“At first I thought she might just be hiding, you know. She used to like hiding under the stairs and playing in the boiler room. That's what I thought last week but well, now, I don't know. Maybe she went to sell cookies or something.”
“There's a possibility I hadn't considered.”
“I didn't mean to sound flippant,” he said clumsily. “That's how I first met her. She knocked on my door selling Girl Scout cookies—only she wasn't wearing a uniform and the cookies were homemade.”
“Did you buy any?”
“Nobody else was going to—they were burned to a crisp.”
“So why did you?”
He shrugged. “She showed a bit of initiative. I got nieces and nephews . . .” The statement tailed off.
“I thought you might have a sweet tooth. Sugar and spice and all things nice, eh?”
A wave of pale pink shaded his cheeks and his neck muscles tightened. He couldn't tell if I was inferring something.
Changing focus, I took him back to the beginning, asking him to explain his movements in the hours before and after Mickey disappeared. His blinds had been drawn that Monday morning. None of his workmates saw him mowing the covered reservoir at Primrose Hill. At one o'clock the police searched his flat. He didn't go back to work. Instead he spent the afternoon outside, taking photographs.
“You didn't go to work on Tuesday morning?”
“No. I wanted to do something to help. I printed up a photograph of Mickey to put on a flyer.”
“In your darkroom?”
“Yes.”
“What did you do after that?”
“I did some washing.”
“This is Tuesday morning, right? Everyone else is out searching and you're doing your laundry.”
He nodded uncertainly.
“There used to be a rug on the floor in your sitting room.” I showed him a photograph—one of his own. “Where is this rug now?”
“I threw it away.”
“Why?”
“It was dirty. I couldn't get it clean.”
“Why was it dirty?”
“I spilled some potting compost on it. I was making hanging baskets.”
“When did you throw it away?”
“I don't remember.”
“Was it after Mickey disappeared?”
“I think so. Maybe.”
“Where did you throw it?”
“In a Dumpster off the Edgware Road.”
“You couldn't find one closer?”
“Dumpsters get filled up.”
“But you work for the council. There must have been dozens of trash cans you could have used.”
“I . . . I didn't think . . .”
“You see how it looks, Howard. You cleaned up your flat, you took out the rug, the place smelled of bleach—it looks like you might be hiding something.”
“No, I just cleaned up a bit. I wanted the flat to look nice.”
“Nice?”
“Yeah.”
“Have you ever seen these before, Howard?” I held up a pair of girl's panties enclosed in a plastic evidence bag. “They were found in your laundry bag.”
His voice tightened. “They belong to one of my nieces. They stay with me all the time—my nieces and nephews . . .”
“Do they sleep over?”
“In my spare room.”
“Has Mickey Carlyle ever been in your spare room?”
“Yes. No. Maybe.”
“Do you know Mrs. Carlyle very well?”
“Only to say hello when I see her on the stairs.”
“She a good mother?”
“I guess.”
“A good-looking woman.”
“She's not really my type.”
“Why's that?”
“She's kind of abrupt, you know, not very friendly. Don't tell her I said that; I don't want to hurt her feelings.”
“And you prefer?”
“Um, you know, it's not a sexual thing. I don't know really. Hard to say.”
“You got a girlfriend, Howard?”
“Not just now.”
He made it sound like he had one for breakfast with his coffee.
“Tell me about Danielle.”
“I don't know any Danielle.”
“You have photographs of a girl called Danielle—on your computer. She's wearing bikini bottoms.”
He blinked once, twice, three times. “She's the daughter of a former girlfriend.”
“She's not wearing a top. How old is she?”
“Eleven.”
“There's another girl pictured with a towel over her head, lying on a bed. She's only wearing a pair of shorts. Who is she?”
He hesitated. “Mickey and Sarah were playing a game. They were putting on a play. It was just a bit of fun.”
“Yeah, that's what I figured.” I smiled reassuringly.
Howard's hair was plastered to his head and every so often a drop of perspiration leaked into his eyes, making him blink. Opening a large yellow envelope, I pulled out a bundle of photographs and started laying them out side by side, row after row. They were all shots of Mickey—two hundred and seventy of them—pictures of her sunbathing in the garden with Sarah, others of them playing under a sprinkler, eating ice-cream cones and wrestling on his couch.
“They're just photographs,” he said defensively. “She was very photogenic.”
“You said ‘was,' Howard. Like you don't think she's still alive.”
“I didn't mean . . . you're . . . you're trying to make out I'm . . . I'm . . . a . . .”
“You take pictures, Howard, it's obvious. Some of these are very good. You're also in the church choir and you're an altar boy.”
“An altar server.”
“And you teach Sunday school.”
“I help out.”
“By taking kids away on day trips—to the beach or to the zoo?”
“Yes.”
I made him look closely at a photograph. “She doesn't look very comfortable posing in a bikini, does she?” I put another photograph in front of him . . . then another.
“It was just a bit of fun.”
“Where did she get changed?”
“In the spare room.”
“Did you take photographs of her getting changed?”
“No.”
“Did Mickey ever stay overnight with you?”
“No.”
“Did you ever leave her alone in your flat?”
“No.”
“And you wouldn't take her outside without permission.”
“No.”
“You didn't take her to the zoo or for any day trips?”
He shook his head.
“That's good. I mean, it would have been negligent, wouldn't it, to leave such a young child alone or to let her play with photographic chemicals or with sharp implements?”
He nodded.
“And if she cut herself you might have to explain this to her mother. I'm sure Mrs. Carlyle would understand. Accidents happen. Then again, you wouldn't want her getting angry and stopping Mickey from seeing you. So maybe you wouldn't tell her. Maybe you'd keep it a secret.”
“No, I'd tell her.”
“Of course you would. If Mickey cut herself, you'd have to tell her mother.”
“Yes.”
I picked up a blue folder and slid a sheet into view, running my finger down several paragraphs and then tapping it thoughtfully with my index finger.
“That's very good, Howard, but I'm puzzled. You see we found traces of Mickey's blood on your sitting-room floor as well as in the bathroom and on one of your towels.”
Howard's jaw flapped up and down and his voice grew strident. “You think I did something—but I didn't.”
“So tell me about the blood.”
“She cut her finger. She and Sarah were making a tin-can phone but one of the cans had a sharp edge. I should have checked it first. It wasn't a deep cut. I put a Band-Aid on it. She was very brave. She didn't cry . . .”
“And did you tell her mother?”
He looked down at his hands. “I told Mickey not to. I was scared Mrs. Carlyle might stop her coming over if she thought I was negligent.”
“There was too much blood for a cut finger. You tried to clean it all up but the rug was too stained. That's why you threw it away.”
“No, not blood. Soil from the hanging baskets—I spilled some.”
“Soil?”
He nodded enthusiastically.
“You said you never took Mickey on an excursion. We found fibers from her clothes in your van.”
“No. No.”
I let the silence stretch out. Howard's eyes were filled with a mixture of fear and regret. Suddenly, he surprised me by speaking first. “You remember Mrs. Castle . . . from school? She used to take us for ballroom dancing lessons.”
I remembered her. She looked like Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music (after she left the convent) and featured in every fifth-form boy's wet dreams except perhaps for Nigel Bryant and Richard Coyle who batted for the other side.
“What about her?”
“I once saw her in the shower.”
“Getaway!”
“No, it's true. She was using the dean's shower and old Archie” (the sports master) “sent me to pick up a starter pistol from the staff quarters. She came out of the shower drying her hair and didn't see me until it was too late. She let me look. She stood there and let me watch her drying her breasts and pulling on her tights. Afterward she made me promise not to tell anyone. I would have been the most famous kid at school. All I had to do was tell that story. I could have saved myself a dozen beatings and all those taunts and jibes. I could have been a legend.”
“So why didn't you?”
He looked at me sadly. “I was in love with her. And it didn't matter that she wasn't in love with me. I loved her. It was my love story. I don't expect you to understand that but it's true. You don't have to be loved back. You can love anyway.”
“What does this have to do with Mickey?”
“I loved Mickey, too. I would never have hurt her . . . not on purpose.”
His pale green eyes were filled with tears. When he couldn't blink them away he wiped them with his hands. I felt sorry for him. I always did.
“It's important that you listen to me right now, Howard. I'll let you talk later.” I pulled my chair closer so that we were sitting knee to knee. “You're a middle-aged guy, never married, living alone, spending all his spare time with children, taking pictures of them, giving them ice-cream cones, taking them on outings . . .”
His cheeks darkened but his lips stayed white and narrow. “I have nieces and nephews. I take pictures of them, too. There's nothing wrong with that.”
“And you collect kiddie clothing catalogs and magazines?”
“It's not against the law. They're not pornographic. I want to be a photographer, a children's photographer . . .”
Getting to my feet I moved behind him. “Here's the thing I can't understand, Howard. What do you see in little girls? No hips, no breasts, no experience. They're straight up and down. I can understand the sugar and spice and all things nice stuff—girls smell nicer than boys, but Mickey had no curves. The adolescent good fairy hadn't sprinkled that magic dust in her eyes that made her eyelids flutter and her body develop. What do you see in little girls?”
“They're innocent.”
“And you want to take that away from them?”
“No. Never.”
“You want to hold them . . . to touch them.”
“Not like that. Not in a dirty way.”
“Mickey must have laughed at you. The creepy old guy across the hall.”
Louder this time: “I never touched her!”
“Do you remember To Kill a Mockingbird?”
He paused, looking at me curiously.
“Boo Radley was the scary guy who lived in the basement across the road. All the kids were frightened of him. They threw stones on his roof and dared each other to go into his yard. But in the end it's Boo Radley who saves Scout and Jem from the real villain. He becomes the hero. Is that what you were waiting for, Howard—to rescue Mickey?”
“You don't know me. You don't know anything about me.”
“Oh, yes I do. I know exactly what you are. There's a name for people like you: grooming pedophiles. You pick out your victims. You isolate them. You befriend their parents. You slowly work your way into their lives until they trust you—”
“No.”
“What did you do with Mickey?”
“Nothing. I didn't touch her.”
“But you wanted to.”
“I just took pictures. I would never hurt her.”
He was about to say something else but I raised my hand and stopped him.
“I know you're not the sort of guy who would have planned to hurt her. You're not like that. But sometimes accidents happen. They aren't planned. They get out of hand . . . you saw her that day.”
“No. I didn't touch her.”
“We found her fingerprints and fibers from her clothes.”
He kept shaking his head.
“They were in your van, Howard. They were in your bedroom.”
Reaching over his shoulder, I jabbed my finger at each of the different girls in his photographs.
“We're going to find your ‘models,' Howard, this one and this one and this one. And we're going to ask these girls what you did to them. We're going to find out if you touched them and if you took any other sorts of photographs.”
My voice had grown low and harsh. I leaned against him, shoulder to shoulder, forcing him sideways off his chair. “I'm not leaving you alone, Howard. We're in this together—like Siamese twins, joined at the hip, but not up here.” I tapped my head. “Help me understand.”
He turned slowly toward me, searching my eyes for sympathy. Then suddenly, he toppled backward, scurrying to the corner of the room where he crouched, covering his head with his arms.
“DON'T HIT ME! DON'T HIT ME!” he screamed. “I'll tell you what you want—”
“What are you doing?” I hissed.
“NOT MY FACE, DON'T HURT MY FACE.”
“Stand up! Cut this out!”
“PLEASE . . . NOT AGAIN . . . AAAARGH!”
I opened the door and called for two uniforms. They were already coming down the corridor.
“Pick him up. Make him sit in his chair.”
Howard went limp. It was like trying to pick up spilled jelly. Each time they tried to lift him onto a chair he slid to the floor, quivering and moaning. The uniforms looked at each other and back to me. I knew what they were thinking.
Finally we left him there, lying beneath the table. I turned back in the doorway. I wanted to say something. I wanted to tell him that it was just the beginning.
“You can't bully me,” he said softly. “I'm an expert. I've been bullied all my life.”
Sitting in the same interview room, three years on, it's still not over. My cell phone is ringing.
The Professor sounds relieved. “Are you OK?”
“Yeah, but I need you to come and get me. They want to send me back to the hospital.”
“Maybe it's a good idea.”
“Are you going to help me or not?”
Shifts are changing at the station. The evening crews are coming on watch. Campbell is somewhere upstairs, shuffling paper or whatever else justifies his salary. Slipping along the corridor past the charge room, I reach a door to the rear parking lot. A blast of cold wind ushers me outside.
Gears on the electric gate grind into motion. Hiding in the shadows, I watch an ambulance pull through the opening. It's coming to pick me up. The gates are shutting again. At the last possible moment I step through the closing gap. Turning right, I follow the pavement and turn right twice more until I'm back on the Harrow Road. Slow lines of traffic puncture the darkness.
There's a pub called the Greyhound on the Harrow Road—a smoky, nicotine-stained pla
ce with a jukebox and a resident drunk in the corner. I take a table and a morphine capsule. By the time the Professor arrives I'm floating on a chemical cloud. The Greeks had a god called Morpheus—the god of dreams. Who said studying the classics was a waste of time?
Joe pokes his head through the door and looks around nervously. Maybe he's forgotten how authentic pubs used to look before the Continental café culture turned them into white-tiled waiting rooms serving overpriced cooking lager.
“Have you taken something?”
“My leg was hurting.”
“How much are you taking?”
“Not enough.”
He waits for a better explanation.
“I started on about two hundred milligrams but lately I've been popping them like Tic Tacs. The pain won't go away. I function better if I don't have to think about the pain.”
“The pain?” He doesn't believe me. “You're a mess! You're jumpy and anxious. You're not eating or sleeping.”
“I'm fine.”
“You need help.”
“No! I need to find Rachel Carlyle.”
The statement is harsh and abrupt. Joe swallows some uneasy thoughts and drops the subject. Instead, I tell him about visiting Howard and arresting Aleksei Kuznet. He looks at me in disbelief.
“He wouldn't tell me about the ransom.”
“What ransom?”
Joe doesn't know about the diamonds and I'm not going to tell him. It won't add to his understanding and I've already put Ali in danger. Nothing has become any clearer in the past few hours but at least I have a goal—to find Rachel.
“How did Aleksei find you?”
“I don't know. He didn't follow me from the hospital and nobody knew I was going to Wormwood Scrubs. Maybe someone called him from the prison.”
I close my eyes and replay events. I'm totally flying but can still think straight. Snatches of conversation drift back to me.
“God is going to set me free.” That's what Howard said.
If Howard sent the ransom demand why did he wait so long? He could have set up a hoax during his trial or at any stage since then. He would have needed help from the outside. Who?
The Home Office keeps a record of all visitors to Her Majesty's prisons. Howard's eldest sister visits him every few months, traveling down from Warrington and staying overnight at a local B & B. Apart from her there's only been Rachel.
In the first few months after his conviction he received bundles of fan mail. Many of the letters were from women who fell in love with his lonely countenance and his crime. One of them, Bettina Gallagher, a legal secretary from Cardiff, is a notorious pinup among the lifers. She sends pornographic photographs of herself and has twice been engaged to death row inmates in Alabama and Oklahoma.
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