching it from the evidence room.’

  A few moments later, Krantz loaded the film from a hefty external hard drive onto Davenport’s computer and played the portion he had marked from the hundred-minute footage.

  Through the pixelated haze on the screen, skinny waitresses zigzagged through gregarious office-goers in the patio, juggling bottles, glasses, food plates and ashtrays. Nimmy and Carl were seated across Sal and Rick against a high rail in a corner. The crimson insignia of a UBS building glowered against the twilit skies behind Nimmy.

  Sal leaned towards Nimmy, whispered into his ear and jumped up from his seat. Carl patted Nimmy’s shoulder and rose at just the same time. Carl and Sal looked at each other in surprise and laughed before walking away together. They had headed to the washroom together, I remembered from my conversations with Carl. Nimmy continued chatting with Rick.

  Moments later, Nimmy lowered his gaze, held up a finger and bent down.

  ‘I think I was tying my shoe laces,’ Nimmy explained, shuffling his feet beside me.

  Rick held a menu against his chest and fiddled with his jacket. Then he slid the vinyl menu folder forward against the edge of the table, and tapped generous sprinkles of powder into Nimmy’s drink. The rim of a small white container peeked out from between his fingers. Nimmy re-emerged from under the table and sipped his drink as he and Rick continued their conversation.

  Davenport snorted. ‘Blocking it with the menu, indeed! Hoping the CCTV wouldn’t catch it, was he?’

  I heard a loud wheeze next to me.

  ‘R-R-Rick?’ Nimmy stuttered.

  Davenport and Krantz followed my stare. Nimmy looked like he was going to have a stroke. I placed a pacifying arm on his shoulder. Nimmy buried his face in his hands and moaned, ‘How could he do this? If I hadn’t helped him, he would’ve still b’in on the streets.’

  ‘Didn’t you know him from your days at the London Business School?’ I asked, puzzled.

  Nimmy shook his head. ‘Carl and Sal, yes. Not Rick.’

  Davenport and Krantz had a million questions in their eyes. But they held their horses for the moment. Krantz offered Nimmy a glass of water.

  Davenport rewound the video to the scene where Rick rested the menu under his chin. Then he paused the film, enlarged the image and gawked at the screen.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I demanded.

  The inspector ignored my question. ‘Krantz,’ he bellowed.

  The Detective Constable rushed to his side and peered over his shoulder.

  Davenport turned to his underling. ‘You weren’t with Wheeler when he visited the passport office, were you?’

  ‘No, I was viewing this footage, Sir.’

  Davenport shifted his gaze to Nimmy. ‘What did you say your friend’s name was?’

  ‘Rick Martinez,’ Nimmy replied softly.

  ‘Ahh!’ Davenport frowned. ‘Rick Martinez. Horace Frederick Fitzgerald. Lorenzo Merdanovic … they’re all the same sodding person.’

  As Nimmy and I ate lunch at a diner round the corner, my mind dredged up a memory of Rick’s response to my mention of Saahil’s death at that pub in Beaconsfield, where I had first met him last September. Hadn’t he snorted then? Had he really just coughed like he said he had? Was Rick Martinez a sadist? Then, I recalled Rick’s reference to a meeting with Aiden McLeod when I had run into him at the Gregersen Tower.

  Perhaps, Davenport was right. Maybe Rick and McLeod were in on this together.

  Nimmy picked on a hash brown. ‘Does this mean Rick …?’

  I looked up from the gooey puddle of baked beans on my plate and nodded.

  ‘Yes. A DNA match is pretty strong evidence.’ Without thinking, I placed my hand over Nimmy’s. ‘I’m sorry.’

  A glassy look layered Nimmy’s eyes. ‘Rick was a poor, innocent kid when I first saw him. Carl introduced him to me at an LBS information session four and a half years ago.’

  ‘London Business School?’

  Nimmy nodded. ‘Carl and I were invited as alumni speakers to address prospective students about career opportunities and such. Carl brought Rick to that event. He’d first seen Rick distributing newspapers in Piccadilly. When I saw Rick at the event, I thought he’d just arrived from a construction site, y’know, gaunt face, frayed shirt.’ Nimmy toyed with the food on his plate. ‘When I spoke to Rick, I learned he was a refugee who’d arrived from Bosnia a few months ago. He was living in a rubbish-filled hole under a supermarket stairwell, doing odd jobs and labouring for a decent career. Despite his situation, Rick nurtured a desire to study at LBS.’

  He paused to take a bite.

  ‘Why didn’t Rick move in with Carl?’

  ‘Rick was too proud to ask. Besides, Carl had some issues where he lived back then. A psycho roommate or something like that. Rick seemed so bright, ambitious and hopeful that I wanted to do something to get him off the streets. So, I arranged for him to stay with Sal until he found his feet.’

  ‘I see,’ I mumbled between munc
hes. ‘Was Rick granted asylum?’

  ‘Not until much later.’

  I couldn’t help feeling sorry for Rick. Had his penury and status as an illegal immigrant driven him off-kilter?

  ‘A couple months later, Sal introduced Rick to a wealthy couple in Northwood Hills. They didn’t mind Rick’s residency status, so he was their chauffeur until he joined Trychlen as a customer service agent about a year later. He worked his way up to the position of business development manager there. Last spring, he applied to LBS and got in. He was going to enroll this autumn.’ Nimmy pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘He was extremely grateful for my help. I have no idea why he …’

  ‘But I don’t get it … I saw Carl with all those teddy bears in the Tube that day. The same kind of teddy that Rosie had brought for Asha.’

  Nimmy looked blank for a moment. Then he flashed a sad smile. ‘I think I know what happened. Carl was looking for a special package of return gifts for all the kids who’d attended his boss’ daughter’s birthday party. So, Rick introduced him to Evie Mardling and Carl told me about her later. Evie specialises in rare, unusual stuff, usually handmade. I had no idea she supplied to Bread Breakers’ though.’

  ‘What happened to Rick’s residency status?’ I pressed gently.

  ‘He was given asylum when he was a chauffeur for the Domwilles.’

  ‘What was the lady’s name?’

  Nimmy gazed pensively at a spot on the table. ‘I think Rick used to mention a Lettice Domwille. Rick said she still had a thing for her ex-husband.’

  ‘Oh, had she divorced?’

  ‘No. He passed away … I think it was a stroke.’

  My stomach fluttered. ‘How long ago was that?’

  ‘About twelve years ago, I guess. Peter Domwille is her second husband. But she could never really get over her first. I think his name was Horace … or so Rick said.’

  And that’s how Rick became Horace Fitzgerald. It all added up.

  ‘You’ll be safer if you move back in with me,’ Ritchie said as we sat in the Victoria Embankment Gardens two hours later.

 

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