Lost

by Michael Robotham

  “Neither of which prove she's alive.”

  “No. But Ray Murphy is dead and Kirsten is in danger. Aleksei Kuznet was never going to let anyone steal two million pounds from him. He organized an execution. Now he's looking for Kirsten and Gerry Brandt—to finish the job.”

  I make a decision not to mention Sir Douglas Carlyle. Campbell is already on the edge. My only chance of persuading him to investigate is to let him believe the ransom was a hoax. I still can't prove otherwise.

  “What does Gerry Brandt have to do with this?”

  “He was on the Charmaine. I saw him go over the side.”

  I wait. I don't know if I've done enough.

  Campbell has assumed a perfect proprietary air. “Let me get this straight. So far you have mentioned a kidnapping, a revenge killing, a shooting and a ransom demand. I'll add a few to the list: dereliction of duty, crippling a fellow police officer, withholding information and disobeying orders . . .”

  A sense of alarm spreads through me. He doesn't understand. He can't see past Howard Wavell.

  “We have to find Kirsten before Aleksei does. If she survived she would have needed medical help. We have to search local hospitals and ask doctors to go back through their files. We have to check her bank, telephone and travel records. We need to know her last known movements, possible associations and favorite haunts.”

  Campbell's look is piercing. “You're using the word ‘we' a lot. For some reason you seem to be under the misapprehension that you're still a serving member of the Metropolitan Police.”

  I'm so angry my vision blurs.

  Joe tries to calm things down. “It seems to me, gentlemen, that we're all seeking the truth. DI Meldrum here is investigating the shootings on the river. DI Ruiz is a witness. He's offering to make a statement. He won't interfere with the investigation.”

  Meldrum nods. Satisfied.

  Campbell points his finger at me. “I want you to know one thing, Ruiz. I know the truth.”

  “Sure you do,” I say.

  Campbell gives me a triumphant smile. “You're right about Aleksei Kuznet. He's not the sort of man who lets someone take two million pounds from him. He claims you stole his diamonds and he's made an official complaint. We're drawing up a warrant for your arrest. If I were you—I'd get myself a lawyer.”

  Rage quickens my footsteps. Joe struggles to keep up with me as I stride down the corridor and punch through the swinging glass doors.

  On the pavement a voice hits me like a cold wind. “Did you shoot him?”

  Tony Murphy is asking the question with his entire body. “I had to go to the morgue to identify him. You ever seen a body like that . . . in pieces. And white like a candle melted into a puddle. The police say someone shot him. They got a witness. Is it you?”

  “Yes.”

  He chews the inside of his cheek. “Did you shoot him?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know who did?”

  “I don't know who pulled the trigger but I saw him go down. I couldn't help him.”

  He swallows a lump in his throat. “So I'm looking after Mum and Stevie now. The pub is all we got left.”

  “I'm sorry.”

  He wants to do something more but can only stand there, imprisoned by his own misery.

  “Go home, Tony. I'll sort this out.”

  29

  Joe is waiting for me to say something. His dark brown eyes are staring at me with a vague sadness and the certainty that he can't help me. Meanwhile, I keep considering what should have happened. Campbell should have set up a task force. There should be two dozen detectives looking for Kirsten and Gerry Brandt. We should have Aleksei under surveillance and be searching his boat.

  For one cool precise hour I want to know what to do. I want every decision to be the right one.

  We're driving along Euston Road, past Regent's Park.

  “So what are you going to do?” he asks.

  “Find them.”

  “You can't do it alone.”

  “I have no choice.”

  Joe looks like a man with a plan. “What if we got some volunteers? We could call friends and family. How many people do you need?”

  “I don't know. We need to contact the hospitals and doctors' surgeries and clinics. One of them must have treated Kirsten.”

  “We can use my office,” says Joe. “It's not very big but there's the waiting room and the storeroom and a kitchen. There are six phone lines and a fax. We could get some more handsets. I'll get my secretary, Philippa, to start calling people.”

  We pull up outside his office. “What are you going to do?”

  There's a small invisible shock in the air. A decision is made.

  “One way or another I'm going to see Rachel Carlyle.”

  There will be no tennis today. Puddles cover the court and fat drops hang on the net like glass beads. It must be autumn—the rain is colder.

  Parked in front of the Carlyle house, I watch the driveway and listen to the radio. Ray Murphy's name has been released but there's no mention of Kirsten during the news bulletin. Campbell won't allow it.

  Glancing up at the house, I watch a dark Mercedes glide through the front gates and pause before turning left. Sir Douglas and Tottie are going out.

  I give them a few minutes and then approach the house. Soggy mounds of leaves have gathered along the drive, trapped by the hedges. Some have clogged the fountain and the water spills over the side, flooding the footings.

  Avoiding the front door, I skirt the building and use a set of stone steps at the right-hand side of the house. I knock four times before it opens. Thomas stands there.

  “I need to speak to Rachel.”

  “Miss Rachel isn't here, Sir.”

  He's lying.

  “You don't have to protect her. I don't want to cause any trouble. If she doesn't want to speak to me I'll leave.”

  He looks past me into the garden. “I don't think Sir Douglas would approve.”

  “Just ask her.”

  He contemplates this and agrees, leaving me waiting on the steps. A fire is smoldering somewhere, turning the air the color of dirty water.

  Thomas appears again. “Miss Carlyle will see you in the kitchen.”

  He leads the way. We pass along hallways lined with paintings of foxhounds, horses and pheasants. The frames are so dark they blend into the walls and the animals appear to be suspended, set in aspic. Above the stairs there are English landscapes of lakes and rivers.

  At first I don't realize that Rachel is already in the kitchen. She stands with the stillness of a photograph, tall and dark, with her hair drawn back.

  “Your father said I couldn't see you,” I say.

  “He didn't ask me.”

  She is wearing jeans and a raw-silk shirt. Her wedge-shaped face is softened by the cut of her hair, which is shorter than I remember, loosely brushing her shoulders.

  “I hear you couldn't remember what happened that night.”

  “Yes, for a while.”

  She bites her bottom lip and weighs whether to believe me. “You didn't forget about me.”

  “No. I didn't know what happened to you. I only discovered a few days ago.”

  Urgency fills her eyes. “Did you see Mickey? Was she there?”

  “No, I'm sorry.”

  She purses her lips and turns her face away. “Losing your memory, forgetting everything, must be nice. All the terrible things in your life, the guilt, the regret, gone, washed away. Sometimes I wish . . .” She doesn't finish. Leaning over the sink, she fills a glass of water from the tap and empties it into a row of African violets on the windowsill. “You never asked me why I married Aleksei.”

  “It's none of my business.”

  “I met my ex-husband at a fund-raising dinner for Bosnian orphans. He wrote a very large check. He wrote a lot of very large checks in those days. Whenever I took him to lectures and documentaries about deforestation or animal cruelty or the plight of the homeless—he pulled
out his checkbook.”

  “He was buying your affection.”

  “I thought he believed in the same things.”

  “Your parents didn't like him?”

  “They were horrified. Aleksei had no equal—anybody would have been better than a Russian émigré with a murdering father.”

  “Did you love him?”

  She ponders this. “Yes. I think so.”

  “What happened?”

  She shrugs. “We got married. For the first three years we lived in Holland. Mickey was born in Amsterdam: Aleksei was building up the business.”

  Rachel's voice is low and introspective. “In spite of what my father says, I'm not a foolish person. I knew something was going on. Mostly it was just rumors and nervous glances in restaurants. I used to ask Aleksei but he told me people were jealous of him. I knew he was involved in something illegal. I kept asking questions and he grew irritated. He told me that a wife should not question her husband. She must obey.

  “Then one day the wife of a Dutch flower grower visited me at home. I don't know how she found my address. She showed me a photograph of her husband. His face was so scarred by acid that his skin looked like melted wax.

  “‘Tell me why a woman would stay with a man who looks like this?' she asked me. I shook my head. Then she said, ‘Because it cannot be as bad as staying with the man who would do such a thing.'

  “From then on I began to discover things. I eavesdropped on conversations, read e-mails and kept copies of letters. I learned things—”

  “Enough to get you killed.”

  “Enough to keep me safe,” she corrects. “I learned how Aleksei does business. It is simple and brutal. First he offers to buy a business. If a price cannot be agreed he burns it down. If they set up again he burns their houses down. And if the message still fails to be heard, he burns down the houses of their relatives and the schools of their children.”

  “What did Aleksei do when you left him?”

  “First he begged me to come back. Then he tried to bribe me with grand gestures. Finally he tried to bully me.”

  “You didn't go back to your family.”

  Pushing hair behind her ears with both hands, she shakes her head. “I've been running away from them my whole life.”

  We sit in silence. The warm air rising from the stove lifts loose strands of her hair, suspending them in midair.

  “When did you last see Kirsten Fitzroy?”

  “About two months ago; she said she was going abroad.”

  “Did she say where?”

  “America or South America; she had some brochures. It might have been Argentina. She was going to send me postcards but I didn't receive a thing. What's happened? Is she in trouble?”

  “You met at Dolphin Mansions.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did Kirsten ever meet your father?”

  “No, I don't think so.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Please tell me what she's supposed to have done.”

  “Your father paid her rent at Dolphin Mansions. Later he helped her buy her flat in Notting Hill.”

  Rachel doesn't react. I can't tell if she's shocked or if she suspected it all along.

  “She was keeping watch on you. Sir Douglas wanted custody of Mickey. He had his lawyers preparing an application. They were going to argue you were unfit to care for a child because of your drinking. The application was withdrawn after you joined AA.”

  “I can't believe any of this,” she whispers.

  There's more. I don't know how much to tell her.

  “On the night of the ransom drop, I followed the diamonds through the sewers. I washed up in the Thames. Kirsten saved my life.”

  “What was she doing there?”

  “She and Ray Murphy were waiting for the diamonds. They organized the whole thing—the ransom demand, the locks of hair, the bikini. Kirsten knew everything about you and Mickey. She counted the money in Mickey's money box. She knew exactly what buttons to press.”

  Rachel shakes her head. “But the bikini . . . it belonged to Mickey.”

  “And they took it from her.”

  Suddenly, she realizes what I'm saying. The sense of alarm spreads through her before the instant of comprehension.

  At that moment a door swings open somewhere in the house and the air pressure changes. Sir Douglas comes storming through the main hall, yelling at Thomas to call the police. The butler must have phoned him the moment I arrived.

  I lose sight of him for a few seconds and then he appears in the doorway of the kitchen carrying a shotgun. His face is like a warning light.

  “You stay here! Don't go anywhere. You're under arrest.”

  “Calm down.”

  “You're trespassing on my property.”

  “Put the gun down, Daddy.”

  He waves the gun at me. “Stay away from him.”

  “Please put that down.”

  Rachel is watching him with a you-must-be-crazy look. She takes a step toward him, distracting him for a moment. He doesn't see me close the final two paces. I seize the gun, twisting it out of his hands and drop him with a punch just below his ribs. I look at Rachel apologetically. I didn't want to hit him.

  Sir Douglas takes a long staggering breath. He tries to talk, telling me to get out. I'm already leaving after emptying the cartridges and tossing the gun toward Thomas. Rachel follows, pleading with me to explain. “Why would they do that? Why would they take Mickey?”

  Turning back, I blink at her sadly. “I don't know. Ask your father.”

  I don't want to give her false hopes. I'm not even sure if I'm talking sense. I've been wrong so often lately.

  Out of the front door and down the steps, I crunch along the gravel drive. Rachel watches from the steps.

  “What about Mickey?” she yells.

  “I don't think Howard killed her.”

  At first she doesn't react. Maybe she's given up hope or she's shackled to the past. This is only for a moment and then she's running toward me. I have given her a choice between hating, forgiving and believing. She wants to believe.

  30

  “Where are we going?” asks Rachel.

  “You'll see. It's right up here.”

  We pull up outside a cottage in Hampstead; there is an arbor over the front gate and neatly pruned rosebushes along the path. Making a dash through the light rain, we squeeze beneath the overhang until the doorbell is answered.

  Esmerelda Bird, a matronly woman in a skirt and cardigan, leaves us waiting in the sitting room while she gets her husband. We perch on the edge of sofas looking at a room full of crocheted cushion covers, lace doilies and photographs of overweight grandchildren. This is how sitting rooms used to look before people started buying up warehouses full of lacquered pine from Scandinavia.

  I met the Birds three years ago, during the original investigation. Retired pensioners, they're the sort of couple who clip their vowels when addressing a police officer and have special voices for the telephone.

  Mrs. Bird returns. She's done something to her hair, tied it back or perhaps just brushed it a different way. And she's changed into a different cardigan and put on her pearl earrings.

  “I'm just making a pot of tea.”

  “That really won't be necessary.”

  She doesn't hear me. “I have a cake.”

  Brian Bird hobbles into view, a slow-motion cadaver who has a completely bald head and a face as wrinkled as crushed cellophane. He rocks forward on a walking stick and takes what seems like an hour to lower himself into a chair.

  Nothing is said as the tea is brewed, poured, strained and sweetened. Slices of cake are offered around.

  “Do you remember when I last came to see you?”

  “Yes. It was about that missing girl—the one we saw on the station platform.”

  Rachel looks from Mrs. Bird's face to mine and back again.

  “That's right. You thought you saw Michaela Carlyle. This is her mother, Rac
hel.”

  The couple give her sad smiles.

  “I want you to tell Mrs. Carlyle what you saw that night.”

  “Yes, of course,” says Mrs. Bird, “but I think we must have been mistaken. That dreadful man went to prison. I can't think of his name.” She looks to her husband who stares at her blankly.

  Rachel finds her voice. “Please tell me what you saw.”

  “On the platform, yes . . . let me see. It was . . . a Wednesday evening. We'd been to see Les Miserables at the Queens Theatre. I've been to see Les Miz more than thirty times. Brian missed out on some shows because of his heart bypass operation. Isn't that right, Brian?”

  Brian nods.

  “What makes you think it was Mickey?” I ask.

  “Her picture had been in all the papers. We were just going down the escalator. She was loitering at the bottom.”

  “Loitering?”

  “Yes. She seemed a little lost.”

  “What was she wearing?”

  “Well, let me think. It's so long ago now, dear. What did I tell you then?”

  “Trousers and a jacket,” I prompt.

  “Oh, yes, although Brian thought she was wearing a pair of those tracksuit bottoms that zipped up over her shoes. And she definitely had a hood.”

  “And this hood was up?”

  “Up.”

  “So you didn't see her hair—if it was long or short?”

  “I couldn't tell.”

  “What about the color?”

  “Light brown.”

  “How close did you get to her?”

  “Brian couldn't move very quickly on account of his legs. I was ahead of him. We were maybe ten feet away. I didn't recognize her at first. I said to her, ‘Can I help you, dear? Are you lost?' But she just ran off.”

  “Where?”

  “Along the platform.” Her hand points the way, past Rachel's shoulder, and she nods resolutely. Then she leans forward with her teacup, using her other hand to find the saucer and bring both together.

  “I think I talked to you back then about your glasses, do you remember?”