Howard sat down on the staircase, holding on to the banister for support.
“I can smell bleach.”
“I was cleaning.”
“My eyes are watering, Howard. What were you cleaning?”
“I spilled some chemicals in my darkroom.”
There were scratches on his wrists. I pointed to them. “How did you get those?”
“Two of Mrs. Swingler's cats got loose in the garden. One of your officers left the door open. I helped her get them back.”
He listened to the sound of drawers being opened and furniture moved.
“Do you know the story of Adam and Eve, Howard? It was the most important moment in human history, the telling of the first lie. That's what separates us from the other animals. It has nothing to do with humans thinking on a higher plane or having easily available credit. We lie to each other. We deliberately mislead. I think you're a truthful person, Howard, but you're providing me with false information. A liar has a choice.”
“I'm telling you the truth.”
“Do you have any secrets?”
“No.”
“Did you and Mickey have a secret?”
He shook his head. “Am I under arrest?”
“No. You're helping us with our inquiries. You're a very helpful man. I noticed that right from the beginning when you were taking photographs and printing flyers.”
“I was showing people what Mickey looked like.”
“There you go. Helpful. That's what you are.”
The search took three hours. Surfaces were dusted, carpets vacuumed, clothes brushed and sinks dismantled. Overseeing the operation was George Noonan, a veteran scene of crime investigator who is almost albino with his completely white hair and pale skin. Noonan seems to resent searches where he doesn't have a body to work with. For him death is always a bonus.
“You might want to see this,” he said.
I followed him down the hallway to the sitting room. He had sealed off all sources of light by blacking out windows and using masking tape around the edges of the doors. He positioned me in front of the fireplace, closed the door and turned off the light.
Darkness. I couldn't even see my feet. Then I noticed a small pattern of droplets, glowing blue-green on the carpet.
“They could be low-velocity bloodstains,” explained Noonan. “The hemoglobin in blood reacts to the luminol, a chemical that I sprayed on the floor. Substances like household bleach can trigger the same reaction but I think this is blood.”
“You said low velocity?”
“A slow bleeder—probably not a stab wound.”
The droplets were no bigger than bread crumbs and stopped abruptly in a straight line.
“There used to be something here—possibly a carpet or a rug,” he explains.
“With more blood on it?”
“He may have tried to get rid of the evidence.”
“Or wrapped up a body. Is there enough to get DNA?”
“I believe so.”
My knee joints creaked as I stood. Noonan turned on the light.
“We found something else.” He held up a pair of child's bikini briefs sealed in a plastic evidence bag. “There don't appear to be traces of blood or semen. I won't be sure until I get it back to the lab.”
Howard had waited on the stairs. I didn't ask him about the bloodstains or the underwear. Nor did I query the 86,000 images of children on his computer hard drive or the six boxes of clothing catalogs—all featuring children—beneath his bed. The time for that would come later.
Howard's world had been turned upside down and emptied like the contents of a drawer yet he didn't even raise his head as the last officer left.
Emerging onto the front steps, I blinked into the sunshine and turned to the cameras. “We have served a search warrant at this address. A man is helping us with our inquiries. He is not under arrest. I want you to respect his privacy and leave the residents of this building alone. Do not jeopardize this investigation.”
A barrage of questions came from beyond the cameras.
“Is Mickey Carlyle still alive?”
“Are you close to making an arrest?”
“Is it true you found photographs?”
Pushing through the crowd I walked to my car, refusing to answer any questions. At the last moment, I turned back and glanced up at Dolphin Mansions. Howard peered from the window. He didn't look at me. Instead he stared at the TV cameras and realized, with a growing sense of horror, that they weren't going to leave. They were waiting for him.
10
Emerging from the prison, I get a sudden, stultifying sense of déjà vu. A black BMW pulls up suddenly, the door opens and Aleksei Kuznet steps onto the pavement. His hair is dark and wet, clinging to his scalp as though glued there.
How did he know I was here?
A bodyguard appears behind him, the sort of paid thug who bulks up in prison weight rooms and settles arguments with a tire iron. He has Slavic features and walks with his left arm swinging less freely than his right because of the gun beneath his armpit.
“DI Ruiz, are you visiting a friend?”
“I could ask you the same question.”
Ali is out of the car and running toward me. The Russian reaches inside his coat and for a moment I have visions of all hell breaking loose. Aleksei flashes a look and the situation defuses. Hands are withdrawn and coats are buttoned.
Ali's aggressive demeanor amuses Aleksei and he spends a moment examining her face and figure. Then he tells her to run along because he doesn't need cookies today.
Ali glances at me, waiting for a signal. “Stretch your legs. I won't be long.”
She doesn't go far, just to the other side of the square, where she turns and watches.
“Forgive me,” Aleksei says, “I didn't mean to insult your young friend.”
“She's a police officer.”
“Really! They take all colors nowadays. Has your memory returned?”
“No.”
“How unfortunate.”
His eyes rove over mine with an aloof curiosity. He doesn't believe me. He glances around the square.
“Do you know that nowadays there is a digital shotgun microphone that can pick up a conversation in a park or a restaurant from more than a thousand feet away?”
“The Met isn't that sophisticated.”
“Maybe not.”
“I'm not trying to trap you, Aleksei. Nobody is listening. I honestly can't remember what happened.”
“It is very simple—I gave you 965 one-carat or above, superior-quality diamonds. You promised to pick up my daughter. I made myself perfectly clear—I don't pay for things twice.”
His phone is ringing. Reaching into his jacket, he pulls out a sleek cell phone, smaller than a cigarette box, and reads the text message.
“I am a gadget geek, Inspector,” he explains. “Someone stole my phone recently. Of course, I reported it to the police. I also called the thief and told him what I would do to him.”
“Did he return your property?”
“It makes no difference. He was very apologetic when I saw him last. He couldn't actually tell me this in his own words. His vocal cords had burned off. People should mark acid bottles more carefully.”
Aleksei's eyes ghost across the cobblestones. “You took my diamonds. You were going to keep my investment safe.”
I think of my overcoat on the seat of Ali's car. If only he knew!
“Is Mickey still alive?”
“You tell me!”
“If there was a ransom demand, there must have been proof of life.”
“They sent strands of hair. You organized the DNA tests. The hair belonged to Mickey.”
“That doesn't prove she's alive. The hair could have come from a hairbrush or a pillow; it could have been collected three years ago. It could have been a hoax.”
“Yes, Inspector, but you were sure. You staked your life on it.”
I don't like the way he says “life.
” He makes it sound like a worthless wager. Panic spikes in my chest.
“Why did you believe me?”
He blinks at me coldly. “Tell me what choice I had.”
Suddenly, I recognize his dilemma. Whether Mickey was alive or dead made no difference—Aleksei had to provide the ransom. It was about saving face and grasping at straws. Imagine a one-in-a-thousand chance of getting her back. He couldn't ignore it. How would it look? What would people say? A father is supposed to cling to impossible dreams. He must keep his children safe and bring them home.
Maybe it's this knowledge but I feel a sudden rush of tenderness toward Aleksei. Almost as quickly I remember the attack at the hospital.
“Somebody tried to kill me yesterday.”
“Well, well.” He makes a little church with his fingers. “Perhaps you took something from them.”
It's not an admission.
“We can discuss this.”
“Like gentlemen?” He's teasing me now. “You have an accent.”
“No, I was born here.”
“Maybe so, but you still have an accent.”
He takes a long thin paper tube of sugar from his pocket and tears it open.
“My mother is German.”
He nods and pours the sugar on his tongue. “Zigeuner?” It's the German word for Gypsy. “My father used to say Gypsies were the eighth plague of Egypt.”
The insult is delivered without any sense of malice.
“Do you have children, Detective?”
“Twins.”
“How old are they?”
“Twenty-six.”
“You see much of them?”
“Not anymore.”
“Maybe you forget how it feels. I am thirty-six now. I have done things I am not particularly proud of but I can live with that. I sleep like a baby. But let me tell you—I don't care how much someone has in the bank, until they have a child they have nothing of value. Nothing!”
He scratches at the scar on his cheek. “My wife turned against me a long time ago but Michaela was always going to be half mine . . . half of me. She was going to grow up and make up her own mind. She was going to forgive me.”
“You think she's dead?”
“I let you convince me otherwise.”
“I must have had a good reason.”
“I hope so.”
He turns to leave.
“I'm not your enemy, Aleksei. I just want to find out what happened. What do you know about the sniper? Does he work for you?”
“Me?” He laughs.
“Where were you on the night of September 25?”
“Don't you remember? I have an alibi. I was with you.”
He swivels and signals to the Russian who's been waiting like a dog tied to a post. I can't let him leave. He has to tell me about Rachel and the ransom demand. I grab his arm and twist it outward until his back arches and he drops to his knees. My walking stick clatters to the pavement.
Pedestrians and prison visitors turn to watch. It strikes me how vaguely ridiculous I must look—making an arrest with a walking stick. Vanity still matters.
“You're under arrest for withholding information from a police investigation.”
“You're making a big mistake,” he hisses.
“Stay down!”
A shape materializes behind me and the warm metal of a gun brushes the base of my skull. It's the Russian, massive, filling the space like a statue. Suddenly, his attention shifts. Ali is standing with her feet apart in a half crouch and her gun pointed at his chest.
Still holding Aleksei's arms, I put my face close to his ear.
“Is this what you want? Are we all going to shoot each other?”
“Nyet!” he says. The Russian takes a step back and slips the gun into its holster. He looks closely at Ali, memorizing her face.
I'm already steering Aleksei toward the car. Ali walks backward behind me, watching the Russian.
“Call Carlucci,” Aleksei yells. Carlucci is his lawyer.
Pushing his head down, he sits in the backseat. I slide in alongside him. My overcoat is hanging over the seat in front of us. Ali hasn't said a word but I know her mind is working faster than ever.
“You're going to be sorry,” mutters Aleksei, peering past me out the window. “You said no police. We had a deal.”
“Help me then! Someone shot me that night. I suffered something called transient global amnesia. I can't remember what happened.”
His tongue rolls around his mouth like he's sucking on the idea.
“Go to hell!”
Frank Carlucci is already at the Harrow Road Police Station when we arrive. Small, tanned and very Italian, his face is wrinkled like a walnut except for around his eyes. A surgeon has been at work.
He scuttles up the stairs beside me, demanding to speak with his client.
“You can wait your turn. He has to be processed.”
Ali has stayed in the car. I turn back toward her. “Look after my coat.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Find the Professor. Tell him I need him. Then look for Rachel. She must be somewhere.”
Ali's face is full of questions. She's not sure if I know what I'm doing. I try to muster a confident smile and turn back to Aleksei.
As we enter the charge room the place falls silent. I swear I can actually hear the indoor plants growing and ink drying on paper. That's how quiet things get. These people were once my friends and colleagues. Now they avoid my eyes or ignore me completely. Maybe I died on the river and just don't realize it yet.
I leave Aleksei in an interview room with Carlucci. My heart is pounding and I want to pull myself together. First up I call Campbell. He's in a meeting at Scotland Yard so I leave a message on his voice mail. Twenty minutes later he comes storming through the front door looking for a cat to kick.
He finds me in the corridor.
“ARE YOU COMPLETELY INSANE?”
I put this down as a rhetorical question. “Would you mind keeping your voice down?”
“What?”
“Please keep your voice down. I have a suspect in the interview room.”
Calmer this time: “You arrested Aleksei Kuznet.”
“He knows about the ransom demand. He's withholding information.”
“I told you to stay away from this.”
“People were shot. Mickey Carlyle might still be alive!”
“I've heard enough of this. I want you back in the hospital.”
“No, Sir!”
He lets out a deep growl like a bear coming out of a cave. “Surrender your badge, Detective. You're suspended!”
Along the corridor a door opens and Frank Carlucci emerges followed by Aleksei. Carlucci yells and points at finger at me. “I want that officer charged.”
“Fuck you! You want a piece of me? Outside!”
It's like someone hits a panic button inside me and I'm consumed by a bloodred rage. Campbell has to hold me back. I'm fighting at his arms.
Aleksei turns slowly and smiles. His physical smoothness is remarkable.
“You have something of mine. Like I said, I don't pay for things twice.”
11
I have been sitting in silence in an interview room, having finished my tea and eaten the ginger-nut biscuits. The room smells of fear and loathing. Maybe it's me.
Given a choice, Campbell would have had me arrested. Instead he wants me taken back to the hospital because he can't guarantee my safety. In reality, he wants me out of the way.
Almost instinctively my fingers find the morphine capsules. My leg is hurting again but maybe it's my pride. I don't want to think about anything for a while. I want to forget and float away. Amnesia isn't such a bad thing.
This is where I interviewed Howard Wavell for the first time. He had been holed up in his flat for three days with people buzzing on the intercom and the media camped outside. Most people would have disappeared by then—gone to stay with friends or family—but Howard
wouldn't risk bringing the circus with him.
I remember him standing at the front counter, arguing with the desk sergeant. He rocked from one foot to the other, glancing over his shoulder. The short sleeves of his shirt stretched tight over his biceps and the buttons pulled across his stomach.
“They put dog shit through my mailbox,” he said, incredulously. “And someone threw eggs at my windows. You have to stop them.”
The desk sergeant regarded him with an exhausted authority. “Are you reporting a crime, Sir?”
“I'm being threatened.”
“And who exactly is threatening you?”
“Vigilantes! Vandals!”
The sergeant pulled an incident pad from beneath the counter and slid it across the bench top. Then he took a cheap pen and placed it on the pad. “Write it down.”
Howard looked almost relieved when I made an appearance.
“They attacked my flat.”
“I'm sorry. I'll send someone over to stand guard. Why don't you come and sit down.”
He followed me along the corridor to the interview room and I pulled his chair nearer to the air-conditioning unit, offering him a bottle of water.
“I'm glad you're here. We haven't really had a chance to catch up. It's been a long time.”
“I guess,” he said, sipping at the water.
Acting like we were old friends I started reminiscing about school and some of the teachers. With a little prompting, Howard added his own stories. There is a theory about interrogations that once suspects begin talking easily about any particular topic it is harder for them to stop talking about other topics that you raise or for them to suddenly start lying.
“So tell me, Howard, what do you think happened to Mickey Carlyle? You must have given it some thought. Everyone else seems to be trying to figure it out. Do you think she just walked out of the front door without anyone seeing her or was she abducted? Maybe you think aliens whisked her away. I've heard every bizarre theory you can imagine over the past seven days.”
Howard frowned and moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue. A pigeon landed on the ledge outside, beside the air-conditioning unit. Howard gazed at the bird as though it might have brought him a message.
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