Searching for Celia (16 page)

The second photograph shows the same scene, only in close-up. The man’s fist, now clearly visible, holds a roll of £50 notes, inches from Celia’s waiting fingertips.

“This doesn’t prove anything,” I offer feebly.

Without saying a word, Callaway reaches into her canvas bag one more time, withdraws another photograph, and carefully places it on top of the stack of images in front of me.

I glance down at the photo and nearly gag. The picture shows three young women, dead, naked, and soaking wet, their bodies arranged side by side on a gravel beach beside a dark body of water. Their expressionless faces are creased and bloated, their hands bound and their feet encased in concrete. Their breasts have been hacked off, as if with a machete.

“This is what happens to those caught trying to escape their enslavement,” Callaway says, her voice devoid of emotion. “It sends a message, keeps the other girls in line. The man responsible for this particular atrocity is Milan Gregorovich.” She pauses. “He’s the taller of the two men you see there in the photograph with Cecelia.”

No. No. No.
I turn the photograph over so only the white backside is visible, place it over the others, then slide the entire pile of photos back to Callaway.

Her thin, efficient fingers square the haphazard stack of photos so the edges line up. “Horrific, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” I manage to reply in a hoarse whisper.

“But this can be stopped, you know. It isn’t hopeless.”

“Isn’t it?”

“The trafficking, I mean.”

“Oh.”

“Removing a single cog can significantly stall the machinery.”

“Uh-huh.” I close my eyes as my head begins to spin.

“A single cog. That’s all we need.”

“Yes.” My arms and legs go weak.

“A single cog may not seem like much.”

“No.”

“But if we remove one cog here and another there, we can interrupt the flow.” Callaway’s voice is softer than I’ve ever heard it.

“I don’t know…”

“But of course you do.” She covers my hand with hers. “You know what’s right.”

Do I?

“I believe you
want
to tell me. It would be a relief.”

“Celia,” I whisper.

“What of Celia?”

“She’s still alive.”

“Go on.”

“I saw her.”

“When?”

“Around nine o’clock.”

“Where?”

Outside, rain tickles the trees and taps faintly against the window.

“Where did you see her, Dayle?” Callaway’s voice rises, but only slightly.

“At the London Eye.”

“Is she still there?”

I shake my head. “No.”

“Then where is she?”

“I don’t know.” My voice drops to a whisper. “But I’m supposed to meet her tomorrow.”

“Where?” Callaway is nearly breathless.

If I tell the truth, there will be no turning back.

“At the Circle of Lebanon.” I pause, swallowing hard. “Highgate Cemetery. Nine fifteen a.m.”

Thursday

12:48 a.m.

“I’ll make tea,” Callaway offers as I slump at the kitchen table, trying to comprehend what I’ve just done. “Looks as if you could use some reviving.”

I don’t reply. Callaway strides into the kitchen and immediately goes to work, filling the electric kettle with cold water and searching the cupboards for tea bags and mugs. There is something prim and efficient in her gestures, in the straight-backed way she stands and the busy little noises she makes.

I rise and move to the window, then pull back the brocaded burgundy curtain, which, as I touch it, releases a thick mist of powder-gray dust that shimmies to the floor. I gaze out at the rain-slicked street and the row of tall brick town houses that rest, dark and quiet, with drapes drawn and shutters closed, as the towering oak and chestnut trees lining Rosslyn Hill seem to raise their arms and bow their heads, sheltering all that dwells beneath.

I glance over my shoulder at the clock on Celia’s desk. It is nearing one a.m. If I go through with this, Celia has less than nine hours of freedom left.

Callaway squints at me from the kitchen. “Are you all right?” she asks. “You look rather pale.”

I’m amazed she can gauge my complexion by the thin yellow light from the single bulb in the fixture above my head. “I’ll be fine,” I reply. “Once this is over.”

“I understand. You must be gutted.” She smiles sadly, tapping the handle of the kettle, and for one brief moment, she seems almost human. “There’s nothing worse than being let down by a friend.”

“I suppose not.” I don’t tell her how many worse things I am able to imagine.

She turns back to the kettle, testing the warmth with her palm. I try to imagine Callaway in a different environment—at home, or perhaps at the police station just up the road. I picture her in an office on the second floor, where the fluorescent lights are buzzing and the desks are manned by plainclothes detectives and bleary-eyed Metropolitan Police officers in uniform typing up reports on blinking computer screens. Callaway’s desk, messy yet impersonal, will offer nothing more revealing than a crushed pack of Lambert & Butler cigarettes, a chain of linked paper clips, a ball of rubber bands, and a torn wrapper from a Bounty bar, its ragged edges sealed with a dried chocolate thumbprint. There will be no photos, knickknacks, or hastily scribbled grocery lists, not even an orphaned earring that might provide a glimpse of the real DC Andrea Callaway hidden beneath the greasy hair and soiled trench coat.

The tea made, Callaway brings the mugs to the table and gestures for me to join her. I take a seat and stare down at the thin brownish-gray liquid swirling inside the chipped ceramic mug.

“Sorry it’s not stronger,” she apologizes. “I used what was left of the milk.”

“That’s okay. It’s one a.m. I don’t need the caffeine.”

She reaches into her messenger bag and pulls out a notepad and pen. “Still trying to take it all in, I’d imagine.”

“You could say that.”

She pulls her chair closer to the table and leans heavily on her elbows. “You’re doing her a favor, you know.”

“How’s that?”

“If Cecelia stays in London, the mobsters will kill her. They have already threatened her—they would have no qualms about taking her life. Attacking her in the street and stealing her handbag is nothing, compared to what they might do.” She uncaps her pen. “And if Cecelia tries to leave the UK, she will be arrested. If not by me or my team, then by other authorities who may not be so”—she pauses—“generous.”

“Generous?”

She nods solemnly. “Yes. We can offer Cecelia a deal that will spare her serving any jail time.”

Callaway has not, so far, appeared to be the conciliatory type. “Why would you do that?”

“Because Cecelia Frost is a small fish.” She frowns, scribbling on her pad in an attempt to bring forth ink. “There’s no currency in prosecuting her. We are targeting the ringleaders behind this whole operation. We can never completely stop the trafficking of young women into Britain, but we can curtail the trade, at least temporarily, by bringing down a few key players.”

I sip my tea. “And you need Celia’s help.”

Callaway nods. “Celia knows these people as well as anyone. Her information would be invaluable.”

I put down the mug. “The minute she snitches on these guys, her life will be worthless. She might just as well jump into the Thames.”

“Oh, we don’t want her to grass.” Callaway pauses. “We want her to testify.”

“Testify?”

“In court. And in exchange, we’ll guarantee her protection for life.”

“You can do that?”

“Yes. She’ll get a new name and identity, a home of her own, money, support, whatever she needs. Most importantly, we’ll see that she is protected. Permanently.”

Exactly what Celia was trying to create for herself in the US. But this way, she’ll have plenty of help. And the British taxpayer foots the bill.

Callaway flips her notepad to the next clean sheet. “Let’s review the details of your plan to meet.”

“There’s not much to tell.” I sip the lukewarm tea, which grows more bitter as it cools. “We are supposed to meet at the tomb of Radclyffe Hall. The Circle of Lebanon, Highgate Cemetery. Nine fifteen a.m.”

Her eyebrows rise as she taps the notepad. “Why there? Why then?”

I shrug. “It was Celia’s suggestion. Radclyffe Hall’s
The Well of Loneliness
is her favorite novel so the spot has special significance. There’s a red duffel bag in the wardrobe. I’m supposed to bring that with me, filled with her clothes, a cell phone, and cash, and give it to her outside the tomb.”

Callaway nods, trying to seem casual, but her deep beady eyes are on fire. “I see. Then what’s meant to happen?”

“Go our separate ways, I suppose.”

“Do you know her specific travel details?”

I could say no. Or I could lie and say something completely outlandish. There is still time to save Celia, if I so choose. But is Celia still worth saving? The Celia I knew—or the Celia I
thought
I knew?

I take a deep breath. “Celia plans to take the ten past five train from Euston to Holyhead and then sail to Dublin.”

“Will she be traveling alone?”

“I believe so.”

“And will she be traveling under an assumed name?”

Don’t tell—don’t tell—don’t tell—
the words pound through my skull. “Marguerite Alderton,” I reply softly.

The wheels are turning as Callaway licks her thin lips. “All right then,” she pronounces, “we’ll follow you to Highgate. Once you hand over the gym bag, we will arrest her.”

Instantly the scene plays out in my imagination—the look of absolute horror on Celia’s face as she realizes that I have betrayed her.
You want me to be Judas. And mark her with my kiss.

“Isn’t there some other way?” I ask, panicking.

“What do you mean?”

“Can’t you arrest her later?”

She frowns. “Later?”

“After we leave the cemetery. Can’t you arrest her at Euston?”

“Does it matter where we arrest her?”

“Yes. I don’t want her to know.”

“Know what?”

“That I turned her in.”

Callaway shakes her head. “We can’t afford to wait. Once we locate her, we need to act quickly.”

My mind races. No. There has to be another way. “Can’t you follow her from the cemetery after I give her the duffel bag? She’ll be at Euston—she has nowhere else to go.”

“I’m sorry.” Callaway coldly pats my hand. Having gotten what she needs, she’s reverted to official-police-business mode. “Cecelia might change her plans. Or she may not have told you the truth. We can’t take the chance she’ll slip away.” Callaway forces a smile, but her eyes remain deadly still. “For her own protection, of course. Her life is still in danger. We can keep her safe.”

“DC Callaway.” I form the words carefully. “I didn’t have to tell you where she is, or even agree to help you. I think you owe me something in return.”

A muscle above Callaway’s lip twitches, even as she refuses to blink.

“Don’t make me watch as you arrest her.” My voice breaks. “Imagine if she were your best friend.”

Callaway scowls at her notes and I go in for the kill.

“This won’t work if you and I don’t trust each other.” Her eyes flicker and I know she’s mine. “Please. Don’t make me beg.”

“Very well. I’m not thrilled, mind you. But we do appreciate your assistance.” Frowning, she quickly pages through her notes. “All right, here is what we will do. You will meet Miss Frost at the tomb of Radclyffe Hall at a quarter past nine. You will hand over the bag she is expecting, with the items inside. The two of you will leave the cemetery together and then separate. One of my men will arrest Cecelia later, at Euston Station.”

By the look on Callaway’s narrow face I suspect she is lying.
You are going to arrest Celia the moment we leave the cemetery. If not before.
But now it’s too late. I’ve said too much.

Callaway glances at her watch. “If you’d like to come back to the station, we’ve got a quiet room with a settee, a pillow, and some blankets. You can get a few hours’ rest before your rendezvous.”

“Thanks, but I’d rather stay here.”

“Are you certain?” She eyes me suspiciously.

“Yes. I’m certain.”

Callaway is about to say more when her cell phone rings. She reaches into her coat pocket, withdraws the phone, and pops it open in a single gesture.

“DC Callaway. What? No, I was just leaving. I hadn’t heard.” She holds the phone away from her face and covers it with her hand, anxiously leaning across the table.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Police in Birmingham have arrested seven members of a terrorist cell preparing to attack London.” Her voice bristles with excitement. “They’ve caught the ringleader as well as the would-be bombers. The threat is over! They’ve been caught.”

Thursday

1:31 a.m.

I turn on the television and click through the channels but the story is so fresh it hasn’t yet reached the media. From her colleague, Callaway gleans that the Birmingham terrorist cell was composed of homegrown hard-core fundamentalists, all born and raised in England, and that the tip that broke the whole case open came via a phone call from a member of the public, who reported that her neighbor’s son was behaving “strangely.”

“It’s extraordinary,” Callaway remarks, snapping closed her cell phone and shaking her head. “Young men willing to betray their own nation. Treachery at the deepest level.”

As she speaks, I understand that not only is true treachery silent and interior, it can take many forms. “How could these young men do it?” I ask rhetorically. “And yet, some will question the woman who turned in her neighbor’s son.”

“
That
was an act of courage,” Callaway insists, eyes flashing.

“I agree,” I reply. “But there will be some who see it as an act of betrayal. It’s all in how you look at things, I believe.”

*

After we review the Highgate plan one final time, Callaway prepares to leave. I escort her downstairs, bidding good-bye at the front door. Then I quickly make my way back up the split staircase and enter Celia’s flat for what I know will be the final time. Celia, too, will never again set foot inside this cramped and dreary little room that has been her home for more than two years. The whole life that was lived here—the relief center she founded and ran, the books and articles she wrote, the body that moved through this space, the heart that felt the loss of a father, everything she thought and hoped and dreamed and cared about—all about to be dismantled. A life can seem so small, and never smaller than in its unraveling.