Rania Algafari never asked to be different, and when she escaped the war in Syria and moved to the UK, her only goal was to live her life in peace. Get up, go to work, avoid talking to the dead - that sort of thing.
But not everyone dies quietly, an...
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I'd never felt guilty leaving a woman's bed in the morning before today. Since my last serious relationship ended, I hadn't been interested in more than one night, and I always made that quite clear up front. And I didn't feel guilty over the blonde sprawled out across the mattress, snoring softly.
No, I felt guilty because while I was pounding into her last night, I hadn't been able to stop thinking about a certain brunette who may or may not have been involved in plotting a murder.
I knew now that she hadn't been there at Daylesford Hall in person. Rania may not have looked directly at the camera on her way in or out of the restaurant, but the curves were all hers, and the manager remembered the unusual necklace she'd been wearing.
"Gold, fancy, looked like some kind of puzzle piece," the woman said.
"Can you describe Rania's demeanour?"
"Quiet. She barely spoke, and as soon as she finished dessert, she left with her friend and gave me the money for their half of the meal on her way out. Good tipper, though."
"So she didn't enjoy herself?"
"Sure didn't look that way. Why? Is it important?"
"Professional curiosity."
Professional my arse. I'd buried my face in the blonde's pussy to avoid further questions, and now I was sneaking out of her place like a damn burglar.
RJ was already at his computer when I got back, the big desktop he'd built from scratch and was constantly upgrading. He always kidded that it could give NASA a run for its money. At least, I think he was kidding.
"Good night?" he asked.
"The best," I lied. "What happened to the waitress? I thought you were onto a sure thing there."
"I had her tucked into bed by midnight, then I came home to do your shit. You can thank me with coffee."
I sighed and headed for the kitchen, mainly because I needed caffeine too. Sleep hadn't come easy last night. RJ worked odd hours, and half of his diet consisted of coffee, which meant we had a complicated Swiss Jura machine that cost him over two grand. It ground the beans to order and frothed milk at the touch of a button. Who needed Starbucks?
I made us both espressos and carried them through to his home office, once the third bedroom but now full of gadgets whirring away.
"Go on then, what have you found?"
"Your girl's an interesting one."
"She's not my girl."
Why did that feel like a lie? Even RJ gave me a "yeah, right" look.
"Rania Algafari, twenty-four years old, Syrian citizen, granted refugee status in the UK three years ago. She arrived from a camp in France a year before that as part of a deal to spread asylum seekers around Europe. She's got another two years before she needs to either leave or apply to stay permanently."
