The meandering, tight knit London streets made it hard to see much in terms of oncoming traffic but I was confident in my location. It had been a long time since I had been on a true stake-out, and it felt good to be back.
I sat there for almost an hour and a half before the woman’s car arrived. I’d had a hunch that it she would show up again. She’d come two nights in a row…so why not a third?
Her car passed mine and crept towards my apartment. She pulled to the curb 20 yards ahead of me and stepped out. The interior light of her car came on when she opened her door, and I saw a couple things in the dim illumination. She looked to be in her mid-to-late fifties. She was wearing a luxurious coat that looked like it might be worth more than my car. She had pretty blonde hair cut in a simple fashion. I didn’t see much of her face, just the taught line of her lips drawn down into something that wasn’t quite a frown.
She stepped up onto the sidewalk, headed for the alley that led to my apartment. When she disappeared out of sight around the corner, I placed my hand on the door handle, ready to open it if she remained out of sight for more than thirty seconds.
But she was back within ten seconds, apparently having changed her mind. I wondered why it had been so easy for her to come to my door and knock two nights ago but now found it harder. There were far too many questions, and I knew from experience that it would only frustrate me to try to figure them out on my own. So I didn’t bother.
Instead I watched her walk back to her car, get inside, and sit for a moment. Her shoulders sagged and her head was bowed. After a while, she started her engine and pulled away. I let her get a good distance ahead before I rolled out behind her. I kept a safe distance and followed her car, watching the taillights flickering in the steady to-and-fro of my wiper blades.
Christ, is it ever dry here?
It had been a while since I had tailed anyone, but I felt the old familiar rhythm kick in easily. I let a few cars weave in and out between us as I followed her north. She drove for twenty minutes before she turned into a suburb filled with houses that all looked identical to one another.
I followed cautiously as she neared a cul-de-sac and turned into a driveway. I passed her as a garage opened and she parked inside. I came to the end of the road, keeping my eyes on her in the rearview. I turned the car and wound back through the street. I maintained a comfortable speed, not wanting to draw her attention.
As I passed her house, I was able to see her again, but only from the same side as before. I was pretty sure I had never seen this woman before.
So then what the hell does she want with me?
It was a good question, but I wasn’t going to press it tonight. If she was somehow afraid to speak to me, I certainly didn’t want to go up to her door and ring the bell. I passed her house, taking note of the numbers on her mailbox and the name of the street. As I did, my mind began to form the most basic semblance of a plan.
Halfway back to my apartment I decided that some mental lubrication might help stitch a plan together.
***
I managed to stay mostly responsible…meaning that there was no hangover the following morning, or maybe there was already so much poison in my body that I couldn’t notice anymore. I was tired though. I wasted very little time, sipping coffee and eating a fried egg as I typed the address from last night into a database that I frequently used but was not supposed to have access to. The software was similar to a Police database but offered forensic investigators, or individuals with enough cash access to a frightening array of information data mined from online purchases, credit card transactions, and government records.
I discovered quickly that the house belonged to a woman named Elizabeth Ellington. The name rang no bells, and as I replayed the events of the last two nights, a startling thought occurred to me: Anthony Taylor’s suicide now seemed like something that had happened in a faraway place.
It’s because I’m getting active again, I thought. Re-opening my family’s case and trying to solve my own little mystery. I feel…almost like a cop again.
It was a good feeling. I clung to it as tightly as I could. It was all I had.
It was still there when I took a shower and even more powerful when I headed down to Amir’s restaurant an hour later to catch him half an hour before he opened.
He poured us coffee which we drank at his ritzy little bar while his staff readied the place for the early lunch crowd.
Again, Amir didn’t waste his time asking me if I had been drinking over the last few days. I assumed he saw a still-developing change in me. We shared some small talk — about the damned rain and how the police had not returned to ask me more questions about Anthony — before I got around to the real reason I had come by.
“So, I get that this is a large town,” I said. “Very large. But I also know that you run a very successful business and are one of the friendliest men I have ever known.”
“Why are you buttering me up?” Amir asked with a raised eyebrow. His black bushy hair and dark brows giving him a fierce appearance belying his amiable nature.
“No butter. Just pretext,” I said.
“For what?”
“I was wondering if you might happen to know a woman named Elizabeth Ellington.”
Amir gave me a skeptical look. “It just so happens that I do. At least on paper. Several papers in fact, she’s quite well known in local circles. Why do you ask?”
“Can you keep it confidential?” I asked.
“Yeah…as long as you haven’t done anything you shouldn’t.”
“No. Nothing like that.” I mumbled, wondering what kind of man he took me for. I then proceeded to tell him about the events of the last three nights. As I came to the end of it — following her to her home and getting the address — he seemed puzzled.
“What?” I asked, noticing his look.
“Elizabeth Ellington is sort of a legend around here. She’s a recluse…a shut-in. The only time people see her around is late at night, when she goes grocery shopping at those twenty-four hour shops. She’s been that way for…I don’t know…probably the last ten years.”
“Why is she like that?” I asked. “Anti-social?”
“Her husband died of cancer…don’t remember what kind. And about two months later, her kid went missing. She just sort of shut down, I guess. She and her husband were borderline rich, so it made headlines in the local newspapers. Tragic stuff.”
“So why the hell would she want to speak to me?” I asked.
Amir shrugged. “She must have heard about the cop from New York that was in town. Just about everyone here in London with a badge looked into her kid’s disappearance and got nowhere.”
“Huh,” I said.
“Look, I’ve got to get to work. Keep me posted on this will, you?”
“Sure,” I said.
I finished my coffee and headed out to pick up some supplies I would need, now more fired up than ever that things seemed to be getting back on track for me. For once, I didn’t even mind the endless rain that had picked up to a steady downpour. Something was going on here and I was going to find out what.
SIX
Wasted heroics.
I did something that afternoon that I had never done as a cop: I spent time researching a case that I hadn’t been given. After a stint at the store I headed back to my apartment, put on a pot of coffee and spent that day researching the disappearance of Jack Ellington, Elizabeth’s son. I was typing, printing, and pinning and getting work done.