Page 82 of The Unseen
Stanislav nodded. “Or fight to change it.” He stuffed the pages she’d given him into the pocket of his apron and turned to go. “See you on Sunday,” he called over his shoulder.
“See you,” Valentina replied, but he was already gone.
FORTY-EIGHT
JUNE 1919
London, England
Valentina felt as if she’d aged ten years by the time the search for Dimitri was finally called off after a month. The police came and went. Detective Sergeant Cooper interviewed everyone several times, and even contacted Mrs. Stern and Rachel in Leeds. The only fact they could establish with any certainty was that Dmitri Ostrov hadn’t been seen since May 6th. None of the agents at the train station could remember him purchasing a ticket that morning. The conductor, who’d been on the train Dmitri had planned to take, could not recall a man matching Dmitri’s description, and no one from the factory had heard from him since May 5. A car had been sent to collect Dmitri from the station, but he’d never arrived. None of Dmitri’s business associates could shed any light, and thankfully, Mayhew, Gleason, and Murdoch had gone to ground, clearly having no desire to have the police look into their affairs, since their activities were less than savory.
The police searched the house for clues to Dmitri’s whereabouts. They turned his study upside down but found nothing but ledgers, correspondence, and a diary, the pages of which made no mention of assignations at theFalmouth Arms Hotel. Valentina sat in the parlor, shaking with fright, as the police searched the upstairs. They spent an hour in Dmitri’s bedroom but found nothing out of the ordinary. The stench of decomposition had been obliterated by the lye and contained by the tightly wrapped oilcloth.
“Mrs. Ostrov, I am very sorry, but there is nothing more we can do. Unless some clue to your husband’s whereabouts presents itself, there’s no place else to look. His trail has gone cold.” Detective Cooper’s brow was creased with tension, his eyes full of regret as he spoke the words Valentina had been praying to hear.He had been very thorough and left no stone unturned, but she’d been cleverer than the police. She’d committed the perfect crime.
“What do I do now, Detective?” Valentina asked, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears.
“You try to get on with your life as best you can. If, after seven years, there’s no evidence that your husband is alive, he will be legally declared deceased. Until then, I’m afraid you’re in limbo.”
“Do you think he’s gone abroad?” Valentina asked. “He’s taken his passport.”
The detective shook his head. “We’ve found no evidence to suggest that he left the country. Might he have returned to Russia under a different name?”
“I suppose,” Valentina replied. “But I can’t see why he wouldn’t have told me. We were newly married, Detective. We were happy.” She sighed dramatically.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Ostrov, but I have absolutely nothing to go on, and I don’t like to speculate. I hope, for your sake, that he’ll turn up alive, but in some of these cold cases, the wives pray we find the body, so they can at least be spared the uncertainty and get on with their lives. Do ring us if you discover anything. Anything at all. No matter how insignificant it may seem.”
“I will. And thank you, Detective.”
“I wish I could have done more.”
“So do I.”
Valentina walked Detective Cooper to the door and watched him walk down the path toward the gate. It was only when he got into his motorcar and drove away that she exhaled the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
FORTY-NINE
DECEMBER 2014
London, England
Quinn was surprised to find Rhys in attendance when she arrived to interview Natalia Swift, Valentina’s daughter, at her flat in Fulham. Normally, Rhys allowed her do all the leg work on her own after the initial evaluation of the case, but today he hovered at Darren’s shoulder as the cameraman set up his equipment and kept offering helpful hints, driving the poor man crazy.
Natalia Swift was standing by the window. When contacted by Rhys, she’d readily invited them into her home. The polar opposite of her mother’s frozen-in-time abode, Natalia’s flat was modern, comfortable, and filled with light. Natalia had to be in her mid-seventies, but could easily have passed for a sprightly sixty-year-old. She wore her gray hair curly and long and was dressed in a colorful tunic paired with black leggings and suede boots. An oversized silver-and-turquoise necklace accessorized the tunic and several silver bracelets jangled when she moved her hands. Her makeup was skillfully applied and her large blue eyes sparkled with excitement as she settled in a wing chair, facing the camera.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Swift,” Quinn began once she settled in the other chair and adjusted her microphone.
“Oh no, dear, it’s just plain old Miss, and please call me Natalia. No need for such formality.”
“Okay, Natalia, as you know, human remains have been found at your parents’ home in Belgravia. We’ve yet to identify the victim, but thanks to forensic analysis we know that the deceased would have been born toward the end of the nineteenth century. He was in his late thirties when he died, which would have been around 1920. Any ideas who he might be?”
Natalia smiled happily. “Not a clue. He must have been there from before my mother’s time. It was her house, you know, not my father’s. Mother was very attached to it. Said the house gave her visibility.”
“In what way?”
“As an immigrant, she believed herself to be invisible. She said that until she became a British citizen, she felt like she had no voice, no rights. She was a person unseen.”
“Do you know much of your mother’s history?” Quinn asked carefully. If Natalia could confirm what Quinn had already seen, it would make it much easier to bring Valentina’s story to the screen.
