Free Searching for Celia by Elizabeth Ridley Page B

whole.”
    “Come now, Dayle, don’t be so naïve.”
    “How am I being naïve?”
    “Celia engaged in work that is risky and challenging. She deals with some very bad people, but only for a greater good. It’s not as if she sits in an ivory tower writing all day.”
    Ignoring the insult, I continue. “I understand that her work is difficult but—”
    “Most of the charges Callaway listed—charges that were dropped, by the way—came after Celia helped organize some of the protests in London last year after the government introduced a huge rise in university tuition fees. Celia was brave enough to stand up for her beliefs and now this, this detective constable , wants to paint Celia as some common criminal. I’m sorry, I am just not having it.”
    “It’s okay,” I reassure her. “I wasn’t questioning Celia’s character. I know the kind of person she is. I was simply trying to understand Callaway’s accusations, put them into some sort of context.”
    Edwina softens slightly, squeezing my uninjured arm. “Sorry, Dayle.” The gap-toothed grin briefly reappears. “I didn’t mean to attack you. I’m just rather protective of my lovely girl, that’s all. Protective and proud.”
    “No problem. I understand.”
    But as we approach Celia’s building, I’m still troubled. There is apparently so much I don’t know about Celia. Suicide attempts. A criminal record. What else don’t I know?
    We enter the run-down mansion at 10 Rosslyn Hill and ascend the rickety staircase to the second floor, stopping in front of flat number 5. Edwina taps the unlocked door, which swings open at her touch. She steps inside and gasps.
    I duck under her arm and enter the flat, which has been thoroughly ransacked. Clothes are strewn everywhere, drawers pulled from the dresser and overturned, loose papers cascading across the desk. The cupboards have been hastily thrown open; dry goods and dishware, swept from the shelves, lay torn and broken on the floor.
    “My God,” I whisper, turning a full circle and trying to comprehend the scene. Edwina recovers before I do and quickly inventories Celia’s few valuables: computer and office equipment, case files, some family jewelry.
    “Nothing significant seems to be missing,” she pronounces. “In fact, I can’t see that anything is missing at all.”
    “The money,” I say suddenly.
    “What money?”
    “Whoever was here must have wanted the five thousand pounds from behind Celia’s mattress.”
    Edwina lunges toward the bed.
    “It isn’t there.”
    She stops suddenly.
    “It’s still in my backpack,” I explain.
    She looks at me, wide-eyed.
    “It’s been there, along with the cell phone and credit card, since early this afternoon.”

Chapter Nine

    Wednesday
    5:08 p.m.

    “You mean to say you’ve been walking around London with five thousand pounds in your rucksack?”
    I nod. “After receiving the threatening photo, I figured the money was safer with me than in an unlocked apartment,” I explain. “And by the looks of this place, I was right.”
    “What are we going to do?” Edwina collapses into a kitchen chair and covers her face.
    “Call DC Callaway, I guess, then get ready for my speech.”
    Edwina looks up in shock. “You still intend to go?”
    “I have to. I’m the keynote speaker.”
    She shakes her head. “Dayle, you’ve had no sleep for what, two days? You arrive to find your friend may be dead, you get pushed onto a train platform and break your arm, and now the flat where you’re meant to spend the night is ransacked. I think the organizers would understand if you canceled.”
    “I can’t,” I argue. “I made a commitment. And the conference might help take my mind off things. At least for a while.”
    I pick up the phone and dial Callaway’s numbers, office and mobile, but both go to voice mail, where I leave what I hope are not-too-frantic messages, telling her the flat’s been ransacked and asking her to return my call.
    Edwina and I