Murder in Mayfair, page 9
I came back down a minute later looking a lot more like someone ready to clean out apartments, and Violet nodded approvingly. “Good. Did you see the van on the road?”
“Sure,” I replied.
“That is what we are taking to get there.”
“Oh,” I said. “Wow, you’re taking this cleaning job seriously.”
“It appears that Federico Antonini lives in a building with a little bit more security than many in London,” Violet replied. “We are going to have to appear less conspicuous than we ordinarily would. Besides, with the hats, it will make us more difficult to identify on the CCTV footage.”
“Right,” I said, looking at the baseball cap on which was embroidered the same logo as was on the side of the truck parked outside.
“Now, let’s go,” Violet said, and the two of us went out into the street. As Violet drove off, Jake was giving Sequoia a quick walk, and he waved when he saw us; if the fact that we looked like we were ready for a shift of hard work cleaning Airbnbs surprised him at all, he didn’t show it.
Thirty minutes later Violet pulled up in front of a five-story redbrick building with a park full of huge, leafy trees on the other side of the street. We were in Hackney, a suburb that apparently used to be known for being riddled with crime and unsavory types, but which was quickly becoming a new up-and-coming hip and trendy part of town. We had to be in the good part of the borough right now; this didn’t look like the kind of place where addicts would shoot up in the laneways at night. A couple walked their dog down the street, and a woman jogged with her baby in a stroller in front of her, earpods firmly nestled in her ears.
Violet and I jumped out of the car, and each of us grabbed a small kit of cleaning materials from the back of the van. I had to admit, with Violet’s warning about the security cameras, I pushed my baseball cap down further over the front of my face and tried to avoid looking around to see if I could spot any of the cameras in question.
We walked to the front door, and I was dismayed to see the front panel was electronic; we were going to need a key fob to get in. But Violet simply pulled out a ring of keys and pressed a small gray fob against the panel, and a green light on the top flashed.
“Parfait,” she muttered as she pulled open the door and held it open for me.
“How did you manage that?” I asked, impressed.
“I came and had a look at the company that installed the system earlier,” Violet explained. “It is one of the most easily hackable security panels out there, and it was child’s play to create an extra fob that would open the front door.”
“Excuse me, what are you doing here in this building?” an old woman suddenly croaked from behind us. I turned to find myself staring at someone who had to be at least eighty years old. A bandana covered her hair, and in her hand was a phone that she waved at us threateningly. “What is your business in here? Answer me now, or I’m calling the police.”
“We’re cleaners with Clean and Fresh,” Violet answered in a perfect British accent. “We’ve been hired by the owner of apartment number seven.”
“And what’s the owner’s name?” the woman asked, her eyes narrowing at us.
“Thomas Jensen,” Violet replied without hesitation.
“Alright, alright, go about your business, then,” the woman snarled at us, stepping back into her apartment and closing the door behind her. I could practically feel her eyes boring through the eyehole, checking on us to make sure we actually were going upstairs. Violet and I did, but it wasn’t until we were standing in front of the door to apartment number eleven, which I assumed was where Federico Antonini lived, that I dared to ask the question.
“How did you know she was here?”
“When I came here yesterday to do the reconnaissance mission on the front of the building she spotted me. She accused me of trying to rob the building, called the police, and tried to stop me from escaping by hitting me with her handbag. I’m quite certain she had a brick in there; I’ve got a bruise on my leg from it. I did get away, though.”
I stifled a laugh at the idea of Violet being attacked by a little old lady who thought she was casing the place. I mean, the woman’s instincts were good—that was what Violet had been doing.
“Why didn’t she recognize you today, though?”
“You do not think that I would venture out to do this sort of thing looking as myself, do you?” Violet asked. “No, my hair was a different color, I was two inches taller, and I appeared to be male.”
“Right,” I said as Violet made quick work picking the lock of Federico’s apartment. The two of us went inside and shut the door behind us quickly.
“Great,” I said. “Now, assuming we’re not going to actually clean the toilets, we’re looking for anything that might show Federico and Chantelle were in a relationship? And, of course, even better would be finding something like the murder weapon?”
“Yes, that is right,” Violet said. “You can start with the living room. I will go do the bedroom and bathroom.” She pulled out a couple of latex gloves and handed them to me, and I put them on. I most definitely did not want to be leaving my fingerprints all over this apartment.
I stepped forward into the open living space. Federico’s apartment was like his office, with everything neat and organized. A small couch sat directly in front of a television on a stand. The wall nearest the window was packed with bookshelves that spanned from the floor to the ceiling, and every inch of the cases was filled with books on seemingly every topic under the sun. Taking a closer look, they appeared to be organized alphabetically by author’s last name. Now that was way too neat.
I decided to go for the obvious spot: the cabinet underneath the TV. After all, of all the furniture here, that was where anything important would likely be. I sat down on the ground in front of it and opened the cupboard door, finding myself looking at a number of installation and instruction manuals. There wasn’t anything here that seemed to show Federico had any personality.
Heading to the kitchen, I quickly checked the drawers. There were a bunch of take-out menus for every kind of eatery under the sun. The cupboards were filled with dishes and cutlery, all of matching sets. Looking around, I frowned. There wasn’t a single indication that this wasn’t just an Airbnb after all. There were no pictures of Federico at all—no holiday snaps, no pictures of family, nothing. He had to be the least social person I had ever come across.
“Any luck?” I called out to Violet.
“Not yet. I have finished looking through the bathroom, but there was no evidence of someone else spending much time in there. And you?”
“Same,” I replied. “I’m starting to think maybe Federico doesn’t actually live here. There’s no sign of permanent residence at all.”
“Well, if it helps at all, he does have clothes in the bedroom. It appears that Federico does, in fact, live here.”
“It’d be nice if we could find proof of a relationship, any relationship, or better yet, proof he’s the killer,” I added.
I had run out of other places in the kitchen and living room to look, so I made my way to the bookshelves. Looking carefully at all the books, there was a thin layer of dust on almost all of them, which meant they couldn’t have been moved recently. I felt clever for figuring that out; maybe Violet was rubbing off on me.
One of them, however, was completely dust-free. I dropped onto my haunches to peer closer at the book. It was a title on the architecture of famous museums around the world. That part wasn’t particularly surprising; most of the titles on the bookshelves were nonfiction and included everything from a guide to the constellations in the night sky to the Antonine Plague to a history of South Africa. But when I opened the book, however, I gasped.
“Hey, Violet?” I called out.
“Yes?”
“I think you might want to come check this out.”
Violet came over a second later and let out a low whistle when her eyes fell to the book open in my hands. The inside had been cut out, like one of those Bibles people used to hide flasks in during the prohibition era. But instead of alcohol, lying in the middle of the book was a pistol.
“I mean, I’m no munitions expert, but I’m pretty sure this is a nine millimeter. Do you know what size bullet was used to kill Andrew Silverton?”
“A nine millimeter,” Violet confirmed. “I would be stunned if this was not the murder weapon. That would be far too unlikely a coincidence.”
“Agreed,” I said, nodding. “So I guess there’s our evidence. We can have DCI Williams arrest him now.”
“There is only one problem,” Violet said.
“Oh?”
“We cannot use this as evidence as it stands. We know where it is, and we know how to find it again, but remember that we have broken into this apartment. There are too many questions. We could take the gun and hand it to the police, but if there were no fingerprints on it then it would be pointless other than to identify the murder weapon. But now that we know it is here, we can figure out what comes next.”
“Great,” I muttered. “So we know that Federico is the killer, we just can’t prove it.”
“No, we cannot,” Violet replied. “Put the book back, and we will leave, and I will come up with a plan to have the murderer unveil themselves.”
I closed the book with the gun in it and put it back on the shelf, when suddenly there was a knock on the front door.
“Police, is anyone in there?”
I stared at Violet, who rolled her eyes. “I suppose the old lady downstairs must not have taken our word for it and checked to see if we really were cleaning apartment number seven.”
“What do we do?” I asked as quietly as I could, and Violet motioned to the window next to the bookcase.
“The only thing we can do. We go out the back.”
I peered out the window and balked. We were only on the second floor, but it was still a good fifteen, maybe twenty foot drop onto the grass below.
“We can’t do that!” I said.
“It is that, or we get arrested,” Violet replied as the cops pounded on the door once more. “Or you hide under the bed and take your chances until they leave.”
“I don’t like any of these options,” I muttered. “But fine. I’d rather have a broken leg than go to jail for breaking and entering. We jump.”
“Good,” Violet said, opening the window. “You go first.”
“What? Me? Why? Why don’t you go first?”
“Because of that reaction. If I go first, there is a very real chance that you will give up.”
“Hey, is there someone in there? Police, open up, or we’re coming in.”
“Fine,” I said, flustered. I was pretty sure the cops were about to break the door down. I went to the window, propped it open, and looked down. Straightaway, the world began to spin. There were a few hedges along the edge of the building, and then some grass. I climbed out and sat on the sill, taking a deep breath to collect myself, when suddenly I felt a pair of hands push against my back and the next thing I knew I was falling to the ground.
I was so shocked I didn’t even scream. At least, I didn’t think I screamed. I really wasn’t entirely sure anymore. I squeezed my eyes shut as I fell through space and time, only to come to a crashing stop in the middle of a hedge a moment later.
It was like I’d landed in a pit of cats with their claws out. Pain seared up my arms and legs from where the branches from the hedges scratched them, and I felt an immediate need to get out. However, it turns out scrambling to get out from a hedge into which you’ve fallen is a lot harder than one might think. I scrambled around, flailing about elegantly, until I finally managed to roll out of the hedge and onto the ground next to it with a dull thud.
A moment later Violet fell as well, landing gracefully on the grass and immediately rolling into a perfect somersault before standing right back up like nothing had happened. I gaped at her, torn between awe at what she had just done and anger at the fact that she’d just pushed me out the window.
“Someone needs to tell the person who programmed you that you’re not supposed to push people out of windows,” I grumbled, settling on a passive-aggressive comment to get me through.
“You were not going to jump of your own volition,” Violet replied. “I know you.”
“You can’t be sure of that.”
“I am reasonably certain. Now come on, there is no point in us having jumped if we still get caught.”
Violet and I rushed out of the courtyard, with Violet dumping the gloves and her bandana from her head into a nearby garbage can.
“They will be watching the van,” Violet said. “Come on.”
Two minutes later we had hailed down a cab and were back on our way to central London. If the cabbie thought anything was weird about a woman who looked like she had just lost a fight with a forest of roses, he certainly didn’t mention it.
“I’m going to have to take a bath in polysporin to make sure none of this gets infected,” I complained to Violet.
“Ah yes, a bath in the apartment you are free to live in,” she replied.
“You know what I mean,” I muttered, but ok, she had a point. I’d rather look like my cat abused me than be in jail right now.
“So what do we do next?”
“You go home. I will contact you when I know what is happening next. Is your schedule open for the next little while?”
“I have an appointment tomorrow morning,” I replied. “But apart from that, I’m totally free.”
“Good,” Violet said, nodding. “I will be in touch.”
Chapter 17
The next morning Jake and I had breakfast at the little dining table, then he went to work while I got ready for my appointment.
“Remember, if you need me to come by and be with you at all, I’m one text away,” Jake said. “After the last few months there’s no way my boss can get mad if I tell him I’m taking an hour, so don’t hesitate to get in touch.”
“Thanks,” I replied gratefully. “I should be ok, though. As long as I don’t run away screaming as soon as I see the building.”
“Well, if that does happen, call me,” Jake said seriously, reaching across the table and taking my hand in his. “I care about you, and I think it’s great that you’re getting help, but I also know that this isn’t how you normally handle things and that it’s probably scary for you.”
“Wow, it’s like you’re a doctor or something,” I joked, trying to go for levity to hide the fact that he was one hundred percent correct and I knew it. Jake gave me a look that I knew said “I know you’re kidding, but I’m not, so keep me in mind.”
“I will call if I need you,” I added in a more appropriate tone for the topic of conversation. “I promise.”
“Good,” he said, satisfied. “Come by when you’re done; I’ll see what I can find out about Sequoia being left in front of the building.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
About an hour later I was standing in front of a modern building with floor-to-ceiling glass windows and a small waterfall wall at the front. I stepped inside and went straight to the elevators, pressing the button for the third floor, where the office of Fiona Applegath and a few other therapists was located.
Walking down a narrow, beige hallway, I stopped in front of the door with the office name on it. Applegath, Kirkgaard, and Livingston Therapy. I could do this. I was going to do this. I wanted the nightmares to stop.
I pressed down on the door handle and stepped inside. Contrary to the hallway, the reception area was large and spacious, with plenty of natural light coming in from the windows that faced the street behind the receptionist’s desk. The walls were painted a muted cream color, with plants in the corner, comfortable-looking chairs along the walls, and a table spread out with a variety of magazines.
Soft music played through invisible speakers, and the receptionist, a young woman who looked to be in her mid-twenties, looked up at me through a pair of square glasses, offering a friendly smile.
“Hello, do you have an appointment?” she asked.
“Yes, I’m here to see Dr. Applegath,” I replied.
“Cassie?”
“That’s me!”
“Alright, please fill out this form, and Fiona will be ready to see you shortly.”
Fiona. Most doctors who went by their first names were friendly and warm, the kind of person you wanted to be friends with.
I took the clipboard and filled out the form with my basic medical information, then handed it back to the receptionist.
“Thank you. If you can just have a seat, she’ll be ready shortly.”
I sat down on one of the couches and tried to distract myself by flipping through a magazine, but it didn’t work. I was at least ten pages in before I even realized I was reading a car magazine. I eventually tried to focus on my breathing, but right as I started the receptionist called me up.
“Straight through here,” she said, leading me down another hallway and knocking on an unmarked door, then opening it.
“Thank you,” I told her as I stepped through and found myself in an office that, frankly, didn’t seem like a therapist’s office to me at all. It was more like a cozy, comfortable living room. On one side of the room was a light gray built-in bookcase, filled to the brim with books. In the middle of the room was a medium-gray couch and a matching chair, next to a floor lamp that cast a warm glow on the whole space. On the right-hand side was a cute little desk, behind which sat a woman who looked to be in her forties, with curly brown hair and a friendly smile. The hardwood floor was mostly covered by a cream-and-gray rug, and a couple of colorful pillows here and there made the place pop.
Honestly, this room could have been in one of those home design magazines.
“Hello, you must be Cassie,” the woman behind the desk said, getting up. “I’m Fiona.”
