“Thank you, Nadja,” Sam says. The woman nods and lowers herself awkwardly into an ancient armchair in the corner.
“You said your husband’s at work, Mrs. Albescu. Who does Andrei work for?” Taylor asks.
Nadja shrugs. “My husband had good job as bricklayer. Then he got fired and now he just have sometimes job.”
“Your children are beautiful, Nadja,” Sam says, honestly. “How many do you have?”
“Three… for now.” Nadja smiles down at her stomach.
“A real handful,” Sam says.
Nadja strokes her abdomen and smiles at the children, who babble their own words to the canine characters on the screen.
“TV broke. No sound,” Nadja says. “But my babies smart. They make their own sound.”
“We’re keen to speak to your husband today, Mrs. Albescu. What time will he be home?” Taylor asks.
Nadja shrugs.
“Can you call him please, Nadja?” Sam presses.
“No phone,” Nadja says.
“Does the name Charlotte Mathers mean anything to you, Nadja? Or Jack Mathers? Nigel Mathers?” Sam asks. The woman shakes her head to each. “How about Denver Brady?” Another shake.
Sam decides to try a different tack. “When are you due?”
“Next month,” Nadja says, then rubs her forehead. “Brian start nursery this year”—Nadja points to the larger child—“so I have more space for baby. All baby is blessing from God, but this one is not plan.”
“I can see that you are working very hard,” Sam says, in a tone she hoped would sound kind but instead came out as condescending. She sips her water and peers around the room again. She can tell that every effort has been made to make the place pleasant. There’s aFrozenblanket spread out like a playmat for the children, concealing the thin brown carpet beneath. The sofa and armchair are clearly second, third or fourth hand, but the leather has been wiped down and is soft to the touch. There’s an apple sliced in a bowl for the toddlers. An overwhelming sadness swallows Sam.
“He’s called Brian?” Taylor says, staring at the child.
“I choose good English names for my babies. That Brian. Her Edith. Baby Charles, like King. In my family, we think a name says a lot.”
“Do you have a photograph of Andrei?” Sam asks. Nadja nods and points to the only picture frame on the wall. It’s small, around A5 size, and very old. In it, Nadja wears a wedding dress, the man next to her a suit. Taylor examines it, then passes it to Sam. The man is definitely the same person Sam just saw in the CCTV footage. He has dark hair, brown eyes and deeply tanned skin.
“He’s tall,” Taylor notes, discreetly.
“Does Andrei have a computer, Nadja?” Sam asks.
“He used to have computer. Spent long time on it. Made somefriends on it, I think. But then we sell when he lost job.” Taylor tries, unsuccessfully, to find out who the machine went to.
“Nadja, we’ll get out of your hair now, but I need Andrei to call me today.” Sam hands the woman her business card. Nadja takes it, nodding, and Sam notices that Nadja’s eyes are filled with tears. Instinctively whispering, even though there’s little point in such a small room, she adds: “Nadja, if there’s anything you want me to know, now is the time. I promise to try to help you.” Nadja grasps Sam’s hand, a tear trickling down her cheek. “You can trust me, Nadja,” Sam says. “Woman to woman, I promise to…”
Nadja releases Sam’s hand and walks over to her purse, on the floor beside the sofa. She rifles through it and pulls out a small, oblong card similar to the one that Sam handed over only a moment before, but this one is tattered and worn. There’s a symbol of some sort on it and Sam feels a tug at her memories, but nothing clicks. She reaches out to take it—
“Enforcement Officer!” a loud voice suddenly booms behind them.
Everyone jumps. A man has entered the room and stands behind Taylor, who spins to face him, drawing his baton.
“Police!” Taylor shouts. “Freeze! Identify yourself!” The man holds up his hands in surrender. He’s smartly dressed, with a neatly trimmed black beard and a clipboard.
“Officer,” he says, in a deep baritone. Sam feels Nadja standing behind her, as if for protection. “The door was open. I have the right to enter these premises. I’m here under the Repossession of Property clause in—”
Sam releases a held breath. “He’s just a bailiff, Taylor. Stand down.”
“Please, sir, step outside,” says Taylor, straightening his six-foot-two frame. “This is a police matter. I respectfully request that you come back another time.” The man’s mouth moves, as if he’s considering objecting, but then he nods and leaves.
