Lost jo-2

by Michael Robotham

  “No. He was punishing them for what happened to Mickey, not for anything you did.”

  Her voice drops. “I just wanted her back.”

  “I know.”

  I look at my watch. We're due in court. Rachel pauses for a moment, drawing strength, before leaving the room. The corridors and public areas have emptied slightly. The Rook is on the stairs. Eddie Barrett is three steps above him, putting them at eye level. The Rook looks invigorated while Eddie growls and gesticulates, almost eating the air.

  Rachel takes my arm to steady herself. “If Aleksei received an original ransom demand why didn't he say anything?”

  “I guess he didn't want the police involved.”

  “Yes, but afterward, when Mickey didn't come home, he could have said something then.”

  I don't know the answer. I suspect he didn't want to advertise his mistake. He is also conceited enough to believe he could find Mickey before the police. He must have known how close she came to making it home—less than eighty-five steps. How that must have torn him apart.

  Lord Connelly keeps everyone waiting. He enters the courtroom at ten minutes past ten and the room rises. Then he carefully places his walnut palm gavel to his right and his glass of water to his left.

  Howard emerges from below. He is clutching a Bible with red ribbons marking the pages. His eyes look bruised but defiant. Eddie Barrett shakes his hand and Howard gives him a weary smile.

  Fiona Hanley, QC, is already on her feet. “Perhaps I can expedite these proceedings a little, Your Honor. Due to information that has come to light over the weekend, the Crown does not oppose the defense application and are content for this case to be retried at the court's earliest convenience.”

  There is an audible gasp. Blood surges in the air and eyes shift to Howard. I don't think he understands. Even Eddie Barrett looks amazed.

  “My chambers,” Lord Connelly says. He exits stage right like a black-caped crusader.

  Four of us wait in the outer office. Eddie Barrett and the Rook are whispering in one corner. The Rook is actually smiling, an expression that doesn't come naturally to him. Meanwhile, Fiona Hanley avoids my gaze, wrapping her robe around herself.

  Lord Connelly's assistant, a large-breasted black woman, has a brilliant smile reserved only for His Honor. She has been with him fifteen years and we've all heard the rumors.

  “He'll see you now,” she says, pointing to the door.

  Eddie takes a step back and lets Miss Hanley go first, bowing slightly and showing his monklike dome.

  There are only three chairs in front of the Judge's desk. I stand with my back to the bookshelves that line the walls. Lord Connelly has removed his wig. His own hair is similarly white, trimmed neatly above his ears. His voice takes on a kind of exalted public-school inflection.

  “I spent four days writing up this judgment and now you spring this.” His gaze settles on Fiona.

  “I apologize, Your Honor, I only learned of this late yesterday.”

  “And whose bright idea was it?”

  “Further information has come to light—”

  “Which casts doubt on Mr. Wavell's guilt?”

  She hesitates. “It creates complications.”

  “I hope you're not telling me one thing and meaning something else.”

  Eddie is beside himself with glee. The Judge fixes him with a glare. “And you can keep your thoughts to yourself, Mr. Barrett. I have had a bellyful of you in my courtrooms and I won't put up with it in here.”

  Eddie's smile is erased.

  Getting to his feet, Lord Connelly walks behind his chair and braces his hand on the backrest. His eyes settle on me. “I understand that I shouldn't refer to your rank anymore, DI Ruiz, but perhaps you can enlighten me on what is happening here.”

  “The police have a new witness.”

  “A witness or a suspect?”

  “Both.”

  “In your evidence several days ago you expressed an opinion that Michaela Carlyle might be alive. Is that still the case?”

  “No, Your Honor.”

  Sadness flickers in his eyes. “And this new witness has led you to question what happened?”

  “She has confessed to the kidnapping of Michaela Carlyle and sending a subsequent ransom demand. She will testify that Mickey was released unharmed after three days.”

  “And then what?”

  “We believe she made it as far as Dolphin Mansions.”

  The Judge can see where I'm going now. He grinds his teeth as though trying to wear them down. “This is ridiculous!”

  Eddie interrupts. “We will be applying for bail, Your Honor.”

  “You keep your mouth shut.”

  I raise my voice above both of them. “Howard Wavell is a child killer. He should stay in prison.”

  “Bullshit,” mutters Eddie. “He's ugly and he's weird but last time I looked that still wasn't a crime. We can both be grateful for that.”

  “You can both be quiet,” says Lord Connelly, wanting to tear strips off someone. “Next person to utter a sound gets locked up for contempt.”

  He addresses me. “DI Ruiz, I hope you're going to explain to that poor girl's family what's happening.”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  He turns to the others. “I am going to grant the defense leave to appeal. I am also going to make sure they have plenty of opportunity to examine this new evidence. I want a level playing field. You can make your case for bail, Mr. Raynor, but I remind you that your client has been convicted of murder and the presumption of guilt must remain—”

  “Your Honor, my client is gravely ill and requires medical attention he is not receiving in prison. The humanitarian considerations outweigh . . .”

  Lord Connelly wags his finger. “Now is not the time or the place. Make your case in court.”

  The rest of the hearing passes in a blur of legal argument and ill temper. Leave to appeal is granted and Lord Connelly orders a retrial but refuses to release Howard from prison. Instead he orders that he be transferred to a civilian hospital under armed guard.

  There is pandemonium outside the courtroom. Reporters yell into phones and jostle to get close to Rachel, shouting questions and answers, as though wanting her to agree.

  Her arms are locked around my waist, her breasts against my back. It's like a rugby maul without the ball as we try to cross the gain line. Eddie Barrett, an unlikely savior, takes his briefcase and swings it from side to side like a scythe, clearing a path.

  “It might be time to consider an alternative exit,” he shouts, pointing to a door marked OFFICIALS ONLY.

  Eddie is an old hand at exiting courthouses through basements and back doors. He leads us down corridors, past offices and holding cells, getting deeper into the building. Eventually, we emerge into a cobblestoned courtyard where industrial trash containers await collection and wire netting is stretched above our heads to stop the pigeons from landing.

  The gates slide open electronically and an ambulance pulls through them. Howard is waiting on the stone steps, head in hands, staring sullenly at the tips of his scuffed shoes. Police officers and prison guards stand on either side of him.

  Eddie lights a cigarette in the hollow of his hand, inclining his head as he does so. The smoke floats past his eyes and scatters as he exhales. He offers me one and I feel an impulse toward comradeship; the solidarity of lost soldiers on a battlefield.

  “You know he did it.”

  “That's not what he says.”

  “But what do you think?”

  Eddie chuckles. “You want true confessions talk to Oprah.”

  Rachel is nearby, gazing toward Howard. The paramedics have opened the rear doors and are pulling out a stretcher.

  “Can I talk to him?” she asks.

  Eddie doesn't think it is appropriate.

  “I just want to ask how he is.”

  Eddie looks at me. I shrug my shoulders.

  She crosses the courtyard. The police officers step a
side and she stands beside the stretcher. I can't hear what they're saying. She reaches out and puts her hand on his shoulder.

  Eddie raises his face to the square of sky above. “What are you trying to do, Inspector?”

  “I'm trying to get to the truth.”

  He inclines his head, respectful but stubborn. “In my experience almost all truths are lies.” His features have softened and his face looks unexpectedly gentle. “You said Mickey was set free by her kidnappers. When was that?”

  “Wednesday night.”

  He nods.

  I remember that night. I watched Rachel being interviewed on News at Ten. That's why she wasn't there when Mickey arrived home. A detective was posted at her flat but Mickey didn't get a chance to press the buzzer. My mind puts everyone where they should have been. Mentally I lift off the roof of Dolphin Mansions and put people inside or take them out. It's like playing with dolls in a dollhouse. Mrs. Swingler, Kirsten, Ray Murphy . . . I put Mickey outside, walking up the steps.

  A piece is missing. Turning away from Eddie I walk across the courtyard toward Howard. The paramedics have strapped him to a gurney and are lifting him into the ambulance.

  “What did you do on Wednesday evenings, Howard?”

  He looks at me blankly.

  “Before you went to prison. What did you do?”

  He clears his throat. “Choir practice. I never missed a choir practice—not in seven years.”

  There is a pause for the information to sink in—barely a heartbeat, even less, the pause between heartbeats. I have been a fool. I have spent so much time concentrating on finding Kirsten that I didn't see the other possibilities.

  Moving away from them, I can see myself running into the street, whistling at cabs to stop. At the same time I yell into my cell phone, making no sense at all. I don't have all the facts. But I have enough. I know what happened.

  The traces of hair dye on Mickey's towel have bothered me all along. Gerry Brandt didn't dye her hair and why would Howard bother with a detail like that?

  “I don't pay for things twice,” Aleksei said. I know what that means now. He didn't organize Mickey's kidnapping but like Kirsten and Ray Murphy, he saw an opportunity. He wanted his daughter back—the only truly perfect thing he had ever created. So he paid the ransom in secret. No police and no publicity. And when Mickey arrived home that night it was Aleksei who intercepted her. He was waiting.

  Then he hatched his plan—one that hinged on convincing the world that Mickey was dead. At first he imagined he could blame the kidnappers. He would take some of Mickey's blood or make her vomit, plant the evidence and encourage everyone to think that she had died at the hands of her abductors. Unfortunately, he didn't know who they were. Then something serendipitous happened—a made-to-measure suspect, with a corrupt sexuality and no alibi. Howard Wavell. The opportunity was almost too perfect.

  And what of Mickey? He spirited her away—smuggling her out of the country, most likely on board his yacht. He changed her appearance and changed her name.

  I don't know what Aleksei thought would happen then. Maybe one day, after enough years had passed, he planned to bring Mickey back to Britain with a new identity or perhaps he always intended to join her overseas.

  The plan might have been flawless but for Gerry Brandt, a washed-up, drug-addled chancer, who thought he could steal apples from the same tree all over again. Having squandered the first ransom, he came back to Britain with a plan to do it all again. Mickey's body had never been found and he still had a few strands of her hair and her swimsuit. Kirsten knew immediately that Gerry was back in the country. She talked to Ray Murphy. Gerry's greed and stupidity threatened to expose them.

  Unbeknownst to them, he also threatened to destroy Aleksei's grand design. The world believed Mickey was dead. A second ransom demand called this into question. It must also have created a separate, more dangerous doubt in Aleksei's mind. Did these people know?

  The only way to safeguard his secret completely was to silence them. He would pay the ransom, follow the trail and have everyone killed. I gave him the perfect alibi; he was following me.

  These thoughts are coming almost too quickly to put in any order or chronology but like Sarah, Mickey's friend, on that first morning at Dolphin Mansions—“I know what I know.”

  “New Boy” Dave is on the other end of the phone.

  “Have you found Aleksei?”

  “His motor yacht arrived in Oostende in Belgium at eleven o'clock on Sunday morning.”

  “Who was on board?”

  “Still no word.”

  I can hear the rasp of my own breathing. “You have to listen to me! I know I've made a lot of mistakes but this time I'm right. You have to find Aleksei. You can't let him disappear.”

  I pause. He's still on the phone. The only thing we have in common now is Ali. Maybe that's enough. “You have to check the passenger manifests of every ferry and hovercraft and the Eurostar train services out of Waterloo. You can forget about the airlines. Aleksei doesn't fly. You'll need warrants for his house, office, cars, lockups, boatsheds . . . And you'll want his phone records and details of bank transactions going back three years.”

  Dave is starting to lose patience with me. He doesn't have the authority to do half of these things and Campbell and Meldrum won't listen to anything I say.

  Leaning back, I stare out of the window of the cab not actually seeing anything but I'm turning pages in my head full of notes, diagrams and figures; searching through the past for a clue.

  When I did my detective training a guy called Donald Kinsella took me under his wing. Donald had spent years working undercover and wore his hair long, tied back in a ponytail and he had a bushy mustache, which was a trademark for coppers in the seventies until the Village People made it a different sort of trademark.

  “Keep it simple,” was his motto. “Don't believe in conspiracy theories. Listen to them, work out the odds, and then file them in the same drawer as you put stuff you read in the Socialist Worker or on the Daily Telegraph editorial pages.”

  Donald believed the truth lay somewhere in the middle. He was a pragmatist. When Diana, Princess of Wales, died in Paris he rang me. He'd retired by then.

  “A year from now there will be a dozen books about this,” he said. “People will be blaming the CIA, MI5, the PLO, the Mafia, Osama bin Laden, another shooter on the grassy knoll—you name it. There will be secret witnesses, missing evidence, mystery vehicles, stolen reports, tire marks, poisonings and pregnancies . . . Let me tell you the one thing I can guarantee won't be in any of these books—the most likely answer. People want to believe conspiracies. They eat them up and say, ‘Please can I have some more?' They don't want to think that someone close to them or someone famous could die a mundane, ordinary, kitchen-sink sort of death.”

  What Donald was trying to say is that lives are complicated but most deaths aren't. People are complicated but not their crimes. Prosecutors and psychologists care about motives. I care about facts—the how, where, what and when, rather than the why. My favorite is “who,” the perpetrator—the face that fills my empty picture frame.

  Eddie Barrett is wrong. All truth isn't a lie. I'm not naïve enough to believe the opposite, but facts I can hold on to. Facts I can write up in a report. Facts are more reliable than memories.

  The cabdriver is staring at me in his mirror. I'm talking to myself.

  “The second sign of madness,” I explain.

  “What's the first one?”

  “Killing lots of people and eating their genitals.”

  He laughs and sneaks another look at me.

  38

  Three hours ago I learned that Mickey Carlyle might still be alive. Twenty-four hours ago Aleksei's boat arrived in Oostende. He has a head start but will only travel overland. He might already be there. Where?

  The Netherlands is a possibility. He and Rachel lived there and Mickey was born in Amsterdam. Eastern Europe is more likely. He has connections and ma
ybe even family.

  I glance around the Professor's office at the dozen people who are manning phones and staring at screens. They have all answered the call again—leaving work or taking time off. It almost feels like a proper incident room, full of energy and expectation.

  Roger is talking to the harbormaster at Oostende. There were six adults on board the motor yacht, including Aleksei, but no sign of a child. The launch is now moored at the Royal Yacht Club, the largest marina in Oostende, in the heart of the city. We have a list of names for the crew. Margaret and Jean are ringing the local hotels. Others are calling car rental companies, travel agents and ticket offices for rail and ferry services. Unfortunately, the possibilities appear endless. Aleksei could already have disappeared into Europe.

  Without a warrant or a court order, we can't access his bank accounts, post boxes or telephone records. There is no way of tracing regular overseas payments and I doubt if the money would lead us to Mickey. Aleksei is too clever for that. His fortune will be spread around the world in offshore tax havens like the Caymans, Bermuda and Gibraltar. Experts could spend the next twenty years trying to follow that paper trail.

  I look at my watch. Every minute puts him farther away.

  Grabbing my coat, I give Joe a nod. “Come on, let's go.”

  “Where to?”

  “We're going to look at a house.”

  Contrary to popular belief, the most powerful man in the cut-flower industry doesn't possess a green thumb or even a greenhouse. The gardens surrounding Aleksei's mansion are rather rustic and overgrown with cedar trees and an orchard.

  The electronic gates are open and we pull directly into the driveway, gravel snapping under the tires. The house looks closed up. Turrets of dark slate stand out solidly against the sky as though turning their backs on the city and choosing to gaze instead across Hampstead Heath.

  Stepping out of the car, I try to take in the building, swiveling my head upward through the floors.

  “OK, we're not doing anything illegal, are we?” asks Joe.

  “Not yet.”

  “I'm serious.”

  “So am I.”

  Walking slowly around the house, I marvel at the security. There are bars on the windows, security lights and sensor alarms attached to the exterior walls. A large converted stable block is garage to a dozen cars covered by cloth sheets.