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Idly she wonders about grumpy Mrs. Kingsbury, and Mrs. Goode too. Her old clients. Do they have new cleaners?
Alessia shakes her head. She’s come a long way since then.
The lights turn green, and the cab moves on, crossing Kew Bridge before stopping and turning into a side road. It draws up outside a large old house that would not look out of place on Cheyne Walk. It’s one of several surrounding a pretty green pasture, flanked by enormous sycamore trees. Alessia pays the exorbitant fare with her credit card and climbs out of the cab.
It moves off, leaving her facing her great-uncle’s house. The house is immaculate. There’s a neatly trimmed tree at the front, and through the bay window, Alessia can see a baby grand piano.
A piano!
He plays too?
Her heart starts pumping with excitement, anticipation, and also, a little fear, but in that moment, she decides to call on him.
He might tell her to go away.
She grips the little gold cross that had belonged to her Nana, his sister, and with her mind made up, she walks the short driveway to the gleaming black door and pushes the doorbell. It rings faintly inside, and seconds later, an older woman, her hair in a tidy bun, answers the door.
“Hello. Can I help you?” she asks.
“I am here to see Tobias Strickland.”
“Do you have an appointment?” she asks sternly.
“No. I was hoping he’d see me. I am his sister’s granddaughter. Um…his great-niece.”
* * *
Given that Leticia Cavanagh is concerned, I call Tom Alexander to see if he’s made any headway with finding Alessia’s young friend and if he has an update on the police investigation.
“Trevethick. How goes it? I take it you found your wife.”
“I did. Grisha offered her his driver, and he took her home.”
“What? Why?”
“Don’t you read the press, Tom?”
“Are you joking? Of course not. I told you. Never bother with that nonsense, unless I have a client who makes headlines. Suggest you do the same. Ignore the arseholes.”
“You’re right. But if you happen across a lurid headline, Charlotte, my ex—”
“The actress? Not very good? Always plays herself?”
I chuckle despite myself at Tom’s bluntness. “Yes. That’s the one. She jumped me.” There’s an awkward pause in the conversation, so I continue, “Alessia witnessed that and got the wrong idea. Anyway, I’m not here to dredge up recent history. I want to know if you’ve made any headway with the police investigation and finding Alessia’s young friend.”
“Certainly nothing on the girl. But the details that Alessia gave us were so vague, I’d be surprised if we tracked her down. I spoke to Spaffer—he’s actually working the case. They’re still gathering evidence. He says he’s getting inquiries from a private detective about the same case.”
A frisson of alarm runs down my back.
“Journalists?” I ask.
“He doesn’t know. But there was a recent raid on a place in South London; they found four young women there.”
“Shit. Really?”
“Yes. They’re now in the care of the Salvation Army.”
“Any of them Albanian? Any of them Bleriana?”
“I don’t think so. But without speaking to them directly, we can’t be sure.”
“What will happen to them?”
“To be honest. I don’t know.”
“It’s fucking grim.”
“It is, old boy. It is. We’ll keep working. See if we can trace these women.”
“Good luck with that.”
“Oh, and while I remember, you don’t need to worry about that journalist who called you.”
“Really?”
“No. He’s got nothing.” Tom sounds definitive.
Okay then.
“Thanks for the update.”
* * *
The lady with the tidy bun must be in her fifties. She peers behind Alessia to see if she’s shielding anyone and then casts a critical eye over her, and Alessia is relieved when the woman steps aside; she seems to have passed inspection. “I’m not aware that Professor Strickland has a niece. Let alone a great-niece. You’d better come in.” She allows Alessia into the hallway.
The hall is much like Trevelyan House, where Caroline lives, and Alessia concludes they must have been built around the same time. “Follow me,” the woman says, and she leads Alessia down the hall into an airy room with a prominent fireplace, an impressive mantelpiece, and french windows that look out onto a lush back garden. Seated at a desk, in front of a laptop, is a man with a full mane of blondish gray hair, an outrageously curled mustache, and a beard. He looks up with polite interest. His eyes are the same baby blue as her beloved Nana’s, his mouth the same shape and creased from his readiness to smile—it’s her grandmother in male form. Alessia is blindsided; a well of emotion rises from her chest into her throat, and she’s unable to speak.
“Well, my dear,” he says. “What can I do for you?” When she doesn’t reply, he frowns in confusion, looking from Alessia to the woman who, Alessia suspects, is a servant of some kind. No. Staff. Not servant.
