Searching for Celia (8 page)

“Let’s get out of here.” Edwina forces a smile as the nurse leaves. “Hospitals are dreadful places.”

“We can’t,” I reply. “DC Callaway is coming to take my statement.”

She shrugs. “Well let’s wait outside then and catch her on the way in.”

After settling my bill with the payment department, Edwina and I walk back toward the elevator and pass a young dark-haired girl, head down, walking in the other direction. Edwina stops suddenly, pivots, and calls out, “Tatiana?”

The girl stops and looks over her shoulder, her whole body quivering. Edwina beckons me to follow as she approaches the girl. “Tatiana?” she asks again. “It’s Edwina. Celia’s friend.”

The girl nods slowly, looking terrified.

“Why are you here?”

Tatiana stares blankly. Although the size of a ten- or eleven-year-old, her face looks much older with creased eyelids, sallow cheeks, and greasy hair separated into thin strands. She is dressed shabbily in a floor-length denim skirt and a beige hooded sweatshirt, half-zipped, revealing a stained white T-shirt beneath.

“Where is Sophie?” Edwina asks.

An expression of relief flits across the girl’s hollow features. “Come,” she says with a nod, clasping Edwina’s hand and guiding us down the corridor.

At the end we turn to the left, and a short distance later Tatiana stops at the entrance to a small waiting room with muted lights, pastel carpet, and a burbling fish tank. The only person inside the room is a thin blond woman, midthirties, sitting on a dark sofa, shoulders hunched as she stares at a tissue stretched taut between her fists.

“Excuse me—Sophie?” Edwina asks softly as we enter the room.

Instantly the woman’s head shoots up and she squints, trying to focus. “Edwina?”

“Yes. Sophie, this is Dayle Salvesen, Celia’s friend from the States. Dayle, Sophie Jameson. Sophie is the director at Hope House, a charity for homeless women and girls.”

As we shake, Sophie’s hand is cold and clammy. “Nice to meet you,” I say.

“Likewise,” she replies, clearing her throat.

“We passed Tatiana in the corridor,” Edwina says gently. “Sophie, what’s wrong? Why are you here?”

Sophie pauses, glances uncertainly at Tatiana, then speaks. “It’s Mileva. Celia may have mentioned her. A trafficked sex worker from Ukraine. Someone botched her backstreet abortion two weeks ago and now the surgeons are trying to save her uterus.” Sophie exhales heavily. “She’s fourteen years old.”

“I’m so sorry.” Looking uncomfortable, Edwina takes a seat beside Sophie and glances up at me.

I nod.

“Sophie, I have news that might be upsetting,” Edwina begins. “Celia’s gone missing and may have killed herself.”

“My God.” Sophie looks up with a start. “What happened?”

“We’re not certain. Her car was discovered this morning near Waterloo Bridge with a suicide note, but there’s been no sign of Celia.”

“Well she can’t have killed herself,” Sophie replies with surprising vigor.

“How can you be sure?” I jump in.

“She had arranged to meet us tonight at Hope House. Drop off a large package, she said.”

“Package?” Edwina and I ask in unison.

“Yes.” Sophie draws a breath.

“What kind of package?”

She shrugs. “I’m not certain. But from the way she spoke, I expect she meant money.”

Wednesday

4:35 p.m.

“What made you think she was delivering money?” As I step closer, my shadow crosses Sophie’s face and Tatiana scurries to Sophie’s side, guarding her from beside the sofa.

Sophie frowns. “I’m not certain. Celia was hesitant to say too much.”

“Did she often deliver money?”

Sophie stiffens. “Occasionally.”

My mind flashes to the modesty of Celia’s flat and the stacks of overdue bills. “Where did the money come from?”

Sophie shakes her head. “No idea.”

“Weren’t you curious?”

“Not particularly.”

My frustration grows. “Why not?”

Sophie scowls. “I run a shelter for vulnerable young women, Miss Salvesen. We survive through charity donations. Forgive me if I don’t feel the need to explore the origin of every penny we receive.”

“How much money have you gotten from Celia?”

“I don’t know.”

“A rough estimate, then?”

“I really couldn’t say.”

My arm throbs and I press it to my side, trying to deaden the pain. “Just in the last few months?”

Sophie sniffs and dabs her nose with the tissue. “I’d have to check the books.”

“Sophie, if you know something, anything, please tell us,” Edwina pleads, rising from the sofa to stand at my side. “For Celia’s sake.”

Sophie sighs, reaching for another tissue. “I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

I am about to press Sophie for more information when a young nurse enters the room and approaches us, clearing her throat. “Miss Jameson? The surgeon would like to speak with you.”

Edwina touches my back and gestures toward the doorway. “We’d best leave,” she says softly. “Sophie and Tatiana will want to be there when Mileva wakes up.”

“All right,” I reluctantly reply. Sophie hands me her business card and asks me to phone her when I have any news. Then Edwina and I say good-bye to Sophie and Tatiana and make our way down the corridor. Edwina and I are at the elevator before either of us speaks.

“Do you think Celia intended to give Sophie the money from behind her bed?” Edwina proposes.

“What do you mean?”

“Could that have been the delivery she planned to make tonight?”

The elevator arrives. We step inside and the lights flicker as the door rattles closed. Edwina pushes the button for the lower ground floor.

“Possibly,” I reply. “But then Celia would have had no money for her new life.”

“Unless…”

“Unless what?”

“Unless she wasn’t planning a new life. Maybe she planned to give Sophie the money and
then
kill herself.”

“I doubt it.” My voice sounds hollow and metallic in the closed cavern of the elevator car. “Why get the credit card, the cell phone, the Dublin maps? Celia was planning escape, not suicide.”

“I want to believe that, I really do. But—”

“But what?” We reach the lower ground floor and the doors slide open. We emerge into a cold and sterile corridor that is bathed in a sickly greenish light.

“You didn’t see Celia at her worst.” Edwina turns to face me, eyes flashing. “When her father died, when she cut her wrists, when she overdosed. Celia has a darkness inside her, a gaping wound, a grief that never goes away. She keeps it at bay with her sarcasm, her passion for her work, even her love-hate relationship with writing. Therapy and medication help. But even with plenty of support, if she felt overwhelmed, despairing…it scares me, knowing what she’s capable of.”

Celia was once my lover—how could I not have known everything about her? But as Edwina speaks I don’t picture Celia of the threatening photograph from this afternoon, the haggard, bone-thin, sallow bleach blonde; no, I see Celia at age thirteen, then only four feet eleven inches tall, with hair dyed black and a black leather Harley jacket, standing onstage at Fillmore Junior High School in Green Bay, demanding to audition for the part of Jesus in the school production of
Godspell
, even though her voice was only average and she hated wearing makeup. To Celia, it was worth it. Anything to strike a blow for local feminism while simultaneously outraging the Fillmore PTA.

“You’re right,” I admit to Edwina. “You’re much closer to Celia now than I am.”

“Dayle, this isn’t a competition.” Edwina folds her long arms and leans back against the wall opposite the elevator, looking defeated. “I just want to know what’s happened to her.”

“I know. So do I.”

As we return to the A&E reception area, I glimpse DC Callaway shuttling through the sliding glass doors. Only five hours have elapsed since I last saw the detective, but the advancing day seems to have aged her, adding years to her appearance. Her oily beige trench coat flaps in the breeze and her thin, wispy hair, which earlier offered only the slightest hint of a style, has collapsed flatly against her forehead. Even from this distance she smells of a hastily smoked cigarette, obliterated by an angry heel and still smoldering on the steps outside the hospital entrance.

After introducing Edwina and exchanging brief greetings, I suggest we sit down and perhaps get something to eat. There’s a chic-looking restaurant on this floor of the hospital, along with a smaller café, but DC Callaway doesn’t have time, even for a meager cup of tea, she informs us. So instead we find a few chairs on the perimeter of the A&E reception area, beside a bank of vending machines, and talk there.

I begin by telling Callaway about my accident at the Tube station. As she takes notes, her nicotine-stained fingers press her pencil stub so tightly that her yellow nail beds turn white. A troubled
V
appears between her eyebrows and frown lines tug her firmly set mouth. “Hmm,” she offers. “Go on.” “Yes?” “Uh-huh.” She seems concerned mostly with whether I saw whoever pushed me, if indeed anyone did. “A man or a woman?” she asks.

“I don’t know. I never turned to look,” I explain. “I felt something, lost my footing, then hit the ground.”

She pivots, coughing into her clenched fist. “Well, you must have some sense of the person. Large? Small?”

“I really don’t know.”

A somber-looking Southeast Asian boy of about eleven with large dark eyes approaches the vending machine, coins pinched between his fingertips. Edwina nods him forward, indicating he may use the machine.

“And you didn’t see height, hair color, clothing?” Callaway presses.

I shake my head. “No. Nothing. I was reading Celia’s manuscript, so I wasn’t paying much attention.”

A can of Coke rattles through the vending machine chute as Callaway draws in her thin bottom lip and squints at her notes. “Is there anything else you can tell me that might be helpful? Anything you heard? A noise? Anything?”

“Not at Tottenham Court Road,” I say slowly, watching the boy walk away with his drink in hand, “but earlier in the day a man seemed to be following me. I wonder now if there’s some connection between that man and my accident.”

“Followed you?” Callaway’s voice sounds practiced and casual, but her pupils briefly flare.

“I think so. I can’t be sure.” I describe the man I saw on the way to Celia’s bank and then later on the Tube. While I speak, Edwina taps my shoulder and reminds me to keep my broken hand elevated, as the doctor advised.

After I finish my description of the man, Callaway promises she’ll look into reports of any other recent assaults on the Tube or in and around the stations. “But I must admit, this sounds like nothing more than an unfortunate accident,” she warns. After reviewing her notes, she says I’m free to leave. I am secretly relieved—my wrist aches and I just want to rest for a while before the conference.

“There is something else,” I add as we rise from the narrow plastic chairs.

“Oh?” Callaway jams an arm into her trench coat and wrestles it over her shoulder. “What’s that?”

I glance at Edwina, who nods for me to continue.

“When Celia’s mail arrived this afternoon, there was an envelope containing a photo of her standing outside her flat. Someone had scribbled on the bottom,
We can make you disappear
.”

Callaway scowls as she hikes her canvas messenger bag over her shoulder and centers it beneath her arm. “Where and when was the envelope postmarked?”

“London. Twelve days ago.”

Her sparse eyebrows rise. “Twelve days ago? And it arrived today?”

“Yes. Maybe Celia didn’t even realize she was in danger.”

“Perhaps not.” Callaway looks away uneasily.

“What is it?” I ask.

Sudden color flushes her ashy cheeks. “Nothing.”

“You looked as if you were about to say something,” I probe.

“No.”

“What is it?” Edwina insists.

Callaway draws a deep breath and then exhales forcefully, shoulders plunging. “You should probably know.”

“Know what?” My mind races.

“Information might emerge from this case that will shock or disturb you.”

“What kind of information?” I ask.

Callaway’s hazel eyes dart furtively from me to Edwina and back again. “Cecelia Frost may not have been as saintly as she appeared.”

“What are you implying?” Edwina steps in front of Callaway and folds her arms across her chest, rising to her full, imposing height.

“We have uncovered evidence that Celia engaged with the criminal element,” Callaway explains. “The Russian Mafia, to be precise—ringleaders of the international sex trade.”

“Of course she engaged with them.” Edwina moves to within inches of Callaway’s face. “That was how she got women and girls who’d been trafficked into Britain off the streets. But Celia always acted legally.”

“Well, she does have a criminal record,” Callaway offers, standing her ground.

“Only very minor offenses,” Edwina counters quickly.

“Wait a minute—Celia has a criminal record?” This is news to me.

“Oh, didn’t you know?” Callaway’s glance at me over Edwina’s shoulder contains a smirk of superiority.

“No, I didn’t,” I admit.

“Oh yes. As I recall, she was charged with aggravated trespass, breaking and entering, criminal damage, and breach of the peace.” Callaway lists the charges as a succession of sharpened daggers. “And they may only be minor offenses, as you say, Miss Adebayo,” Callaway pauses dramatically, “but taken as a whole they paint a rather compelling portrait of someone who plays fast and loose with the law.”

“You’re not being fair, DC Callaway,” Edwina argues. “Celia may have faced serious charges, but the convictions were on counts far less serious, which you know as well as I.”

I cannot believe what I am hearing. “Wait a minute—let’s backtrack a bit here. DC Callaway, are you suggesting that Celia’s disappearance is related to her work at the relief center?”

Callaway sighs. “I’m afraid that’s a possibility.”

“Yes, but what evidence do you have?” Edwina’s voice deepens with alarm. “Other than innuendo and character assassination?”