Lost (35 page)

28

Joe is holding on to me. I'm growing accustomed to his face. He lays my arm over his shoulders and braces his body against mine.

“C'mon, let's get you out of here.”

“I remembered.”

“Yes, you did.”

“What about Mickey?”

“She's not here. We'l find her.”

I climb out of the drain and we limp across the parking lot. A pair of teenagers, a boy and a girl, have parked their car away from the light. I wonder what they make of two middle-aged men arm in arm. Are we drunks or lovers? I'm way past caring.

I have remembered. I have waited and hoped for this to happen. I have feared it. What if I shot someone? What if I had Mickey in my arms and lost her to the river? I dreamed the nightmare because I didn't have the truth.

It's almost ten o'clock when we reach Primrose Hil . Yel ow light paints the edges of the curtains and a coal fire warms the sitting room.

“You'l stay here tonight,” says Joe, opening the door.

I want to say no, but I'm too tired to argue. I can't go home or to Ali's parents' place. I'm like an infectious disease—poisoning those around me. I won't stay long. Just tonight.

I keep getting flashbacks of being under water, unable to breathe. I smel the foulness of the sewers and see the white-green water boiling at my feet. Each time it happens I take a ragged urgent breath. Joe looks at me. He thinks I'm having a heart attack.

“I should take you to the hospital. They could run some tests.”

“No. I need to talk.” I have to tel him what I remember in case I forget again.

Joe pours me a drink and then moves to sit down. He suddenly freezes. For a split second he looks like a statue, trapped between sitting and standing. Just as suddenly, he moves again as the signals reach his limbs. He smiles at me apologetical y.

The mantelpiece is decorated with photographs of his family. The new baby has a moon face and a tangle of blond hair. She looks more like Joe than Julianne.

“Where is your lovely wife?”

“Tucked up in bed. She's an early riser.”

Joe rocks forward with his hands between his thighs. I tel him about being washed through the sewers and what happened on the boat. I remember Kirsten Fitzroy wiping vomit from my lips and feeling the dead weight of Ray Murphy slumped across me. His blood leaked down my neck, pooling in the depression beneath my Adam's apple. I remember the sound of high-velocity bul ets and seeing Kirsten spinning across the deck, clutching her side.

Memories carry more memories—fleeting images captured before they fade. Gerry Brandt going over the stern, the silhouette of a gunman, my finger disappearing . . . These things have al become substance now and nothing else is real except what happened that night. Even as I try to explain this to Joe I have the horrors of hindsight and regret to contend with. If only I could change what happened. If only I could go back.

Ray Murphy worked for Thames Water. He knew his way through the storm-water drains and sewers because he used to be a flusher and a flood planner. He knew what water main to sabotage to create a flood. The explosion would be blamed on methane or a gas leak and nobody would bother investigating further.

Radio transmitters and satel ite tracking devices are useless underground and nobody was likely to make such a journey. Ray Murphy would also have known about the underground river beneath Dolphin Mansions. He and Kirsten provided each other with an alibi on the morning Mickey disappeared. But where did Gerry Brandt come into the operation? Perhaps they needed a third person for the plan.

“You stil can't be sure they kidnapped Mickey,” says Joe. “There's no direct evidence.” A sudden spastic movement of his arm flicks up at my face. “It could stil be a hoax.

Kirsten had access to Rachel's flat. She could have taken strands of Mickey's hair and counted the money in her money box. If they kidnapped her three years ago, why wait until now to send a ransom demand?”

“Perhaps it was never about a ransom—not at first. Sir Douglas Carlyle said he would do almost anything to safeguard his granddaughter. We know he hired Kirsten to spy on Rachel. He was gathering evidence for a custody battle, but his lawyers told him he couldn't succeed. He might have taken the law into his own hands.”

“What about Mickey's towel—how did it get to the cemetery?”

My brain is caught in a vague, desperate pause. Maybe they framed Howard. They put Mickey's blood on a towel and planted it in the cemetery. The police and the courts did the rest.

“You stil have no proof that Mickey is alive.”

“I know.”

Bending toward the fire, Joe asks a question of the flames instead of me. “Why send the ransom demand now?”

“Greed.”

At least it's a motive I understand. Joe can have his psychopaths and sadists but give me an old-fashioned everyday motive I can identify with.

“Who did the shooting? Who wanted them dead?”

“Someone who wanted to silence them or punish them,” I whisper, rocking forward in the armchair. “It could have been Sir Douglas. If he arranged Mickey's kidnapping he may have been threatened with blackmail.”

“Or what else? I know you don't think it's him.”

“Aleksei.”

“You said he was fol owing you and Rachel that night.”

“Fol owing the diamonds.”

Joe waits for my explanation. I know he's already there but he wants to hear me lay out the arguments. “Aleksei was never going to stand back and let anyone walk away with two mil ion pounds. Whether they kidnapped Mickey or not, whether she was dead or alive, somebody was going to pay. Look what he did to his own brother.”

“Did that include kil ing you?”

“No. I wasn't supposed to be on the boat. Nobody expected anyone to fol ow the ransom through the sewers.”

“And the attack in the hospital?”

The memory climbs up my throat and hangs there. “I don't know. I haven't worked that out yet. Maybe he was frightened that I'd put the pieces together or perhaps he thinks I saw something that night . . .”

I stil can't explain how the diamonds ended up in my linen cupboard. I know they were in the pizza box and I saw the packages on the deck of the
Charmaine
. Most of the facts fit but not al of them.

I have to convince the Met to reopen the investigation. This isn't about Howard Wavel anymore. Yes, he belongs in prison but not for this crime. Aleksei is the true monster.

I shudder awake and feel like weeping with tiredness. The day is just beginning but I can't tel where the last one ended. Al night I have drowned in sewers and watched red dots dancing across the wal s.

Julianne gives me a cheery smile in the kitchen. “How are you feeling?”

Five seconds of my life evaporate considering this and I decide not to answer. Instead I grateful y accept a cup of coffee.

“Where are the girls?”

“Joe is dropping Charlie at school. He took Emma along for the ride.”

Her pale blue eyes stare at me with the vague, almost accusatory air of someone who has discovered the one true path to happiness—married life. Wrapped in a crimson skirt and light sweater, she looks beautiful as always. I can imagine her walking barefoot along a beach in some warm country, supporting a child on her slender hip. The Professor is a lucky man.

The front door opens. Joe is carrying Emma in one arm and the morning papers under the other. Julianne takes the toddler and kisses her cold nose, running her fingers through her curls.

“Cold nose, warm heart.”

Joe opens a paper on the table. “There's a very smal piece—just a couple of paragraphs—about a body found in the Thames.”

“It's too early. They won't do a postmortem until today.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I have to convince them to investigate the shootings. Wil you come with me? I need someone to back me up.”

“I don't think they'l listen to me.”

“We have to try.”

On the drive to New Scotland Yard my hands begin to shake. Maybe it's obvious to Joe what I'm going through—the headaches, stomach cramps, the constant churning in my guts. If he
does
recognize the withdrawal symptoms he doesn't say anything.

At the Yard we are made to wait like any other members of the public. My request to see the Commissioner is sent via the public affairs department through various branches of bureaucracy, only to be rejected. I ask to see the Assistant Commissioner. Again the request goes upstairs and is passed around like a problem that nobody wants. Eventual y, I'm directed back to Campbel Smith.

We cross the city and cool our heels for another hour downstairs at the Harrow Road Police Station. Joe spends his time studying the missing persons posters as if he's at the National Portrait Gal ery. Receptionists, secretaries and uniforms ignore us. A month ago I used to run this place. I gave it my life.

Eventual y, Campbel agrees to see us.

Joe limps alongside me down the corridor, our footsteps echoing on the shiny floor. At the far end of the incident room civilian operators sit at a bank of computer screens. The flurry of their keystrokes sounds like rain fal ing on plastic. Some wear headsets, talking to officers in the field, running checks on names, addresses and license plates.

There's a new head of the Serious Crime Group—DI John Meldrum. He spies me. “Hey, we once had a guy who looked just like you working here. I think he might be dead.”

“But not buried,” I yel back. “Congratulations on the promotion.”

I try to sound genuine but it doesn't work. Instead I feel a juvenile rush of anger and jealousy. Meldrum is in
my
office. His jacket is hanging over
my
chair.

Campbel makes us wait again outside his office. Joe doesn't understand the politics involved. It's not actual y politics—it's spite.

Final y we are summoned. I let the Professor walk ahead of me. Campbel shakes his hand and gives him the no-brand smile. Then he studies me for a moment and motions to a chair. Meldrum slides his chair back a few inches, taking himself outside the circle. He's here to watch and witness.

I should be addressing a task force. There should be detectives sitting on chairs and corners of desks—men in gray suits with Father's Day ties and women with sensible hairstyles and minimal makeup. Instead I have to argue my case in front of a Chief Superintendent who thinks I betrayed my fel ow officers and jeopardized a murder conviction.

Using a whiteboard, I explain what happened on the river. I write four names across the top: Ray Murphy, Kirsten Fitzroy, Gerry Brandt and Aleksei Kuznet. Ray Murphy is dead.

Kirsten and Gerry Brandt are missing.

Taking out the brown envelope, I show him the ransom letters and the DNA reports, before describing the ransom drop and my trip through the sewers.

“I know it sounds far-fetched but I've been down there. I've fol owed the trail. They were waiting at the other end. Ray Murphy was the caretaker at Dolphin Mansions when Mickey Carlyle disappeared. I saw him shot and kil ed on the
Charmaine
. They'l match the blood and the bul ets to the boat.”

“Who kil ed him?”

“A sniper.”

Meldrum leans closer. “And this is the same sniper who tried to kil you?”

“I got in the way.”

Campbel hasn't said a word but I know he's struggling to remain composed.

“Kirsten Fitzroy lived at Dolphin Mansions when Mickey disappeared. She was Rachel Carlyle's best friend. I saw her shot on the
Charmaine
. She suffered a stomach wound and went over the side. I don't know if she survived.”

“Her flat was burgled,” says Meldrum.

“Not burgled. It was searched. I think Aleksei Kuznet is looking for Kirsten. He wants to punish the people who sent the ransom demand. I believe they're the same people who kidnapped his daughter.”

Campbel scoffs angrily. “Howard Wavel kil ed Mickey Carlyle.”

“Even if you believe that—you have to accept that someone else sent the ransom demand. They included a lock of Mickey's hair and the bikini.”

“Neither of which prove she's alive.”

“No. But Ray Murphy is dead and Kirsten is in danger. Aleksei Kuznet was never going to let anyone steal two mil ion pounds from him. He organized an execution. Now he's looking for Kirsten and Gerry Brandt—to finish the job.”

I make a decision not to mention Sir Douglas Carlyle. Campbel is already on the edge. My only chance of persuading him to investigate is to let him believe the ransom was a hoax. I stil can't prove otherwise.

“What does Gerry Brandt have to do with this?”

“He was on the
Charmaine
. I saw him go over the side.”

I wait. I don't know if I've done enough.

Campbel has assumed a perfect proprietary air. “Let me get this straight. So far you have mentioned a kidnapping, a revenge kil ing, a shooting and a ransom demand. I'l add a few to the list: dereliction of duty, crippling a fel ow police officer, withholding information and disobeying orders . . .” A sense of alarm spreads through me. He doesn't understand. He can't see past Howard Wavel .

“We have to find Kirsten before Aleksei does. If she survived she would have needed medical help. We have to search local hospitals and ask doctors to go back through their files. We have to check her bank, telephone and travel records. We need to know her last known movements, possible associations and favorite haunts.” Campbel 's look is piercing. “You're using the word ‘we' a lot. For some reason you seem to be under the misapprehension that you're stil a serving member of the Metropolitan Police.”

I'm so angry my vision blurs.

Joe tries to calm things down. “It seems to me, gentlemen, that we're al seeking the truth. DI Meldrum here is investigating the shootings on the river. DI Ruiz is a witness. He's offering to make a statement. He won't interfere with the investigation.”

Meldrum nods. Satisfied.

Campbel points his finger at me. “I want you to know one thing, Ruiz. I know the truth.”

“Sure you do,” I say.

Campbel gives me a triumphant smile. “You're right about Aleksei Kuznet. He's not the sort of man who lets someone take two mil ion pounds from him. He claims
you
stole his diamonds and he's made an official complaint. We're drawing up a warrant for your arrest. If I were you—I'd get myself a lawyer.” Rage quickens my footsteps. Joe struggles to keep up with me as I stride down the corridor and punch through the swinging glass doors.