Lost jo-2

by Michael Robotham

  The phone call to Aleksei is diverted through several numbers before he answers. I can hear water in the background. The river.

  “I want to talk. No lawyers or police or third parties.”

  I can hear him thinking. “Where did you have in mind?”

  “Neutral ground.”

  “No. If you want a meeting you come to me. Chelsea Harbour. You'll find me.”

  A black cab drops me at the entrance to the marina shortly before ten. I lift my watch and count the final minutes. It's no use being early for your own funeral.

  Spotlights reflect from the whiteness of the motor yachts and cruisers, creating pools like spilled paint. By comparison, the interlocking docks are weathered and gray, with life buoys hanging from pylons anchored deep in the mud.

  Aleksei's boat, draped in fairy lights, takes up two moorings and has three decks with sleek lines that angle like an arrowhead from bow to stern. The upper deck bristles with radio antennae and satellite tracking devices.

  I spent five years mucking about on boats. I know they float and soak up money. People with a highly defined sense of balance are more likely to get seasick, they say. I can vouch for my equilibrium but an hour in rough weather on a cross-channel ferry can still feel like a year.

  The gangway has a thick rubber mat and railings with bronze pillars. As I step on board the vessel shifts slightly. Through an open doorway I see a stateroom and a large mahogany dining table with seating for eight. To one side is a bar area and a modular lounge arranged in front of a flat-screen TV.

  Descending the steps I duck my head, which isn't necessary. Aleksei Kuznet is sitting behind a desk, his head lowered, reading the screen of a laptop computer. He raises his hand, making me wait. It remains there, suspended. Slowly the hand turns and his fingers wave me forward.

  When he raises his eyes he looks past me as though I might have forgotten something. The ransom. He wants his diamonds.

  “Nice boat.”

  “It's a motor yacht.”

  “An expensive toy.”

  “On the contrary—it is my office. I had her built to an American design at a boatyard on the Black Sea near Odessa. You see I take the best from different cultures—American design, German engineering, Italian craftsmen, Brazilian teak and Slav laborers. People often criticize Eastern European nations and say they don't do capitalism well. But the truth is that they operate the purest form of capitalism. If I had wanted to build this boat in Britain I would have had to pay award wages, workers compensation, national insurance, design fees and bribes to keep the unions happy. It's the same when you put up a building. At any stage someone can stop you. In Russia or Latvia or Georgia none of this matters if you have enough money. That's what I call pure capitalism.”

  “Is that why you're selling up? Are you going home?”

  He laughs mordantly. “Inspector, you mistake me for a patriot. I will employ Russians, I will fund their schools and hospitals and prop up their corrupt politicians but do not expect me to live with them.”

  He has moved across to the bar. My eyes flick around the stateroom, almost waiting for the trap to snap shut.

  “So why are you selling up?”

  “Greener pastures. Fresh challenges. Maybe I'll buy a football club. That seems very popular nowadays. Or I could just go somewhere warm for the winter.”

  “I have never understood what people see in hot climates.”

  He glances into the darkness of the starboard window. “Each man makes his own paradise, DI, but it's hard to love London.”

  He hands me a glass of Scotch and slides the ice bucket toward me.

  “Are you a sailor?”

  “Not really.”

  “Shame. With me it's flying. You ever see that episode of The Twilight Zone where William Shatner looks out of the window of a plane at 20,000 feet and sees a gremlin tearing off pieces of the wing? They made it into a film, which was nowhere near as good. That's how I feel when I step on a plane. I'm the only person who knows it's going to crash.”

  “So you never fly?”

  He turns over both his palms, as if revealing the obvious. “I have a motor yacht.”

  The Scotch burns pleasantly as I swallow but the aftertaste is not like it used to be. All that morphine has deadened my taste buds.

  Aleksei is a businessman, accustomed to cutting deals. He knows how to read a balance sheet, to manage risk and maximize profit.

  “I might have something to trade,” I announce.

  He raises his hand again, this time pressing a finger to his lips. The Russian steps from the companionway looking as if he's been trapped in an ill-fitting suit.

  “I'm sure you understand,” says Aleksei apologetically as the bodyguard sweeps a metal detector over me. Meanwhile, he issues instructions via a radio. The engines of the boat rumble and the ice shudders in my glass.

  He motions me to follow him along the companionway to the galley where a narrow ladder descends to the lower deck. We reach a heavily insulated door that opens into the engine room. Noise fills my head.

  The engine block is six feet high with valves, fuel cocks, radiator pipes, springs and polished steel. Two chairs have been arranged on the metal walkways that run down each side of the room. Aleksei takes a seat as if attending a recital and waits until I join him. Still nursing his drink, he looks at me with an aloof curiosity.

  Shouting to be heard above the engines, I ask him how he found Gerry Brandt. He smiles. It is the same indolent foreknowing expression he gave me when I saw him outside Wormwood Scrubs. “I hope you're not accusing me of any wrongdoing, Inspector.”

  “Then you know who I'm talking about?”

  “No. Who is he?”

  This is like a game to him—a trifling annoyance compared to other more important matters. I risk boring him unless I get to the point.

  “Is Kirsten Fitzroy still alive?”

  He doesn't answer.

  “I'm not here to accuse you, Aleksei. I have a hypothetical deal to offer.”

  “A hypothetical one?” Now he laughs out loud and I feel my resolve draining away.

  “I will trade you the diamonds for Kirsten's life. Leave her alone and you get them back.”

  Aleksei runs his finger through his hair, leaving a trail in the gel. “You have my diamonds?”

  “Hypothetically.”

  “Then hypothetically you are obliged to give them back to me. Why should I have to trade?”

  “Because right now this is only hypothetical; I can make it real. I know you planted the diamonds in my house to frame me. Keebal was supposed to get a warrant but I found them first. You think I saw something that night. You think I can hurt you somehow. You have my word. Nobody else has to get hurt.”

  “Really?” he asks sarcastically. “Do not attempt a career as a salesman.”

  “It's a genuine offer.”

  “A hypothetical one.” Aleksei looks at me, pursing his lips. “Let me get this straight. My daughter is kidnapped and you fail to find her. She is murdered and you do not recover her body. Then people try to extort two million pounds from me and you fail to catch them. Then you steal my diamonds and accuse me of planting them on you. And on top of it all, you want me to forgive and forget. You people are scum. You have preyed on my ex-wife's grief. You have taken advantage of my good nature and my desire to make things right. I didn't start this—”

  “You have a chance to end it.”

  “You mistake me for someone who desires peace and harmony. On the contrary, what I desire is revenge.”

  He moves to stand. The negotiation is over.

  I feel my temper rising. “For Christ's sake, Aleksei, I'm trying to find Mickey. She's your family. Don't you want to know what happened?”

  “I know what happened, Inspector. She's dead. She died three years ago. And let me tell you something about families—they're overrated. They're a weakness. They leave you or get taken from you or they disappoint you. Families are a liability.”
r />   “Is that why you got rid of Sacha?”

  He ignores me, pushing open the heavy door. We're outside now. I can hear myself think. Aleksei is still talking.

  “You say to trust you. You say trust the deal. You have no idea, do you? Not a clue. You're like the three wise monkeys all rolled into one. Now let me make a deal with you—hypothetically speaking, of course. You return the diamonds to me and then step back. Let people work things out for themselves. Market forces, you see, capitalism, supply and demand, these are the things I understand. People reap what they sow.”

  “People like Gerry Brandt?” With a flick of my wrist, I grip his forearm. He doesn't flinch. “Leave Kirsten alone.”

  His eyes are narrow and dark, with something toxic behind them. He thinks I'm some dumb plod, barely off the beat, whose idea of subtle interrogation is a nightstick and a strong right arm. That's how I'm acting.

  “You know what a Heffalump is?” I ask.

  “Winnie-the-Pooh's friend.”

  “No, you're thinking of Piglet. Heffalumps and Woozles are the nightmare creatures that Pooh Bear dreams about. He's afraid they're going to steal his honey. Nobody can see them except Pooh. That's who you remind me of.”

  “A Heffalump?”

  “No. Pooh Bear. You think the world is full of people who want to steal from you.”

  The sky is gray and the evening air damp and heavy. Away from the throb of the engines my headache finds its own rhythm. Aleksei walks me to the gangway. The Russian is close behind him, swinging his left arm a little wider because of his holster.

  “Have you ever thought of getting a normal job?” I ask.

  Aleksei contemplates this. “Maybe we should both do something new.”

  Then it dawns on me that he's right, we're not so different. We both screwed up our relationships and lost our children. And we're too old to do anything else. I have spent two-thirds of my life putting criminals away, most of them small-timers and lowlifes. Aleksei was what I was working toward. My ambition. He's the reason I did the job.

  As I step onto the gangway the Russian follows, two paces behind. The rope handrails are looped between brass posts. He closes the last step and I feel the warm metal of the gun brush the short hairs at the base of my skull.

  Aleksei explains: “My employee will go with you and collect the diamonds.”

  In the same instant I fall over the side, plunging toward the water. Reaching up in midair, I grab onto the rope railing and hang on as my body swings through an arc, tipping the gangway on its side. The Russian plunges past me.

  Swinging my good leg onto the dock, I climb to my feet. Aleksei is watching the Russian flailing his arms as he tries to stay afloat.

  “I don't think he can swim,” I point out.

  “Some people never learn,” says Aleksei, unconcerned.

  I take a life buoy from the pylon and toss it into the water. The Russian hugs it to his chest.

  “One last question: How did you know where the ransom was going to surface? Somebody must have told you.”

  Aleksei pulls back his lips in a grimace but his eyes are empty. “You have until tomorrow morning to return my diamonds.”

  34

  Ali is asleep. Tubes flow into her carrying painkillers and out of her carrying waste. Every few hours they add another bag of liquid morphine. Time is measured by the gaps between them.

  “You really can't stay,” says the nursing sister. “Come back in the morning and she'll be awake.”

  The corridors of the hospital are almost deserted. I walk to the visitors lounge and take a seat, closing my eyes. I wish I could have made Aleksei understand but his hatred has blinded him. He doesn't believe Mickey is still alive. Instead, he thinks people have taken advantage of him because of his weakness—his family.

  I think of Luke and wonder if maybe he's right. Daj is still grieving about her lost family. I'm still fretting about Claire and Michael, wondering what went wrong. Not caring would be so much easier.

  My muscles ache and my whole body seems to be fighting against itself. Dreamlike images fill my head; bodies lowered into rivers or washed down sewers. Kirsten's turn is coming.

  Darkness presses against the window. I gaze at the street below and feel nostalgic for the countryside. The rhythms of a city are set by pneumatic drills, traffic lights and train timetables. I barely notice the seasons.

  A reflection appears in the window beside me.

  “I thought I might find you here,” says Joe, taking a seat and propping his legs on the low table. “How did it go with Aleksei?”

  “He wouldn't listen.”

  Joe nods. “You should get some sleep.”

  “So should you.”

  “You're long enough dead.”

  “My stepfather used to say that. He's getting plenty of sleep now.”

  Joe motions to the sofa opposite. “I've been thinking.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I figure maybe I know why this means so much to you. When you told me what happened to Luke you didn't tell me the whole story.”

  I feel a lump forming in my throat. I couldn't talk if I wanted to.

  “You said he was riding the toboggan on his own. Your stepfather had gone to town, your mother was dyeing the bedsheets. You said you couldn't remember what you were doing but that's not true. You didn't forget. You were with Luke.”

  I can see the day. Snow lay thick on the ground. From the top of Hill Field you could see the entire farm, all the way to Telegraph Point on the river and the wind socks on the aerodrome.

  “You were looking after him.”

  He had biscuit on his breath. He sat between my knees, rugged up in one of my hand-me-down jackets. He was so small that my chin rested on his head. He wore an old flying cap, lined with wool that flapped from his ears and made him look like a Labrador puppy.

  Joe explains. “When we were in the pub, before we found Rachel's car, I started describing a dream to you. It was your dream. I said you fantasized about saving Luke; you imagined being there, riding the toboggan down the hill, driving your boots into the snow to stop him before he reached the pond. That's when I should have realized. It wasn't a dream—it was the truth.”

  The bumps threw the toboggan in the air and Luke squealed with laughter. “Faster, Yanko! Faster!” He hugged my knees, leaning back against my chest. The track leveled off toward the end where the mesh fence sagged between posts. We were traveling faster than normal because of the extra weight. I put my boots down to stop but we hit the fence too fast. One moment he was in my arms and the next I clutched at air.

  The ice broke beneath him. It split into diamonds and triangles; shapes without curves. I waded in, screaming for him. I went under and under. If I could just feel his hair, if I could just grab his collar, he'd be OK. I could save him. But it was too cold and the pond was too deep.

  My stepfather came. He used a spotlight powered by the tractor engine and laid planks across the pond to crawl out. He hammered on the ice with an ax and reached down with his hands, feeling for the bottom. I watched from the bedroom window, praying that somehow Luke would be all right. Nobody said anything. They didn't have to. It was my fault. I killed him.

  “You were twelve years old. It was an accident.”

  “I lost him.”

  Wiping wetness from my cheeks, I shake my head and curse him. What do other people know of guilt?

  Joe is standing, offering his hand. “Come on, let's go.”

  I don't look diminished in his eyes but it will never be the same between us. I wish he could have left Luke alone.

  On the drive to his office nothing is said. Rachel greets us at the door. She's been working all night.

  “I might have found something,” she explains as we climb the stairs. “I remember something Kirsten told me during Howard's trial. We were talking about giving evidence in court and she said that she once got called as a character witness for a friend who was facing charges.”

  “Do y
ou know what sort of charges?”

  “No. And she didn't mention a name.”

  I pick up the phone. I'm not owed any favors but maybe “New Boy” Dave will grant me one for Ali's sake.

  “Sorry to wake you.”

  I hear him groan.

  “I need your help. I want to cross-reference police and court records for Kirsten Fitzroy.”

  “It's been done.”

  “Yes, but you've been treating her as the subject. She might have been a witness.”

  He doesn't reply. I know he's debating whether to hang up on me. There is no reason to help and a dozen reasons to say no.

  “Can it wait till proper morning?”

  “No.”

  There's another long pause. “Meet me at Otto's at six.”

  Otto's is a café between a betting shop and a launderette at the western end of Elgin Avenue. The Sunday-morning clientele are mainly cabbies and delivery drivers, priming themselves with coffee and carbohydrates for the day ahead.

  I wait by the window. “New Boy” Dave is on time, dodging the dog shit and puddles, before ducking inside. His shirt is creased and hair uncombed.

  He orders a coffee and pulls a scrap of paper from his pocket, holding it out of reach. “First, you can answer some questions for me. Gerry Brandt had a fake passport and driver's license in the name of Peter Brannigan. For the last three years he's been running a bar in Thailand. The guy's a scrote—where did he get that sort of money?”

  “Drugs.”

  “That's what I figured, but the DEA and Interpol have nothing on him.”

  “He came back into the country three months ago. According to his uncle he was looking for investors. Ray Murphy's pub was also struggling.”

  “So that explains the ransom demand. It also got them killed. Ballistics has matched the bullet from Brandt with the one found in Ray Murphy's body. Same rifle.”

  Dave looks at his watch. “I got to get to the hospital. I want to be there when Ali wakes up.”