in. ‘Who’re you?’
Silence for a beat. Then: ‘Sir, this is the police. Could you please identify yourself?’
‘The police? What’s – is Nina okay?’
‘ Kindly identify yourself.’
‘ My name is Thomas Beaumont. Like I say, I’m a friend. What’s going on?’
‘ Were you expecting Ms Ramirez at home?’
‘ Yes, that’s why I rang.’ Pope cursed himself silently. An American would say called , not rang . ‘Officer, please can you tell me what –’
‘ When did you last see Ms Ramirez?’
‘ Two days ago? No, three. Friday night. A bunch of us went out for drinks.’
‘ And your connection with Ms Ramirez is what, again, exactly?’
Pope thought about the musical paraphernalia in the flat. ‘We’re in the same music group. She plays violin.’ He raised his voice a fraction. ‘Has something happened to her?’
‘Mr Beaumont, she’s believed to have fled a murder scene.’
‘ What? Nina? ’
‘ We don’t think she’s responsible. But we need to speak to her.’
‘ Who’s been murdered?’ Pope didn’t expect an answer; he’d said it to buy time while he tried to process what the cop had said.
‘ I’m not at liberty to disclose that, Mr Beaumont.’ The cop muttered something to someone in the background, then came back. ‘Sir, two things. One, do you have Ms Ramirez’s cell phone number?’
‘ She doesn’t give it out to many people. Only those she’s closest to.’ A trace of bitterness. It explained at least why he was ringing her home number.
‘ Okay. Second, we need to ask you some questions. Where are you right now?’
Pope twisted round to peer at the signs. Making up a fictional location wouldn’t work. ‘Corner of West Main and, uh, Fifth.’
‘Stay there. A squad car will pick you up.’
Pope hung up, stepped out of the booth and began walking rapidly, putting space between himself and the corner.
It didn’t make sense. Conceivably, it was a coincidence. He had little idea what Ramirez was like as a person. She might hang out with a druggy or gangbanger crowd, and they might have been partying tonight and lost control. Except he did have an idea what Ramirez was like. She was a graduate of the University of Virginia with a degree in music, and a violinist. Her flat hadn’t looked like a drug den in the slightest.
No. The murder scene she’d fled had something to do with his presence here. He had no idea what. And there was little point speculating at the moment, because he needed to focus on the consequences.
She was on the run from the police. That meant she’d either gone to ground with friends somewhere, or left the city. He knew Charlottesville had a population of under 45,000 souls. And people like her, of Hispanic ethnicity, were in a tiny minority compared with African-Americans and whites.
If it were him, he’d have left the city behind.
There was the airport, but it was eight miles away and the police would have sent a description of her there already. She might have taken a car, either her own or a rental, in which case he had no chance of finding her in time, even if he somehow managed to discover her licence plate number or the rental agency she’d used.
That left public transport. A train, or that icon of American intercity travel: the Greyhound.
He remembered that the station he’d arrived at by train doubled as a bus station, and was a little further up Main.
Fifteen
Langley, Virginia
Monday 20 May, 3.25 pm
Naomi came in without knocking and stood across the desk from Giordano, hand poised and holding a sheet of paper. He took the hint and dug a gap between the piles of articles and memoranda. Never a tidy man, Giordano had let his desk come to resemble one of those recycling bins Adrienne was always encouraging him to use for their waste.
He peered through his glasses at the printout Naomi dropped in front of him. It showed a copy of a passport’s photo page with name, date of birth and the usual other
Silence for a beat. Then: ‘Sir, this is the police. Could you please identify yourself?’
‘The police? What’s – is Nina okay?’
‘ Kindly identify yourself.’
‘ My name is Thomas Beaumont. Like I say, I’m a friend. What’s going on?’
‘ Were you expecting Ms Ramirez at home?’
‘ Yes, that’s why I rang.’ Pope cursed himself silently. An American would say called , not rang . ‘Officer, please can you tell me what –’
‘ When did you last see Ms Ramirez?’
‘ Two days ago? No, three. Friday night. A bunch of us went out for drinks.’
‘ And your connection with Ms Ramirez is what, again, exactly?’
Pope thought about the musical paraphernalia in the flat. ‘We’re in the same music group. She plays violin.’ He raised his voice a fraction. ‘Has something happened to her?’
‘Mr Beaumont, she’s believed to have fled a murder scene.’
‘ What? Nina? ’
‘ We don’t think she’s responsible. But we need to speak to her.’
‘ Who’s been murdered?’ Pope didn’t expect an answer; he’d said it to buy time while he tried to process what the cop had said.
‘ I’m not at liberty to disclose that, Mr Beaumont.’ The cop muttered something to someone in the background, then came back. ‘Sir, two things. One, do you have Ms Ramirez’s cell phone number?’
‘ She doesn’t give it out to many people. Only those she’s closest to.’ A trace of bitterness. It explained at least why he was ringing her home number.
‘ Okay. Second, we need to ask you some questions. Where are you right now?’
Pope twisted round to peer at the signs. Making up a fictional location wouldn’t work. ‘Corner of West Main and, uh, Fifth.’
‘Stay there. A squad car will pick you up.’
Pope hung up, stepped out of the booth and began walking rapidly, putting space between himself and the corner.
It didn’t make sense. Conceivably, it was a coincidence. He had little idea what Ramirez was like as a person. She might hang out with a druggy or gangbanger crowd, and they might have been partying tonight and lost control. Except he did have an idea what Ramirez was like. She was a graduate of the University of Virginia with a degree in music, and a violinist. Her flat hadn’t looked like a drug den in the slightest.
No. The murder scene she’d fled had something to do with his presence here. He had no idea what. And there was little point speculating at the moment, because he needed to focus on the consequences.
She was on the run from the police. That meant she’d either gone to ground with friends somewhere, or left the city. He knew Charlottesville had a population of under 45,000 souls. And people like her, of Hispanic ethnicity, were in a tiny minority compared with African-Americans and whites.
If it were him, he’d have left the city behind.
There was the airport, but it was eight miles away and the police would have sent a description of her there already. She might have taken a car, either her own or a rental, in which case he had no chance of finding her in time, even if he somehow managed to discover her licence plate number or the rental agency she’d used.
That left public transport. A train, or that icon of American intercity travel: the Greyhound.
He remembered that the station he’d arrived at by train doubled as a bus station, and was a little further up Main.
Fifteen
Langley, Virginia
Monday 20 May, 3.25 pm
Naomi came in without knocking and stood across the desk from Giordano, hand poised and holding a sheet of paper. He took the hint and dug a gap between the piles of articles and memoranda. Never a tidy man, Giordano had let his desk come to resemble one of those recycling bins Adrienne was always encouraging him to use for their waste.
He peered through his glasses at the printout Naomi dropped in front of him. It showed a copy of a passport’s photo page with name, date of birth and the usual other
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