I spooned the last dregs of my mango sorbet and stared absently at a posy of hyacinths iridescent in their reflection across a sun-kissed duck pond ahead of me. Misleading charms.
‘I’m sorry, Ritch. I can’t.’ I shifted my gaze to him. ‘If I stay with you now, you’ll become a target too. If I’m going down, I don’t want to pull you down with me.’
Ritchie reached across the table and slipped his fingers through mine. ‘You know I won’t let that happen, San,’ he said fiercely.
My phone rang.
‘Hello, Ms Raman!’ Davenport greeted swiftly. ‘Your guy, Rick Martinez, has been arrested.’
‘Wow! Okay. What exactly happened the evening of Keisha’s death?’ I choked out.
‘In the office, Ms Raman,’ Davenport chuckled.
Ritchie and I were sat in his cabin half an hour later.
‘Poor guy was forced into a life as a contract killer,’ Davenport revealed as we sipped our coffee. ‘Rick was receiving instructions from Aiden McLeod. Assisting Rick was Dario’s job. Rick has no clue about Bread Breakers’ or any part of the larger sex ring. His task, whenever he was contacted, was merely to dismiss or injure people.’
Ritchie was listening quietly, but I gasped in shock. It was one thing to accept that Rick had spiked Nimmy’s drinks. But I couldn’t imagine him in the garb of a killer.
‘Rick was raised by his widowed grandmother in Sarajevo after he lost his parents as a child. Once his grandma died, he came to England, hoping for a better life. But the UK government didn’t grant him asylum,’ Davenport explained. ‘In that situation, there wasn’t much he could do around here. He had destroyed his passport and identification papers to avoid being deported. So, he couldn’t return to Bosnia either. He was floundering for sustenance. When he found work as a chauffeur for the Domwilles, a large company offered him a regular day job, a legalised residency in the UK – and a new identity that Rick cleverly stole from Lettice’s deceased ex-husband, Horace Fitzgerald.’
‘Wh-what about … Rick is a jazz guitarist too, isn’t he?’ I spluttered. ‘I mean … He appeared on The Charlotte Hale Show a year ago – as Horace, of course.’
Davenport nodded sadly. ‘As a matter of fact, he is. And a darned good one too. I listened to that interview on a BBC archives section. But that talent didn’t do more for him than get some extra gigs in a bunch of bars a few years ago. The circumstances of his first meeting with Charlotte Hale, more than a year ago, are indeed true. But, while he was at it, he recently reached out to Charlotte Hale under the pretext of wooing her into his life – once he knew she was involved in the campaign and that TV programme, of course.’
So, that’s how Charlotte knew him as Horace. ‘I guess the alias was a fine shot in the arm,’ I said quietly.
‘Well, Rick’s relationship with Charlotte was carefully orchestrated after instructions from someone in the company that took him under its wing,’ Davenport stated. ‘This corporate bigwig has a carefully fabricated public veneer, which covers an underworld nexus of tie-ups with care homes and special schools that deliver young mentally challenged women as commercial sex workers to its clients. It employs illegal immigrants, gets them fake passports and gives them jobs in peer agencies like Trychlen. The don who runs it cashes in on the misfortunes of people like Rick, Dario and Rosie by hiring them as his lackeys in exchange for their loyalty. With all the witnesses we’ve spoken to, we have strong evidence that Aiden McLeod is the don. And his company, Pinwheel Interactive, fits as the perfect cover. We’re going ahead with the arrest of Aiden McLeod once we find out where the Bread Breakers’ children have been hidden. Rick’s testimony against him will be used as evidence during court hearings.’
I sank back in my seat and exhaled slowly. So, Rick, unlike what Nimmy believed, hadn’t been granted asylum after all. In his desperation for some deliverance from his hardships, he had sold his soul to a mafia setup.
‘Why did Rick spike Nimmy’s drink? Nimmy has nothing to do with this.’
‘Ahh, the spiking business,’ Davenport scratched his stubble reflectively. ‘Rick wasn’t threatened by Nimmy, Ms Raman. He was threatened by you. When you went undercover, the Bread Breakers’ staff suspected it was you because you’d met Simon Webb just a few days before. The receptionist raised an alarm when she found you had vanished. Someone in the care home promptly informed McLeod. McLeod then sent word for Rick to give you a scare. So, he spiked Nimmy’s drink. What’s more, he followed Nimmy around and gave him a nice little nudge in that underpass at Holborn. The intent was to warn you to mind your own business by hurting someone close to you. McLeod and Rick both knew you were dating Nimmy.’
So, that was why Rick had left the pub early that day. ‘How did they know I was dating N …?’
‘Nimmy had told Rick,’ Davenport said.
‘How did Rick kill Keisha when it seemed that Dario was the one behind it?’ I whispered.
‘Rick arrived at Keisha’s complex, Beacon’s Bow, the previous night,’ Davenport disclosed. ‘A barbecue was going on by the community poolside, the evening of Thirteenth March. Keisha wasn’t around, but Rick and Dario came in right on the heels of a large bunch of people signing in as guests of residents who had invited them. So, no one took much notice of Rick or Dario. They hung out by the poolside for a while. Dario had a set of spare keys to Keisha’s apartment. He lent the keys to Rick and packed him off before Keisha returned from work and joined Dario at the barbecue. Rick got into Keisha’s apartment block. All night, he skulked around in a lounge area in the basement. When Keisha left for work next morning, Rick rode up the elevator and slid into her apartment with the spare key. Meanwhile, Dario left late that night, after pretend-romancing his lady love at the barbecue.’
I remembered my frantic appeals for Keisha’s safety with the man she was dating. Dario De Luca a.k.a. Kenneth Butler. Planted to help Rick kill her.
‘So, Rick was lounging around at her apartment all day?’ I yelped in disbelief.
Davenport nodded somberly. ‘When Rick peeked from a window and saw Keisha walk in through the gates that evening, he hid in a broom closet. Dario dropped in shortly after Keisha returned home. He spent nearly an hour canoodling with Keisha. During that time, he was setting the stage for Rick to execute his order.
‘On his way out, Dario disabled the CCTV surveillance system near the fire escape route at the rear end of the building. After Dario left, Rick emerged from his hiding spot, did Keisha in and made his escape through the emergency exit stairwell to the rubbish yard in the back. Then he scaled the wall into the neighbouring compound and walked out from there.’
My eyes widened. Carefully planned. Premeditated. That was why Rick’s entry and exit hadn’t been recorded.
‘What about Keisha’s suicide note?’ I mumbled.
Davenport snorted. ‘All part of the ploy. Dario brought some food and champagne when he came in that evening. He made sure Keisha was sufficiently intoxicated before he began his little game. He suggested to Keisha that they write each other notes, spilling out the darkest thoughts that came to their minds …’
‘And that day, Keisha was frustrated about many things,’ I recalled.
‘When Keisha passed out, Dario retained that little note and got rid of the other scraps of paper that went back and forth between them,’ Ritchie surmised.
‘And Dario didn’t forget to remove every trace of alcohol on his way out,’ I added.
Davenport nodded grimly. ‘That’s exactly what happened. By eight o’clock, Dario was already halfway through his shopping spree at Sainsbury. Meanwhile, Keisha prepared to go to bed early. When she turned off the lights, Rick crept up to her bedside, shoved a gun to her head and threatened to blow her brains out unless she took those sleeping pills.’
Tears rolled down my cheeks. Keisha must have consumed all of those sleeping pills, praying that he would spare her and hoping to call for help once he left.
‘After Keisha gulped down those pill
s, Rick sat on her chest and suffocated her with a pillow, wearing gloves, of course,’ Davenport said, sounding as if he were narrating a horror story to his grandchildren. ‘Rick hung around long enough to ensure she was dead, all the while covering his tracks and scrubbing the house clean to remove his fingerprints. At nine-fifteen p.m., an hour after she died, he brought her mobile phone to the bed and pushed her finger against the button for Dario’s number to make it appear as if she had called him then. That’s why the fingerprints we tested on the phone and those bottles of sleeping pills turned out to be hers.’
I fought to keep my chin steady.
‘Ricky boy didn’t realise he had left footprints of his DNA on the nightdress Keisha changed into after Dario left. He was less mindful of his traces when he tossed a cigarette in the Wrangler he nicked from poor ol’ David Cooper to get rid of Charlotte,’ Davenport was saying.
An imperceptible swirl of blackness eclipsed me. I heard my name being called out. A murmur of voices followed. A cloud of soot ploughed into my chest. I doubled over and retched incessantly. The smell of plastic assaulted my senses. I felt my hair being held back gently as a polythene bag floated under my chain. Then, a pair of arms carried me away.
When I came to, I was lying against Ritchie in a moving cab.
‘Where are we going?’ I groaned.
‘My place.’ Ritchie brushed his fingers against my cheek.
I struggled to pull myself up. ‘No …’ I moaned, thinking about his own safety.
‘Well, your place isn’t safe, and you’re not going back there,’ Ritchie said sternly.
The taxi pulled into Gilden Crescent. In the distance, a string of freshly laundered clothes swung lazily over the balcony rails of a few apartment units in Ritchie’s corner complex. A familiar semblance of comfort ensconced me.
Ritchie hustled over to my side and carried me in his arms with practiced ease. I laced my arms around his neck as the cab sped off behind us. Ritchie halted in his tracks when we approached the gate. The instant freeze in velocity sent me ramming into his chest.
‘I’m sorry, San.’
Ritchie whirled around and stared at a large wallpapered truck parked beside a tree.
I peered out from the crook of his arm. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Shhh!’ Ritchie whispered, scampering stealthily towards a thicket of hedge plants lining the curve of the road. At the corner, he turned to his left and crossed over swiftly. I slid off his arms and teetered on the sidewalk as Ritchie punched some numbers on his phone and murmured into it. A few moments later, he tugged me towards a watering hole ahead of us.
We sank into a lounge. ‘What’s going on?’ I cried indignantly.
‘I saw two figures lurking behind that truck in hoodies and ski masks. More lackeys, I’d reckon,’ Ritchie sighed. ‘So, we can’t go inside or hang around there. A cab is picking us up from here.’
My blood ran cold. Neither of us could go back to our homes now.
‘I’m sorry, sir. We’ve only got one double room at this time,’ the concierge told Ritchie, casting an amused glance at the lone backpacks on our shoulders as we checked into a Travelodge Hotel in Covent Garden, half an hour later.
Ritchie looked at me apologetically. I shrugged and nodded. We obtained the keys and rode up the elevator. Once in the room, I sank into a pristine white bed and yanked off my boots.
Ritchie walked towards the balcony. ‘Now that you’re safe here, I’ll return to my apartment to pick up some things and see if everything is intact.’
I ran over to Ritchie and hugged him tightly. ‘Don’t go, Ritch. I’m scared for you.’
Ritchie’s eyes searched mine intensely. And then, before either of us could exercise any restraint, we were all over each other like wild hyenas, clinging and clawing as we plunged into a turbulent kiss and fell onto the bed. Every cell in my being torpedoed into an unmapped ball of flames as Ritchie nuzzled the hollow of my throat and caressed my breasts with febrile longing. I nibbled on his lower lip ravenously.
This is madness! I thought. The rugged contours of our friendship … our shared rollercoaster-journey … his untamed allure … the irrepressible craving … the sheer excitement of it … and somewhere in this melee, steady rivulets of an exquisitely agonising force that sang the song of love. I hesitated just for an instant before I unbuttoned his shirt.
A blend of hunger and concern glided across his aquamarine eyes.
‘Is this something you want to do, San?’ he whispered, cupping my face in his hands.
A strange spiritual coherence deepened my corporeal thirst with a vitality I had never imagined before.
‘Yes,’ I gasped, wrenching off my blouse and bra.
‘I love you, San!’ Ritchie murmured into my hair.
I was taken and terrified at the same time – taken, that our hearts were steadily blending into one life force; terrified, that I would lose him, just like I’d lost my Mum, Saahil, Keisha, and in some ways, even Nimmy.
My insecurity about Ritchie started with this investigation. What if his life was in danger too? I cradled him in my arms, worried that the sublimity of this moment would recede if I spoke.
The line of distinction between pain and pleasure faded away as Ritchie devoured my breasts with the intensity of a man possessed. He undid my jeans and lapped up the beads of succulence bubbling between my legs, stirring my soul with a visceral yearning, which was alternately delirious and enervating. Then, moaning my name over and over again, he slithered in and out of me, electrifying my tendons until we exploded into a surreal reality where desire and consciousness blurred into a plane of unbounded ecstasy.
‘Oh, Ritch!’ I wept when we lay spent in each other’s arms.
Ritchie brushed my tears away and kissed me again. ‘Oh God, San … I love you with all my heart,’
I sat in Alfred Maynard’s office later that evening and filled him in on the identity of Keisha’s killer and our theory that Aiden McLeod was the don behind the racket.
‘Sweet Jesus!’ Alfred exclaimed. ‘Think it’s a good time to release it as a breaking-news commentary?’
‘I imagine the investigators will remain tight-lipped until everyone who’s involved is convicted.’
‘They’re still investigating?’ Alfred sounded confused.
A shrill hum began resonating into my eardrums. Were my ears ringing? I rubbed my ears blearily and tried to focus. ‘Yes. Those kids, who vanished from the care home, are still missing. So …’
A disembodied voice boomed out over an intercom. ‘What you just heard was a fire alarm. Please leave the building immediately. This is not a drill.’
A fire bell. Alfred jumped to his feet and began packing his things. Through his partially open cabin door, I saw people scamper towards the spiral balustrade leading to the lobby below. I rushed out to the corridor and peered over the railing. Alfred followed suit.
‘Everyone’s evacuating. Get out for God’s sakes!’ a middle-aged man hissed behind us as he scurried along.
‘Anything serious?’ Alfred asked the flustered man.
‘A couple of edit suites on fire!’ the man hollered over his shoulder.
A growing sense of dread enveloped me as I let Alfred grab my arm and pull me down the stairway to the lobby. We raced towards the closest exit. A small, but agitated, crowd swamped the gardens outside. I was ushered towards a row of people standing off to one side. A supervisor was counting the number of heads. Tufts of smoke wafted into the air from a corner of the building front.
Over the din of voices, I heard the hiss of fire engines and sprays. I coughed, grabbed my inhaler and moved to the farthest end to get away from the noxious fumes. Alfred was in tow, yelling to ask if I was okay. ‘I-I’m asthmatic,’ I rasped.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Alfred motion for someone behind him. A young man handed me a carafe and helped me on to a bench. I smiled weakly and took a few sips of water from his flask. A cluster of voices erupted around me.
‘I’m jolly glad they’re moving their offices to Salford …’ a young lady was saying vehemently.
An older woman whined, ‘Hell, yeah … this building stinks. They say the smoke detector near the HR suite wasn’t working.’
A female announcement rang out from a portable public addressing system.
‘This is a message from the fire safety administrator. I would like to assure everyone that the situation is now under control. No one has been injured so far and there are no missing persons. However, there could be some damage to three edit rooms and a portion of the human resources department. Measures will be undertaken to restore normalcy as soon as possible. Meanwhile, we recommend that all of you go home. Have a good weekend.’
The crowd began dispersing. I was half-certain that someone had followed me to the BBC, disabled some smoke alarms and set the building on fire in anticipation of my presence here.
I felt a hand on my shoulder. Alfred was peering at me anxiously. ‘It would do you good to head home and unwind. Let me call a cab.’
I nodded gratefully. Alfred stayed with me until the cab arrived. I smiled wearily and hopped in.
Near a traffic light outside the White City Underground, the cabbie slammed on his breaks rather hard.
‘Careful, mate!’ I reproached, rubbing my side.
A reflection in the rearview mirror before me spewed out the side profile of a man lurking in the underground station behind a pillar, sharing a packet of crisps with a little girl who looked harrowingly familiar. The man’s hat and dark glasses obscured most of his face. And the child … I recognised her as Nancy, the feisty six-year-old from the garage-shed at Bread Breakers’. The man abruptly turned in my direction. It appeared as if he was looking right into my eyes, but his glasses hid his expression. The little girl’s blonde hair caught the light of dusk as the traffic signal before us changed shades. Oh God … it really was her.
‘Could you stop just for a moment? My earring fell out of the window,’ I lied.
The chauffeur halted outside the station with a grunt. I jumped out and scurried towards the station. By the time I approached the pillars before the turnstiles, the pair had vanished.
Victims for Sale Page 25
