Lost jo-2

by Michael Robotham

The light from the entrance forms a halo around Moley's head. He cocks his face to one side and looks at me with a mixture of apprehension and expectancy. “He did a bad thing, this guy?”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “You want me to take you in there?”

  “Yes.”

  Pete gives it five seconds of contemplation and nods his head. It's like he does this every day of the week. Back at the van I call “New Boy” Dave. Glancing at my watch, I realize that Ali will be in surgery. I don't know the exact details but they're going to insert pins into her spine and fuse several vertebrae.

  Weatherman Pete has collected some gear from the van—extra flares and his “secret weapon.” He shows me two Ping-Pong balls. “I make these myself. Black powder, flash powder, magnesium ribbon and a drop of candle wax.”

  “What do they do?”

  “Kerboom!” He grins at me. “Nothing but sound and fury. You should hear one of them go off in a sewer.”

  The plan is simple enough. Moley is going to make sure there are no other exits. Once he's in place, he'll set off the flash-bangs and flares.

  “We're going to scare the son of a bitch half to death,” he says excitedly.

  Pete looks at me. “You got sunglasses—wear them. And don't look at the light. You only have a few seconds to grab him while he's disoriented.”

  We give Moley a ten-minute head start. Weatherman Pete and I keep on opposite sides of the tunnel, feeling our way blindly along the walls and stepping in oily puddles and nests of leaves.

  Slowly the tunnel begins to change in character. The roof slopes down where the roadway above has been cut into the old ceiling. The Portakabins are just ahead of me. I can see the faint yellow glow of the lantern, leaking around the edges of a window that has been covered up or taped over.

  Crouching, I wait for Moley. He could be right next to me and I wouldn't know it. My mouth is dry. For two days I've been popping codeine forte and craving morphine, telling myself my leg doesn't hurt and it's just my imagination.

  What happens next wouldn't find a place in many training manuals. The explosion of noise is so sudden and ferocious it feels like I've been shot from a cannon. Darkness turns to light, as a flare of brilliant white arcs overhead and lands in the doorway of the nearest Portakabin.

  Squinting into the dazzling ivory, my eyes sting. I see nothing but white. Turning my face away, I begin to move, crossing the last ten feet to the door. The second flash-bang explodes and a shape comes bursting out the entrance, with legs pumping in midair as though trying to gain traction. Blinded by the light, he runs smack into the far wall and almost knocks himself unconscious.

  I grab him from behind, locking my arms around his waist. He pitches to the left, arms flailing. Both of us crash into a puddle. I don't let go. Pulling his arm behind his back, I try to put on the cuffs. He snaps his head back like he did to Ali but I'm ready.

  Keeping behind him, I straddle his torso and twist his arm until he roars. He's fighting blindly, arching his spine to reach me. I wrap my forearm around his neck, cutting off his windpipe. With my arm squeezing his throat, I add more weight, pushing his face into the floor. He can't breathe. His legs are twitching as if he's made of rubber.

  I could kill him now, so easily. I could hold on until he suffocates or I could snap his neck. So what if he dies? It's no great loss to humanity. There won't be any grand achievements left unfulfilled or prizes unclaimed. The only mark Gerry Brandt was ever likely to leave on the world was a bloodstain.

  My forearm loosens and I let his head drop. It makes a dull noise against the concrete. He's gasping for breath.

  Dragging his other arm behind his back, I snap on the handcuffs and roll away. Stumbling to my feet I look down at him for a moment. Dark hair spikes from his head and pieces of crushed glass are stuck to his cheekbone. A thin line of blood trickles past his ear as the burning flares begin to die out.

  There are police sirens in the distance. “Come on, let's get him out of here.”

  “Are we going to get in trouble?” asks Moley, falling into step beside Weatherman Pete.

  “You'll be fine. Get to the van and let me do the talking.”

  We're almost at the end of the tunnel. The gate gives off a hollow clang as it opens. Two armed response vehicles have pulled onto the ramp beside the van. The officers are armed with MP5 carbines. An unmarked police car pulls up alongside them. “New Boy” Dave gets out, along with Campbell who walks like he's got bowling balls down his Y-fronts.

  “Arrest him,” he yells, pointing at me instead of my prisoner.

  Gerry Brandt raises his head. “I didn't mean to do it. I let her go.”

  “Where is she?”

  He shakes his head. “I let her go.”

  “What did you do with Mickey?”

  “You got to tell Mr. Kuznet, I let her go.”

  A red dot appears on his cheek, just above where he's bleeding. For a moment it catches in his eye, making him blink, and then rises to his forehead. Recognition jars inside me but it's too late. In a fleeting puff of blood and vapor, he spins and falls.

  The bullet, fired from somewhere above, has passed through his cheek, down his neck and exited below his collarbone. I can't hold him. He's six one and more than two hundred pounds. He carries me down. I roll away, letting gravity take over, bouncing my head against the cobblestones until I strike the wall.

  The ramp is empty. People have scattered like cockroaches. Only Gerry Brandt is unmoved by it all, lying with his jacket half covering his head, slowly soaking up the blood.

  There are no more shots. One was enough.

  33

  According to the experts the world is going to end in five thousand million years when the sun swells up and engulfs the innermost planets and turns the rest of them into charcoal. I've always imagined it more like a dual second coming, where Jesus and Charlton Heston compete to see who gets the final word. I don't suppose I'll be around.

  This is what I think about as I sit in the backseat of a police car, watching them photograph Gerry Brandt's body. Teams of armed officers are going door to door, searching shops, offices and flats. They won't find anything. The sniper is long gone.

  Campbell has also slipped away, escaping from me. I followed him all the way to his car, yelling, “Who did you tell? Who knew?”

  The moment I phoned for backup, somebody put in a separate call, tipping off Aleksei. How else did the sniper know where to find Brandt? It's the only logical explanation.

  A dozen police officers walk in single file down the ramp, peering between their polished boots at the cobblestones and sodden leaves. A handful of Camden Council workers watch the proceedings as though they're going to be tested on it later.

  This whole business reeks of a setup. The guilty are gunned down and innocent people get caught in the crossfire. Howard might be one of them. I still can't figure out where he fits into all this, but I can picture him, lying on his prison bunk, planning his first days of freedom.

  Child molesters sleep the sleep of the damned in prison. They listen to their names being whispered from cell to cell, turning to a chant as the noise rises and becomes a frightening symphony that must open and close their sphincters like the wings of a butterfly.

  The SOCO team, dressed in white overalls, has set up arc lights on mobile gantries, casting grotesque shadows against the walls. Noonan is in charge, shouting into a tape recorder: “I'm looking at a well-developed, well-nourished white male. A light purple contusion is visible on the left forehead and another over the bridge of the nose. He may have fallen after the shooting or someone hit him in the face prior to the shooting . . .”

  “New Boy” Dave hands me a coffee. It tastes like tar and brings back memories of surveillance operations and endless predawn shifts.

  Noonan rolls the body over and checks the pockets and lining. His hand emerges with a small foil packet wedged between his fingertips.

  Dave screws up his face. “Well if you ask me,
I'm glad he's dead.”

  I guess that's understandable given what happened to Ali. He doesn't understand why I needed Gerry alive. Dave loosens his tie and undoes the top button of his shirt.

  “They say you're trying to destroy the Howard Wavell conviction.”

  “No.”

  “They also say you stole diamonds from Aleksei Kuznet. They say you're bent.”

  “What do you think?”

  “Ali doesn't think so.”

  A double-decker bus rumbles by, glowing red and yellow. Bored faces peer out from the bright interior, heads resting against the glass. London doesn't seem so exciting from this angle. The landmarks are rendered featureless by the gloom and there is no magic in the Monopoly board names.

  I am under arrest. Campbell insisted on it. At least Dave hasn't bothered with handcuffs so my past must count for something. I could even handle the police officers staring at me, if one of them was Ali and she'd never been involved in this.

  After SOCO has finished at the crime scene, I'm driven to the Harrow Road Police Station and taken through a back door into the charge room. I know the drill. Strands of hair are sealed in plastic. Saliva and skin cells dampen a cotton swab. My fingers are pressed in ink. Afterward I am taken to an interview room rather than a police cell.

  They make me wait. I lean forward, with my elbows braced on my knees, counting the pop rivets on the side of the table. This is all part of any interrogation. Silence can be more important than the questions.

  When Keebal finally arrives, he carries a large bundle of files and proceeds to shuffle through the papers. Most of them probably have nothing to do with me but he wants me to think evidence is stacking up against me. Everybody is having fun today.

  Keebal likes to pretend he's a patient man but it's bullshit. Maybe it's the Rom blood in me but I can sit opposite someone all day and not say a thing. Gypsies are like Sicilians. We can share a drink and be smiling our heads off while out of sight a knife or a shotgun is pointed directly at the other guy's stomach.

  Finally he turns on the tape recorder, giving the time, date and names of everybody present.

  He pats his coiffed hair. “I hear you got your memory back.”

  “Can we do this later? You obviously have an appointment at a beauty parlor.”

  He stops touching himself and glares at me.

  “At approximately 1600 hours on September 25, you were given a briefcase containing 965 one carat and above, superior-quality diamonds. Is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “When did you last see these diamonds?”

  I feel my stomach lurch as if an internal gear has suddenly engaged. I can still picture the packages spilling from the sports bag beneath my linen cupboard. A dry thunder is pounding in my head—the beginnings of a migraine. “I don't know.”

  “Did you give them to someone?”

  “No.”

  “What were these diamonds for?”

  “You know the answer to that question.”

  “For the benefit of the tape, please answer the question.”

  “A ransom.”

  He doesn't bat an eyelid. I'm doing just what he wants—digging myself deeper into a hole. I start at the beginning, recounting the whole story. I have nothing left to lose, but at least I'm getting it down. There'll be a record somewhere if something happens to me. I tell him about the ransom demand, the strands of hair, the bikini and my journey through the sewers.

  For the next ninety minutes I relate the details. Hundreds of cumulative hours are condensed and laid out like stepping-stones for him to follow. Even so, it sounds more like a confessional than an interrogation.

  Keebal looks like he should be selling used cars or life insurance. “You admit you were present on the boat when Ray Murphy died?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you say the diamonds were in packages on the deck?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was there a tracking device with the diamonds?”

  “Yes.”

  “When you went overboard did you take the diamonds?”

  “No.”

  “You were the last person to see them. I think you know where they are.”

  “That's an interesting theory.”

  “I think they're tucked under your mattress at home?”

  “Could be.”

  He studies my face, looking for the lie. It's there. He just can't see it.

  “Let me help you out,” he says. “Next time you try to steal a ransom, remember to take the tracking device out. Otherwise someone might follow you and realize what you're doing.”

  “How is Aleksei? How much is he paying you to recover his diamonds?”

  Keebal tightens his lips and sighs through his nose like I've disappointed him.

  “Tell me this,” I ask him. “A sniper put a bullet in my leg and I nearly bled to death. Eight days I lay in a coma. You think I took the diamonds. How? When?”

  A sense of triumph is stenciled on his face. “I'll tell you how—they never left your house. You helped set this whole thing up—the ransom letters, the DNA tests . . . you fooled everyone. And the people who know the truth keep dying when you're around. First it was Ray Murphy and then Gerry Brandt . . .”

  Keebal can't really believe any of this. It's crazy. I always had him pegged as a fanatic but the man has squirrels juggling knives in his head.

  “I got shot.”

  “Maybe because you tried to double-cross them.”

  I'm shouting at him now. “You called Aleksei. You told him where he could find Gerry Brandt. All these years you've been persecuting honest cops and now we see your true colors—yellow right through.”

  In the silence I can hear my clothes creasing. Keebal thinks he knows. He knows nothing.

  The Professor collects me just after 5:00 p.m.

  “How are you?”

  “I still have my health.”

  “That's good.”

  I savor the sound of my shoes on the tarmac, pleased to be free. Keebal didn't have enough to hold me and there isn't a magistrate in the land who would deny me bail with my record of service.

  Joe's office is still full of our ragtag task force, manning telephones and tapping at keyboards. They're searching electoral rolls and reverse phone directories. Someone has pinned a photograph of Mickey to the window—to remind everyone of why we're here.

  The familiar faces acknowledge me—Roger, Margaret, Jean, Eric and Rebecca—along with a few new ones, two of Ali's brothers.

  “How long have they been here?”

  “Since lunchtime,” says Joe.

  Ali will have called them. She is out of surgery and must have heard about Gerry Brandt.

  Rachel spies me from across the room. She looks at me hopefully, her hands fidgeting with her collar.

  “Did you talk to him? I mean . . . did he say anything?”

  “He said he let Mickey go.”

  A breath snags in her throat. “What happened to her?”

  “I don't know. He didn't get to tell me.” I turn to the others and let them all hear. “It's now even more imperative that we find Kirsten Fitzroy. She may be the only one left who knows what happened to Mickey.”

  Gathering the chairs in a circle, we hold a “kitchen cabinet” meeting.

  Margaret and Jean have managed to find a dozen of Kirsten's ex-employees. All are women aged between twenty-two and thirty-four, many of them with foreign-sounding names. They were nervous about talking—sex work isn't something you advertise. None of them has seen Kirsten since the agency closed down.

  Meanwhile, Roger visited the old offices. The managing agent had kept two boxes of files that had been left behind when the agency vacated the premises. Among the documents were invoices from a pathology lab. The girls were being tested for STDs.

  Another file contained encoded credit card details and initials. Kirsten probably had a diary with names matching the initials. I run my finger down the page searching for Sir Douglas's
initials. Nothing.

  “So far we've called more than four hundred clinics and surgeries,” says Rachel. “Nobody has reported treating a gunshot victim but a pharmacy in Southwark had a break-in on September 26. Someone stole bandages and painkillers.”

  “Call the pharmacist back. Ask him if the police pulled any fingerprints.”

  Margaret hands me a coffee. Jean takes it away and washes the cup before I can take a sip. Someone gets sandwiches and soft drinks. I feel like something a lot stronger, something warm and yeasty and golden.

  Joe finds me sitting alone on the stairs and takes a seat beside me. “You haven't mentioned the diamonds. What did you do with them?”

  “Put them somewhere safe.”

  I can picture the velvet pouches stitched inside a woolly mammoth in Ali's old room. I should probably tell Joe. If something happens to me, nobody will know where to find them. Then again, I don't want to put anyone else in danger.

  “Did you know that elephants with their trunks raised are meant to symbolize good luck?”

  “No.”

  “Ali told me. She's got a thing about elephants. I don't know how much good luck it's brought her.”

  My mouth has gone dry. I stand and slip my arms through my jacket.

  “You're going to see Aleksei, aren't you?” asks Joe. I swear to God he can read minds.

  My silence responds eloquently.

  “You know that's crazy,” he says.

  “I have to stop this.”

  I know it sounds foolishly old-fashioned but I'm stuck with this idea that there is something dignified and noble about facing your enemy and looking him squarely in the eye—before you thrust a saber in his heart.

  “You can't go alone.”

  “He won't see me otherwise. I'll make an appointment. People don't get killed when they make an appointment.”

  Joe considers this. “I'll come with you.”

  “No, but thanks for the offer.”

  I don't know why people keep trying to help me like this. They should be heading for the hills. Ali says I inspire loyalty but I seem to be taking kindnesses that I can never hope to repay. I am not a perfect human being. I'm a cynic and a pessimist and sometimes I feel as though I'm locked into this life by an accident of birth. But at times like this, a random act of kindness or the touch of another human being makes me believe I can be different, better, redeemed. Joe has that effect on me. A poor man shouldn't borrow so much.