‘Where are you going?’
‘That’s none of your business. At any rate, I need to re-think things.’
‘Think … think about what?’ Nimmy sounded increasingly panicked.
‘For starters, you just assaulted me physically. You have no fucking excuse for what you just did. I don’t want any further association with you. You don’t have enough courage to stand up for what you believe in. You claim to love Asha, but you can’t stand up against your parents even when you know what they’re doing isn’t right. You’re really a confused man. And I won’t tolerate abuse from you or anyone else under any circumstance whatsoever. I’m out of here.’
At a small pub on Alexandra Avenue, I ordered a glass of sherry, sank into a wing chair and called Ritchie. ‘You were right about Nimmy,’ I sobbed to him. ‘He got physically violent with me tonight. They’re going ahead with Asha’s surgery and there isn’t a damn thing I can do to prevent it.’
‘Good Lord, San!’ Ritchie said. ‘Are you all right? Would you like me to come over?’
‘I’ll be fine.’
‘Did you report Nimmy to the police?’
‘I don’t know. To be fair, he grabbed my arm, then slapped me once.’
‘That’s no excuse for what he’s done. You should probably consider moving out. Anyway, where are you right now?’
‘In a pub across the Rayner’s Lane station.’
‘Have you gone nuts?’ Ritchie bellowed. ‘After Nimmy’s drink-spiking incident and Charlotte’s car crash, you may well be next. And you have the balls to walk out at this hour?’
‘Balls? The last time I checked I was a girl.’
Ritchie broke into guffaws. My tension began to dissipate.
‘Darn you,’ Ritchie said. ‘You’re being foolish right now. Get your ass home at once. Call a cab. NOW. And keep away from that pig, do you hear?’
I hailed a cab home. When I got in, Nimmy was nowhere in sight. In my room, all my books and CDs were back on the bookshelf. My camisole had been folded neatly on the back of my chair. I wrenched it from there and tossed it in my laundry bag in the corner. I put on a beige flannel nightgown and trotted downstairs to the kitchen to make a cup of coffee.
Returning to my room, I set the steaming cup on my bedside table and glanced at my phone. 11.15 p.m.
An unfamiliar number flashed on the screen. I hit the answer button, hoping it wasn’t Bloodfonso or any other creep.
A baritone male voice resounded in my ear. ‘Hello, am I speaking to Ms Sandhya Raman?’
‘Yes. Who’s calling?’
‘This is Inspector Tim Herbert. I’m a Senior Investigative Officer with Scotland Yard.’
By now I was wide-awake.
‘Scotland Yard?’
‘The Criminal Investigation Department of the Metropolitan Police Service,’ Herbert explained.
I tried to understand what was happening.
‘Miss, I’d like to know about the nature of your relationship with Ms Keisha Douglas?’ Herbert inquired carefully.
‘I work with her on a BBC show and a campaign for the mentally disabled,’ I replied nervously.
‘How long have you known her?’
‘Uh, about four and a half months.’
‘How did you two meet?’
‘Is something wrong?’ I spluttered, wondering where this conversation was heading.
‘Just answer my questions for now, please,’ the officer snapped.
‘I met her at a media career fair at ExCEL London Centre last November. She was representing the BBC. I’m a student at the London School of Economics. I attended the fair to explore career opportunities in my field.’
‘What sort of campaign were you and Ms Douglas involved in?’ He sounded less surly now. I wondered if the LSE name-dropping had anything to do with the reduced animosity in his tone.
‘It’s a drive to integrate special needs people into mainstream society.’ The tug of trepidation in my chest rose to a crescendo. ‘Wh-what happened? Is she okay?’
‘Ms Raman,’ Herbert said gravely. ‘Keisha Douglas has been found dead in her apartment.’
Keisha’s residence was a split-level sixth floor conversion apartment in Beacon’s Bow Enclave, a gated community overlooking the Victoria Park Square in Bethnal Green. From Keisha’s tastefully designed drawing room, I had a partial view through the open door of an adjoining bedroom. I stared in horror at Keisha’s still form on her four-poster canopy bed. A crew of people in blue suits hovered around in the bedroom and an adjacent balcony taking photographs, fingerprints and DNA samples.
Keisha was in a short yellow nightdress. A half-empty bottle of sleeping pills sat on the nightstand next to her. A few capsules lay scattered haphazardly on the table.
Inspector Herbert and a trainee forensic investigator, whose name no one bothered to mention, puttered around anxiously in the living room, scrawling down notes and inspecting various articles. Another investigating officer, who curtly introduced himself as Ben Reynolds, was barking instructions on his walkie-talkie. My heart lurched when I emerged from my dazed stupor. Jeffrey Stuart from SIGNAL sat on a pouffe ahead of me, wearing a troubled expression. What was he doing here?
My gaze shifted to a middle-aged, pyjama-clad woman, huddled in a settee and crying. A tall young man with wavy titian hair slumped on a chair by the dining table at the far end, holding his head in his hands and repeatedly gasping, ‘Oh, God … I can’t believe this.’
‘Inspector, can I go inside?’ I asked tearfully, when I found my voice.
‘No,’ Herbert said shortly. Then he turned around and hollered to everyone as a general warning, ‘Everyone is to be seated here in the sitting room. None of you can go inside the bedroom – including us. Reynolds and I are here solely for interrogation purposes. The rest of the folks ’round here are forensic guys and they’re wired up studying fingerprints, taking shots and investigating the scene and the body.’
I cringed at the mention of the word body. Had Keisha become no more than a body now?
My knees buckled under me and I slid down to the floor, racked by gut-wrenching sobs.
‘Oh, God … Kiki … noooooo!’ I wailed.
Reynolds, who was finished with his walkie-talkie, bent down and patted my shoulder.
Inspector Herbert towered above me, waving a note in front of my face. ‘We found this slip of paper on the bedside table. Would you recognise it as her handwriting?’ he asked.
I gawked at the lined yellow memo paper. Penned in a neat, pearly handwriting were the words:
‘Life has become more than I can ever cope with.
Father, into your hands I commit my spirit.’
The note was signed off as ‘Kiki’. I stared at Inspector Herbert, astonished.
‘I don’t know,’ I managed. I had never seen Keisha’s handwriting.
‘We’ll have to inspect Ms Douglas’ handwriting then. Do you have those handwritten notes Ms Richards provided?’ Herbert barked at Reynolds, who nodded compliantly.
Herbert and Reynolds asked me a few more questions. I debated whether to share my suspicions of all the events that had been going on lately. As I gazed at the trio before me, I decided that I would do so later in private, if I needed to.
Jeff scowled at a coffee table that held a phone and a sleek black USB flash drive. The woman dabbed her eyes and the man, who I thought must be Ken, was crying openly. Jeff attempted to reach for the flash drive on the table.
‘No!’ Herbert barked. ‘You don’t touch anything in this room either.’
‘But all my data …’ Jeff choked out.
‘Did you hear what I said?’ Herbert roared.
Jeff quailed as if he had been struck with a belt. He glanced at me before lowering his gaze.
The forensic investigator emerged from the bedroom.
‘Sir,’ he announced to Herbert and Reynolds, breaking the stiff silence in the room. ‘Ms Douglas doesn’t appear to have been touched. There’s no sign
of any physical injury. But she seems to have consumed an entire bottle of sleeping pills. I found the empty bottle on the floor by her bedside. There is another half-empty bottle on the bedside table.’
‘Take a sample of each with you,’ Herbert instructed. ‘Also, cut a piece of her clothing for DNA testing. We’ll have Tony inspect all of them back at the lab.’
The forensic investigator repeated the orders to his team and turned around to us. ‘Would you know if she was prescribed drugs for insomnia?’
Ken shook his head jadedly. ‘I-I’ve been dating Kiki only for about a month,’ he croaked. ‘I knew she was a nocturnal person but never an insomniac.’
‘As of now, it appears to be a suicide,’ Herbert said grimly. ‘The autopsy will verify it. Did she say or do anything that indicated she might have contemplated taking her life?’ Herbert questioned me, as the forensic investigator disappeared into the bedroom again.
I stole a peek at Jeff. Catching my gaze, Jeff shrugged ruefully.
‘No,’ I shot back at once. ‘Keisha was a fighter. Our campaign was picking up steam. She was excited about the release of her next show and we were going to do an ex …’ I bit my tongue. I had been on the verge of saying exposé. ‘… clusive for our show, Streetsmart,’ I managed somehow. ‘It was all going well …’ My words suddenly drew to a halt. I remembered she had seemed dejected earlier this evening.
Reynolds picked up the cue. ‘What is it?’
‘Well, I …’ I didn’t know where to begin. ‘The TV host for Streetsmart had an accident earlier this week. Our campaign tour was delayed because of that. And …’ I shifted my gaze to Jeff, who was staring at me. ‘… And Jeff didn’t seem happy about it at all …’
‘I wasn’t unhappy about it!’ Jeff protested. ‘I was just concerned. I told her …’
Reynolds held up a hand. ‘Let her finish, Mr Stuart,’ he spoke sternly.
‘… Jeff seemed quite ‘cheesed off’ about the delay. That’s what Kiki—I mean, Keisha, told me on the phone when we spoke at six-thirty this evening,’ I continued, glaring at Jeff. ‘And Keisha’s boss, Alfred asked her if she could replace Charlotte on Streetsmart, at least for the time being. She didn’t seem very happy about that, either.’ Herbert nodded, as if what I had said confirmed their hypothesis.
‘But she’d never go to this extreme for something like that!’ I yelled.
‘Calm down, Ms Raman,’ Reynolds said. ‘We’re only asking standard questions.’
‘How did you get my number? What exactly happened?’ I demanded.
Herbert exhaled. ‘Well, you were among those whom Ms Douglas called this evening. And Ken here,’ he pointed at the disconcerted man at the dining table, ‘is the person she last called at around nine-fifteen. Now, the flash drive you see on the table here belongs to Jeff. He appears to have called her many times between seven and nine in the evening today. He claims that drive has some important data related to one of SIGNAL’s initiaitives. But we don’t know how it turned up on Keisha’s bedside.’
‘I told you!’ Jeff yelled. ‘Keisha met me in my office this evening. She mistook my USB drive for hers. Her own pen drive is in my office right now! I was trying to contact her because I needed my pen drive this evening. But I never came to this house until I got a call from you.’
Reynolds shushed him. Herbert waved his arm towards the middle-aged woman who was dabbing her eyes in the corner. ‘Now, Ms Douglas’ neighbour, Ms Sofia Richards, who lives on the floor right below …’
Sofia, who had earlier been grilled by both officers, lost no opportunity in recounting her story once again – for our benefit, I presumed.
Most residents at Beacon’s Bow commended Sofia for her culinary expertise. Keisha had arranged to feature Sofia in a cooking show on the BBC’s kids channel, CBeebies, last year. Since then, Sofia had never failed to check up on Keisha or drop in for a cup of tea on her rare evenings home. Keisha ran into Sofia in the elevator on her way to her apartment at 6.30 p.m.
‘You look beat,’ Sofia greeted. ‘All well at work?’
Keisha smiled tiredly. ‘The host for one of our shows had an accident. And some issues have put the campaign on hold.’
Sofia raised a brow quizzically. ‘Oh, that campaign? Is it stirring up controversy?’
‘Well, there are people who aren’t happy with it,’ Keisha mumbled.
‘Oh?’
‘I’m taking a breather for a bit. Leaving for Cornwall tomorrow morning … with Ken.’
Sofia winked knowingly. ‘That gorgeous hunk I’ve seen slinking around here a lot lately? I think the doorman’s taken a liking to him, too. By the way, I made some cheesecake this afternoon. I can leave some of it with you later tonight.’
‘You’re a peach, Sofie,’ Keisha said. ‘I’m not going anywhere tonight. Do drop by.’
At 8.30 p.m., Sofia rang Keisha’s doorbell with a carefully wrapped parcel of blackcurrant and crème fraiche cheesecake. The door remained unanswered.
‘I guess she did step out after all,’ Sofia mused disappointedly after a few minutes. As she turned to leave, the faint sounds of a TV news programme emerged from inside the apartment. Deciding that Keisha had left the TV on and slipped out somewhere in a hurry, Sofia headed back to her flat and flipped on the telly. An hour passed before she tiptoed upstairs and rang Keisha’s doorbell again. The TV in the apartment was still on. Perplexed, she dialed Keisha’s cell number from her mobile. The tinkle of a phone resonated from within the apartment.
Didn’t she take her mobile with her? She wondered, bewildered.
After trying Keisha’s cell a few more times, Sofia called her on her landline. All she got was Keisha’s voicemail. When she put her ear to the door, she heard the answering machine.
Any lack of responsiveness from a woman who was on call 24x7 was unusual. A vague misgiving urged Sofia to dial triple nine.
‘Keisha used to leave little post-its on my door before heading out at dawn for a TV shoot or crew emergency, usually requesting me to collect a parcel or spare keyset or some milk and stuff like that. I just gave you those notes as samples of her handwriting – the ones I still have with me anyway. I hope we can figure out if she really wrote that suicide note,’ Sofia finished, looking at the two officers.
‘That can’t be right!’ Ken protested. He turned to the officers with tears in his eyes. ‘I’ve already told you my story. I was going to stay here tonight before our drive to Cornwall next morning. I came here at around seven o’clock but she wasn’t in. So, I rang her and couldn’t get through. I waited for a while before calling her again. She answered my call then, and said she was out. So, I left from here around seven-forty-five and did some shopping.’
‘You went shopping at Sainsbury’s in Bethnal Green. Is that correct?’ Herbert interrupted.
Ken nodded. ‘When I was done, I phoned her again at eight-thirty, but she didn’t pick up. She called me a little after nine, and asked if we could meet at Liverpool Street for a quick bite and drink. She was out on a work emergency, she said. She didn’t tell me what the issue was. But she said she was raving hungry when she called me.’ His voice cracked as he went on. ‘I waited at the Liverpool Street station till ten-thirty. She didn’t show up. I called her several times. I decided to check in on her and see if she was all right. I got a call from you when I was on my way back here.’
He sank to his knees and began panting for breath as if someone were choking him.
‘That’s all right, Mr Butler. ‘Here.’ Tim Herbert produced a Kleenex box.
Sofia and Jeff glared at Ken.
‘How could she have called you after nine?’ Sofia yelled. ‘I was right here at eight thirty and the TV was on. At nine-thirty, she wasn’t answering either of her goddamn phones and I was standing right outside this door and her cell phone was ringing from inside when I called her!’
‘She wasn’t taking my calls either,’ Jeff corroborated.
Reynolds looked at Sofia and Jeff. A c
loud of suspicion wafted over his face. ‘For now, Mr Butler’s story appears to be accurate,’ he told them sternly. ‘As I earlier mentioned, Mr Butler called Ms Douglas at seven-forty and eight-thirty, this evening. The doorman’s testimony coincides with his story, too. The doorman buzzed Mr Butler in at five past seven. Mr Butler was seen leaving at seven-forty-five. He rang Ms Douglas at eight thirty and it turned up as a missed call on Ms Douglas’ phone. She returned his call at nine-fifteen. Mr Butler called her several times between nine-thirty and ten-thirty, both on her mobile and landline. We happened to speak to the doorman and check the call lists on both phones,’ he added emphatically.
‘No, no … don’t go anywhere near there!’ Herbert yelled, as Sofia unexpectedly sprang from the settee and darted to grab Keisha’s phone from the coffee table to see if she had really phoned Ken at 9.15. Sofia sat down again, her eyebrows raised in disbelief.
‘And what were you doing between seven and nine this evening?’ Herbert demanded of Jeff. The chip in Jeff’s front tooth caught the light of a side lamp as he shuffled in his seat and blanched.
‘I-I was in the office,’ he parried. ‘Working on a proposal to the government.’
‘What proposal?’
‘A proposal to expand the employment budget for the disabled,’ Jeff said sullenly.
‘But the presentation we studied on your flash drive seems to address an entirely different subject,’ Herbert said. ‘Why were you in a hurry to get that flash drive back?’
Sofia snorted. Jeff’s beady eyes flitted around from one end of the room to the other.
‘I’m working on that too. Or rather, one of our managers is,’ he blathered. ‘We were approaching British Telecom with a proposal for an assistive technology device. All the stats and data are on there.’ He pointed to the flash drive on the table. ‘That proposal is due tomorrow.’
Herbert harrumphed. ‘And the manager’s name?’
‘Gretchen Friedland.’
‘We’re going to cross-check all that you’ve told us,’ Herbert told Jeff in a formidable tone.
Victims for Sale Page 15
