Lost jo-2

by Michael Robotham

  Rachel is still on the phone.

  “Hello, is that St. Catherine's? I'm sorry to call so late. I'm looking for a friend of mine who has gone missing. Her name is Kirsten Fitzroy. She's thirty-three, with brown hair, green eyes and a birthmark on her neck.”

  Rachel waits. “OK, she's not there now but she may have needed medical help in the past few weeks. You have a clinic. Is it possible you could check your files? Yes, I know it's late but it's very important.” She refuses to lose this battle. “She's actually my sister. My parents are worried sick about her. We think she might have hurt herself . . .”

  Again she waits. “No record. OK. Thank you so much. I'm sorry to have troubled you.”

  They have all worked so hard. Roger and Dicko took a magical mystery tour of London's underbelly, visiting pubs, illegal casinos and strip joints looking for Gerry. Meanwhile, Margaret proved to be a genius at getting passenger manifests out of airlines, ferry and train operators. So far we've established that Kirsten hasn't left the country on any regular transport service.

  London's major hospitals and twenty-four-hour clinics have no record of a female shooting victim in the week after the ransom drop. Now we're ringing individual doctors and hospices.

  We know more about Kirsten than we did six hours ago. She was born in Exeter in 1972, the daughter of a postman and a teaching assistant. Her two brothers still live in Devon. In 1984 she won a scholarship to Sherborne School for Girls in Dorset. She excelled in art and history. One of her sculptures was accepted in the Summer Exhibition at the Royal Academy in London. In her final year she left the school under a cloud, along with two other students. Drugs were mentioned but nothing went on file.

  A year later Kirsten sat A levels and won a place to read art and history at Bristol University. After several false starts, she graduated with a first in 1995. That same year she was photographed at a polo match in Windsor by Tatler magazine with the son of a Saudi Minister. Then she seemed to disappear, surfacing again six years later as the manager of the employment agency.

  “I spoke to a few people at Sotheby's,” says Rachel. “Kirsten was well known among the dealers and salesroom staff. She always wore black to auctions and talked constantly on a cell phone.”

  “She was bidding for someone else?”

  “Four months ago she bid £170,000 for a Turner watercolor.”

  “Who was the real buyer?”

  “Sotheby's wouldn't say but faxed me a photograph of the painting. I've seen it hanging in my father's study.”

  Her eyes, unnaturally wide, flick back and forth between my face and Joe's. Her thoughts are moving at a terrible speed—making her whole body vibrate.

  “I still can't believe she could have done this. She loved Mickey.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Ask my father.”

  “Will he tell you the truth?”

  “There's always a first time.”

  Joe's arm twitches as he reaches for a bottle of water. “We're a long way behind. Kirsten's family and friends have been contacted. Some have been threatened. One of Kirsten's brothers was beaten senseless only an hour after he slammed the door on a man claiming to be a debt collector.”

  “Do you think her family knows where she is?” I ask him.

  “No.”

  Rachel nods. “Kirsten wouldn't put them in danger.”

  Why is Aleksei going to so much trouble? If he sat back he knows that Kirsten will turn up eventually. They always do, look at Gerry Brandt. This isn't just about the diamonds. It's more personal than that. According to the stories, Aleksei had his own brother killed for dishonoring the family. What would he do to someone who kidnapped his daughter?

  Sitting opposite me, Joe continues making notes. He reminds me of my old primary-school teacher, who knew exactly how many pencils, books and paintbrushes were in the storeroom, yet would arrive at school with shaving foam on his neck, or wearing different-colored socks.

  Julianne called me. She made me promise not to let Joe drive home. His Parkinson's gets worse when he's tired. She also talked to Joe and told him to look after me.

  Rachel begins picking up cups and carrying them into the kitchenette. There isn't much to wash. Jean has been manically cleaning all evening.

  Reaching into his pocket, Joe takes out a crumpled page of notes and smooths it on his thigh. “I've been thinking.”

  “Good.”

  “I want to forget about the kidnapping question and concentrate on the ransom demand. If you look at the letters there's no indication of psychological looseness or obsession. They asked for a huge ransom but it was a feasible amount for someone like Aleksei to pay or even Sir Douglas. Enough to be worth the risk.

  “We know there were at least three people involved. Kirsten was the likely planner. Ray Murphy did the logistics. Intellectually Kirsten is above average. Everything about her typifies carefulness and preplanning. She must have experimented with the packages, getting the right dimensions. She was aware of tracking devices and forensic tests . . .”

  The Professor is on a roll. I've seen him do this before—crawl inside someone's head until he knows what they know and feels what they feel. “The ransom plot was clever but overcomplicated. When people are faced with a complex problem they often only consider a certain number of options or scenarios. If there are too many unknowns, they get confused. That's why people plan up to a point or in sections. Sometimes they leave out the exit strategies because they don't consider failure as a possibility.

  “Whoever conceived the plan worked everything out but they made it too complicated. Look at all the things that had to go right. The packaging of the ransom had to be perfect, the control of the courier, getting the diamonds to the storm-water drain, detonating the explosives, creating the flood . . . If any one of these things had gone wrong, the plan would have failed.”

  “Maybe they tested the system first. The voice on the phone to Rachel said, ‘Let's do this one more time.'”

  Joe nods slowly but isn't convinced. “This is the sort of operation you only mess up once. Given a second chance, you'd want to simplify things.”

  He begins pacing, flourishing his hands. “Let's assume just for a moment that they did kidnap her. They took her underground, which is also how they chose to collect the ransom. They needed somewhere to hold her. Somewhere that Ray Murphy was most likely to have chosen.”

  “Not in the sewers—it's too dangerous.”

  “And taking her above ground meant risking recognition. Her photograph was everywhere.”

  “You think they held her underground?”

  “It's worth considering.”

  There's someone I can ask—Weatherman Pete. I look at my watch. I'll call him in a few hours.

  “What about Gerry Brandt?” asks Joe.

  “He had a passport in the name of Peter Brannigan as well as a driver's license. It costs a lot of money to get a new identity and to disappear—even to a place like Thailand. You need connections.”

  “You thinking drugs?”

  “Maybe. According to international directory inquiries there's a beach bar called Brannigan's in Phuket.”

  “Fancy that. What's the time in Thailand?”

  “Time to wake them up.”

  Rachel has fallen asleep on the sofa in the waiting room. I gently shake her awake. “Come on, I'll take you home.”

  “But what about Mickey?”

  “We'll find her. First you need to sleep. Where do you want to go?”

  “Dolphin Mansions.”

  “Take my car,” says Joe. “I've called a cab.”

  He's still on the phone to Phuket talking to a waitress who doesn't understand English, trying to get a description of Peter Brannigan.

  Outside the streets are empty except for a council sweeping machine with twirling brushes and jets of water. I open the car door and Rachel slips inside. The interior smells of pine air freshener and ancient tobacco.

  Using a borrowe
d overcoat as a blanket, she covers her knees. I know she has questions. She wants reassurance. Maybe we're both deluding ourselves.

  Headlights sweep across the interior of the car as we drive toward Maida Vale. She rests her head against the seat, watching me.

  “Do you have children, Inspector?”

  “I'm not a policeman anymore. Please call me Vincent.”

  She waits for an answer.

  “Twins. They're grown up now.”

  “Do you see much of them?”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “It's a long story.”

  “How long can it be? They're your children.”

  I'm caught now. No matter what I say to her she won't understand. She desperately wants to find her child and I don't even talk to mine. Where's the fairness in that?

  She tucks her hair behind her ears. “Do you know that sometimes I think I made Mickey frightened of the world.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I kept telling her to be careful.”

  “All parents do that.”

  “Yes, but it wasn't just the normal stuff like not patting stray dogs or talking to strangers. I made her frightened of what can happen if you love something too much and it disappoints you or gets taken away. She wasn't always scared to go outside. It only started when she was about four.”

  “What happened?”

  In a forlorn voice she describes a Saturday afternoon at a local park, where she and Mickey would often go to feed the ducks. This one particular Saturday there was an old-fashioned fair, with a steam-powered carousel, cotton candy and whirligigs. Mickey rode all by herself on a gaily painted horse, proud of the fact that she didn't need her mother to sit behind her. When the ride finished, she was on the far side of the carousel. Rachel had been drawn into conversation with a woman from her mothers' group and didn't notice the ride ending.

  Mickey stepped off. Instead of circling, she wandered through the forest of legs thinking that surely one of the hands belonged to her mother.

  She walked back toward the pond where the ducks had gathered in the skirts of a willow tree. Peering over the low railing fence she watched two boys, no older than eleven, throwing stones. The ducks huddled together. Mickey wondered why they didn't fly away. Then she noticed the ducklings, sheltering beneath a feathered breast and muddy tail feathers.

  One duckling—a dark ball of down against the darkness of the shade—separated from the others. It took the full force of a stone and disappeared beneath the surface. Seconds later it reappeared, floating lifelessly on the green scum in that corner of the pond.

  Mickey burst into hysterical wailing. Tears streamed down her cheeks into the wide corners of her mouth. Her crying made the boys drop their stones and edge away, not wanting to be blamed for whatever had made her cry.

  The howls from the edge of the pond created a strange dichotomy of reactions. Some people almost fell over each other to ignore them. Others watched and waited for someone else to intervene.

  The pigeon man was nearest. Grizzled and yellow-toothed, he raised himself up from his bench, brushing pigeons off his lap as though they were spilled crumbs. Shuffling across to Mickey, he hitched up his trousers so that he could kneel beside her.

  “You got a problem, Missy?”

  “Make them stop,” she wailed, with her hands clamped over her ears.

  He didn't seem to hear her. “You want to feed the birds?”

  “The ducks,” she sobbed.

  “You want to feed the ducks?”

  Mickey howled again and the pigeon man raised his eyebrows. He could never understand children. Taking her hand, he went in search of a park attendant or the girl's mother.

  A policeman was already approaching. He pushed through the crowd and took in the scene. “I want you to let her go,” he demanded.

  “I'm looking for her mother,” explained the pigeon man. Spittle clung to his tangled beard.

  “Just let the girl go and step away.”

  By then Rachel had arrived. She swept Mickey up, held her tightly, and the two of them tried to out-hug each other. Meanwhile, the pigeon man had his arms stretched wide on the back of a park bench, while the policeman patted him down and searched his pockets, spilling birdseed onto the grass.

  Mickey didn't ask to feed the ducks again. She didn't go to the park and soon she stopped going outside Dolphin Mansions. A year later she saw her first therapist.

  The children's book that Timothy found in Mickey's cubbyhole in the basement was about five little ducks who go out in the world and return home again. Mickey knew from experience that not all little ducks come back.

  32

  Weatherman Pete brushes milk foam from his mustache and motions toward the river with his paper cup. “Sewers are no place for little girls.”

  His van is parked up on a boat ramp in the shadow of Putney Bridge where eight-oared shells skim the surface of the river like gigantic water beetles. Moley is asleep in the back of the van, curled up with one eye open.

  “Where could they have kept her?”

  Pete exhales slowly, making his lips vibrate. “There are hundreds of places—disused tube stations, service tunnels, bomb shelters, aqueducts, drains . . . What makes you think he's hiding down there?”

  “He's scared. People are looking for him.”

  Pete hums. “Takes a unique sort of individual to live down there.”

  “He is unique.”

  “No, you don't get me. You take Moley. If he disappeared down there you wouldn't find him in a hundred years. You see he likes the dark, just like some people prefer the cold. You know what I mean?”

  “This guy isn't like that.”

  “So how does he know his way down there?”

  “He's going from memory. Someone showed him where to hide and how to move around. A former flusher called Ray Murphy.”

  “Saccharine Ray! The boxer.”

  “You know him?”

  “Yeah, I know him. Ray was never really the genuine article as a boxer. He took more dives than Ruud van Nistelrooy. I don't remember him working down the sewers.”

  “It was a long time ago. After that he worked as a flood planner.”

  A slow sweet smile spreads across Pete's face like jam on toast. “The old HQ of London Flood Management is underground—in the Kingsway Tram Underpass.”

  “But there haven't been trams in central London for more than fifty years.”

  “Precisely. The tunnel was abandoned. If you ask me it was a bloody silly place to have a flood emergency center. It would have been the first place under water if the Thames broke its banks. Bureaucrats!”

  The Kingsway Underpass is one of those strange, almost secret, landmarks you find in cities. Tens of thousands of people walk past it and drive over it every day with no idea it's there. All you can see is a railing fence and a cobblestone approach road before it disappears underground. It runs beneath Kingsway—one of the busiest streets in the West End—down to the Aldwych, where it turns right and comes out directly beneath Waterloo Bridge.

  Weatherman Pete parks his van on the approach road, ignoring the painted red lines and NO STOPPING signs. He hands me a hard hat and pulls out a construction sign. “If anyone asks we work for the council.”

  The remnants of the tram tracks are embedded in the stones and a large gate guards the entrance to the tunnel.

  “Can we get inside?”

  “That'd be illegal,” he says, producing the biggest set of bolt cutters I've ever seen. Moley moans and pulls a blanket over his head.

  Trying to curb Pete's enthusiasm I explain that Gerry Brandt is dangerous. He's already put Ali in the hospital and I don't want anyone else getting hurt. Once we know he's in there, I'll call the police.

  “We could send a mole down the hole.” Pete nudges the bundle of blankets. Moley's head appears. “You're up.”

  Trooping down the ramp we look like a trio of engineers on our way to survey something on a typ
ical Saturday morning. The padlock on the gate looks secure enough but the bolt cutters snap it like balsa wood. We slide inside.

  Although I can only see about twenty feet of tunnel it appears to open out and grow wider before the darkness becomes absolute. The most obvious feature is a pile of road signs stacked against the walls—street names, traffic controls, posts and paving slabs. The council must use the tunnel for storage.

  “We should wait here,” whispers Pete. “No use us blundering around in the dark.” He hands Moley what looks like an emergency flare. “Just in case.”

  Moley presses his ear to the wall of the tunnel and listens for about fifteen seconds. Then he jogs forward silently and listens again. Within seconds he is out of sight. The only sounds are my heartbeat and the throb of traffic forty feet above our heads.

  Fifteen minutes later Moley returns.

  “There's someone there. About a hundred yards farther on there are two Portakabins. He's in the first one.”

  “What's he doing?”

  “Sleeping.”

  I know I have to call it in. I can talk directly to “New Boy” Dave and hopefully bypass Meldrum and Campbell. Dave hates Gerry Brandt as much as I do. We look after our own.

  But another part of me has a different desire. I can't rid myself of the memory of Gerry Brandt holding Ali against his back, looking directly at me, as he fell backward, crushing her spine. This is just the sort of place I wanted to find him—a dark place, with nobody around.

  The police will come charging in here, armed to the teeth. That's when people get hurt or get killed. I'm not talking conspiracies here, I just know the reality—people fuck up. I can't afford to lose Gerry Brandt. He's a violent impulsive thug who peddles misery in tiny packets of foil but I need him for Ali's sake and for Mickey's. He knows what happened to her.

  “So what do you want to do?” whispers Pete.

  “I'm going to call the police but I also want to talk to this guy. I don't want him getting away or getting hurt.”