Searching for Celia (4 page)

“Detective Constable Andrea Callaway,” she says briskly, picking up the drawer she’d dropped and forcing it back into the dresser. “Metropolitan Police. Sorry about your friend.”

“Have you found her body?” I ask, swallowing hard.

She shakes her head. “No. Not yet. But that’s not surprising. The way the river flows, she could be out to sea by now.”

I envision the Thames, snaking sluggishly around the boroughs of London and flushing into the North Sea, belching more than 200 miles worth of waste and detritus into the cold murky waters. Celia deserves better than that.

“Dayle doesn’t believe Cecelia offed herself,” Dot volunteers.

“I understand. But she left a note—a suicide note—in the vehicle.” Callaway grimaces. “Regarding next of kin…?”

“There isn’t any,” I say sadly. “Celia was an only child. Her mother died when she was three and her father last year. Someone will have to tell her girlfriend.
Ex
-girlfriend? And those orphans…”

“Orphans?” Both Dot and the detective look confused.

“Refugees. Those people she helps. How will they survive without her?” Suddenly I feel faint.

Dot and Callaway help me into a chair. Celia’s chair. “There, there, love,” Dot comforts. “You’ve had quite a shock.”

Callaway fills a glass with water from the sink and brings it to me. I drink gratefully from the rim stained by Celia’s lips.

“I’d like to speak with you about Ms. Frost, later, when you’re feeling better. Attempt to establish her mental state.” Callaway hands me her card. “Where are you staying?”

I look around the tiny flat. “Here? With Celia.” That sounds impossible now. “I’ll get a hotel. I’m speaking at a conference tonight.” I sigh. “I don’t know.”

“Have a little rest at my place, then decide,” Dot offers.

She is beyond generous, but suddenly I have to be alone. “Thanks, but I think I’ll stay here,” I say. “Try to collect myself.”

“All right then, but I’m just down the corridor if you need me.” Dot pats my shoulder.

Callaway nods at the card still in my hand. “My number’s there, if you think of anything that could be useful to the investigation. I’m at the Hampstead police station just up the road—twenty-six Rosslyn Hill.”

“Of course. I’ll let you know.” I walk Dot and Callaway to the door and bid them good-bye. Once they have gone, the silence inside the little flat is deafening. I quickly phone the airline and change my ticket. I had planned to stay in London for ten days, but instead I book a flight back to Chicago for early tomorrow afternoon. I’m sure there will be a funeral, paperwork to complete, a whole life needing to be dismantled, but I can’t be any part of that. Celia would understand. It’s too soon after Rory.

I sit at Celia’s desk and press my palms to my face.
Could
Celia have killed herself? I consider the facts: Celia’s only family, her father, died a year ago. She had serious financial problems. Her last book was a critical and commercial failure. Dot says Celia attempted suicide twice in the past year. She recently broke up with her girlfriend. A few days ago, she was mugged. Enough to make someone depressed, no doubt. But suicidal? Celia knew I was arriving today. Couldn’t she have waited? Was she afraid I’d try to talk her out of it? Wasn’t our friendship of more than twenty years worth at least a final good-bye?

I pace the tiny apartment. There are things here that don’t make sense: dirty dishes fill the sink, but Celia’s fridge is almost empty, as if she’d cleared out all the food. A brand-new suitcase, price tag still on it, sits inside the wooden wardrobe with a stack of clean clothes folded neatly on top. On her desk, maps of Dublin and of the DART, Dublin’s rail line. A box of black hair dye, in a plastic bag with a receipt. Purchased four days ago, with cash. I’m convinced Celia planned to return to this flat. Return, then leave forever.

I go into the bathroom and wash my hands. While I search for a clean towel in the wooden shelves beneath the sink, something catches my eye. Pushing aside some linens I pull out what looks like a brand-new credit card. It’s in the name of Marguerite Alderton and signed with a flowery signature. Was Celia desperate enough to steal someone’s credit card?

The phone rings and I jump. My hands are shaking as I pick up the phone and say hello.

“Oh, hello.” The deep voice pauses. “Celia?”

“No. Dayle Salvesen.”

“Oh, right—Celia’s friend from the States. May I speak to Celia?”

“Is this Edwina Adebayo?” I think I recognize a slight West African accent.

“Why, yes it is.”

“Edwina, I don’t know how to tell you this. Celia died this morning.”

She gasps. “That’s not possible.”

“I didn’t think so either. But the police were just here—”

“No, I mean it isn’t
possible
,” Edwina interrupts. “Celia rang me five minutes ago.”

Wednesday

10:19 a.m.

“You talked to Celia? She’s alive?” My mind races. I’m angry with Dot Crawford for letting me think that Celia had died. It’s all Dot’s fault, and I am thrilled and enlivened to have someone to blame.

“I didn’t speak to her, no.” Edwina’s voice is thin and nervous. My heart tumbles. “My mobile rang,” she continues quickly. “No one was there when I answered, but the number on the screen was Celia’s.”

Hatred for Dot Crawford creeps back into my consciousness. But Celia might be alive; perhaps she was calling for help.

“Look, I’m just down the road,” Edwina says. “Stay where you are and I’ll be right there.”

“Okay,” I manage to reply. “Please hurry.”

I hang up the phone, and while I wait for Edwina I search Celia’s flat again, wondering what I’m missing. I think about Redleigh Smith, my alter ego; actually, my alter ego’s alter ego, since I, Dayle Salvesen, write as Candee Cronin, and Candee Cronin, whom I did not know until this morning was an aspiring terrorist, created Redleigh Smith, heroine of the
Assignment
novels. Redleigh always knows what to do and looks good in a bikini while doing it. She carries truth serum in a lipstick tube and once strangled two al-Qaeda operatives with her thong.

Celia’s tiny flat is dense with dirty clothes, notes scribbled on paper napkins, greasy Chinese takeout containers, and makeshift ashtrays. I have no idea what I’m looking for as I shift haphazard piles of papers and gather loose shoes. In the bottom drawer of Celia’s desk I find a sealed manila envelope labeled
Personal Documents
. I’m not ready to open it, at least not yet. Then I notice a gap of several inches between Celia’s stacked mattresses and the wall. Kneeling on the bed, I slide my hand into the space and move forward until I hit something.

It’s a new cell phone, still in its box, although the box has been opened. Inside the box, stashed beneath the phone, is a large wad of twenty- and fifty-pound notes. Counting it quickly, it comes to over £5,000 pounds—more than $7,500 dollars. What the hell? I turn on the phone and by its prefix I can tell the number’s not British.

A knock at the door startles me. I quickly stuff the items back behind the mattress. “Come in,” I call loudly.

The door opens slowly and standing in the darkened doorway is a gorgeous square-shouldered woman in her late thirties, about six feet tall, with loose black curls clipped close above her ears and at the nape of her long, elegant neck. Her cocoa-colored skin is smooth and flawless, unadorned by makeup, and she has surprisingly pale gray eyes. Her high cheekbones and wide forehead give her face an open and inviting quality. She is dressed in a powder-blue button-down Oxford shirt, straight-leg jeans, a black leather bomber jacket and black Dr. Martens boots.

“Hello, I’m Edwina Adebayo,” she says softly.

I step across the room and extend my hand. “Dayle Salvesen,” I say. “Pleased to meet you. I only wish the circumstances were different.”

As we shake, her muscular hand is clammy and trembling. “Celia’s mobile. When she was robbed…her purse…”

“I know.” I guide Edwina to a chair. “I thought of that too, right after you called. Was Celia’s cell phone in her purse when she was mugged?”

Edwina shakes her head. “I really couldn’t say.”

“It’s possible that whoever called you just now has Celia’s phone and simply punched in your preset number.”

“It’s possible.” Edwina takes a deep breath and swallows, looking up at me with vacant gray eyes. “Do you believe Celia is dead?”

I shake my head. “I honestly don’t know. The police think so. They found her car, and a suicide note, near Waterloo Bridge this morning. But they haven’t found a body.”

Edwina’s eyes fill with tears. “She’s gone and done it this time,” she whispers bitterly. “It’s my fault. I should have been here.”

I place my hand on her shoulder and feel the strong muscles shift beneath my fingertips. “Don’t blame yourself,” I say, then remember how often I was told the same thing myself, five months ago. “If Celia wanted to die, no one could have saved her.”

Edwina blinks rapidly and draws a breath. As she glances around the flat, I imagine what she sees: places where she and Celia laughed and cuddled, made dinner and watched TV, and places even more intimate—Celia’s underwear drawer, the bathtub, the bed where they made love.

“Let’s get out of here,” I whisper. “Fresh air will do us both good.”

She nods, swiping her eyes with her thumbs. “Are you hungry?”

The question seems so preposterous, I laugh out loud. How could I eat now? And yet I am hungry—famished, in fact. I haven’t had a decent meal since before my flight left Chicago yesterday evening. “Starving,” I reply.

“Come on then. There’s a nice place just up the road.”

We leave Celia’s flat and, fighting the blustery wind and scattershot rain, head north up Rosslyn Hill, past trendy boutiques, tall red-brick town houses, and elegant cafés. The affluent, sophisticated feel of the neighborhood stands in stark contrast to the squalor of Celia’s flat.

Edwina steps briskly in her heavy boots and I struggle to keep pace with her long, determined strides. We are silent, except for our quickening breath, as we proceed uphill, and in the silence I observe Edwina—tall, confident, powerful—from the corner of my eye. So this is—this was?—Celia’s partner. I am surprised; most of Celia’s girlfriends, other than me, have been delicate, ethereal waifs with soft, feminine features.

“Tell me about Celia’s recent work,” I ask, glancing at Edwina as we stop to cross Willoughby Road and are nearly mowed down by a frantic Mini Cooper. “We’ve been out of touch the past several months.”

“Well, for a start, she’s made some changes at the center.”

“What kind of changes?”

“She no longer works primarily with asylum seekers and refugees, as she did before.” Edwina plunges her hands into her jacket pockets as we resume walking. “Now Celia deals almost exclusively with young women and girls—mainly from Asia and Eastern Europe—who have been trafficked into Britain as sex slaves and child prostitutes. She helps get them off the streets and into group homes, foster care, or sheltered accommodation.”

“Sounds challenging,” I offer, pleased that Edwina’s gait has slowed enough that my shorter strides keep pace with hers. The sidewalk seems to narrow as we maneuver past a frumpy, frazzled mum pushing a double stroller.

“More challenging than you might imagine,” Edwina muses, blinking against the wind. “Celia doesn’t just shuffle papers and answer phones. She’s committed to working on the ground as well. Last year she sneaked into Moldova on the back of a lorry with a group of aid workers, hoping to document the circumstances there.”

“Sounds like the kind of work where she might make enemies.”

Edwina stubs her boot on a broken paving stone and I clutch her arm so she doesn’t tumble.

“You think it’s foul play?” she asks, leaning against me as she finds her footing, tapping the toe of one boot with the heel of the other.

“I have no idea,” I admit. “I’m just not convinced Celia would kill herself.”

Edwina straightens and looks away uneasily.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Celia attempted suicide,” she whispers, as if to cushion the blow. “Twice, in fact, in the past year. About two months ago she overdosed on sleeping tablets and ended up in hospital.”

I hunch my shoulders to fight off the cold. “I know. Celia’s neighbor, Dot, mentioned that to me. But I’m still not convinced.”

“There is something else.” Edwina frowns, biting her lip.

“What?”

“I don’t believe the mugging was a random street crime, as Celia claimed. I think it was a warning to back off, or else.”

I knew there was more to the story. “Had she received any specific threats?” I ask.

Edwina shakes her head. “None that I know of, but we spoke less frequently since we split up.”

“But the breakup was amicable?”

“Yes…” She looks away.

“But?” I’m hesitant to push too hard.

The rising wind teases tears from Edwina’s eyes. “I’m not even certain
why
we broke up, truth be told. We had been very happy—at least I was and believed she was as well. Then about a month ago, she became distant. Secretive.” A shadow darkens her face.

“Was there someone else?” I ask carefully.

She tucks her chin to her chest and resumes walking, at a pace even brisker than before. “I don’t believe so. She said she needed space and we should separate. I tried changing her mind, but she was adamant. And you know how Celia is, once she sets her mind to something.”

Boy, did I know. But I felt a strange stab of remorse that someone knew Celia as well as, or better than, I once had. When we were lovers, I foolishly believed that we knew one another better than any two people ever could—the ultimate fallacy of love.

We reach the café, a cheerful French bistro called Au Bon Tartine, with the day’s specials scrawled in rain-smudged chalk on a blackboard propped against the open door. Edwina guides me inside the noisy café, which is surprisingly busy for just before eleven a.m. on a Wednesday morning. We take a small marble table facing the foggy front window, where we can observe the thick traffic lumbering up Hampstead High Street, belching dense clouds of exhaust that hang heavily, skirting the pavement like old-fashioned crinolines.