A Traitor to Memory

Garbed as well as she could be for the part, she entered the garden of the DHL house and rapped hesitantly on its front door. There was a spy hole in it, so she lowered her head, took her bag from her shoulder, and held it awkwardly like a handbag in front of her. She arranged her features as best she could to portray humility, fear, worry, and a desperate eagerness to please. In a moment, she heard the voice.

“Yes? What can I do for you?” It came from behind the closed door, but the fact of it told Yasmin she'd cleared the first hurdle.

She looked up. “Please, can you help me?” she asked. “I have come to clean your neighbour's house, but she is not at home. Number Fifty-five?”

“She works during the day,” the voice called back.

“But I do not understand …” Yasmin held up the detective's card. She said, “If you see … Her husband wrote it all down …?”

“Husband?” The locks on the door were released and the door itself was opened. A middle-aged woman stood there, a pair of scissors in her hand. Seeing Yasmin's gaze go to the scissors and her expression alter, the woman said, “Oh. Sorry. I was opening a parcel. Here. Let me have a look at that.”

Yasmin willingly handed over the card. The woman read the address.

“Yes. I see. It certainly does say … But you said her husband?” And when Yasmin nodded, the woman turned the card over and read the front of it, just exactly what Yasmin herself had read and read again on the previous night: Winston Nkata, Detective Constable, Metropolitan Police. A phone number and a pager number. Everything on the complete up and up.

“Well, of course, the fact that he's a policeman …” the woman said thoughtfully. But then, “No. There's a mistake, I'm sure. No one named Nkata lives there.” She handed the card back.

“You are sure?” Yasmin asked, drawing her eyebrows together, attempting to look her most pathetic. “He said I should clean …”

“Yes, yes, my dear girl. I'm sure that he did. But he's given you the wrong address for some reason. No one named Nkata lives in that house or ever has done. It's been lived in for years by a family called McKay.”

“McKay?” Yasmin asked. And her heart felt lighter. Because if there was a partner to Harriet Lewis the solicitor as Katja had claimed, then her fears were groundless if this was her home.

“Yes, yes, McKay,” the woman said. “Noreen McKay. And her niece and nephew. Very nice woman, she is, very pleasant, but she isn't married. Never has been as far as I know. And certainly not to someone called Nkata, if you know what I mean, and no offence intended.”

“I … yes. Yes. I see,” Yasmin whispered, because that was all she could force from herself upon learning the full name of the occupant of Number Fifty-five. “I do thank you, madam. Thank you very much indeed.” She backed away.

The woman came forward. “See here, are you all right, Miss?” she asked.

“Oh yes. Yes. Just … When one expects work and is disappointed …”

“I'm awfully sorry. If I hadn't had my own woman here yesterday, I'd not mind letting you have a go with my house. You seem decent enough. May I have your name and number on the chance my woman doesn't work out? She's one of those Filipinos, and they can't always be relied on, if you know what I mean.”

Yasmin raised her head. What she wanted to say battled with what she needed to say, given the situation. Need won. There were other considerations beyond insult right now. She said, “You are very kind, madam,” and she called herself Nora and recited eight digits at random, all of which the woman eagerly wrote onto a pad that she took from a table by the door.

“Well,” she said as she wrote the last number with a flourish. “Our little encounter might turn out all for the best.” She offered a smile. “You never know, do you?”

How true, Yasmin thought. She nodded, went back to the street, and returned to Number Fifty-five for a final look at it. She felt numb, and for a moment she encouraged herself to believe that the numbness was a sign of not caring about what she'd just learned. But she knew the reality was that she was in shock.

And between the time of the shock's wearing off and the rage's setting in, she hoped she'd have five minutes to decide what to do.



Winston Nkata's pager went off while Lynley was reading the action reports that DCI Leach's team had been sending in to the incident room for compilation during the morning. In the absence of both eyewitnesses and evidence at the crime scene beyond the paint chips, the vehicle used in the first hit-and-run was what was left as the murder squad's focus. But according to the activities reports, the town's body shops were proving to be fallow ground so far, as were the parts shops, where something like a chrome bumper might possibly be purchased to replace one damaged in an accident.