Joe puts his hand on my shoulder and nearly gets flattened with a walking stick. Shouting to be heard, I tell him to go back outside, find the alarm bell and pull it off the wall.
“What with?”
“Use your imagination.”
He disappears and I search the kitchen and sitting room. A streetlight is shining outside and I can see Joe crossing the road with a tire iron. Hoisting himself onto a brick wall, he takes a swing at the alarm bell. Twice more he hits the box and suddenly the alarm falls silent. The change is so dramatic it feels like the air pressure has dropped.
Climbing the stairs, I step onto the next landing. For all my opposition to firearms, I wish I had one now. My gun is somewhere at the bottom of the river or fenced on the black market.
Reaching the first door I pause and listen. I can only hear my heartbeat. Then, in the stillness, I pick up another sound, someone breathing. Pressing my ear against the door, I wait, trying to hear the sound again.
Weighing my walking stick, I reach for the door handle and push it open. The darkness is more intense than the dimness behind me.
Here, too, I wait.
I hear metal shaking . . . springs. It's a tremble born of dependency rather than fear. Reaching forward, I flick the light switch. Ali is perched on her bed, her MP5 A2 carbine pointing directly at my chest.
We gaze into each other's eyes. She blinks at me slowly and lets out a long slow breath. “You were lucky I didn't shoot you.”
“I had it covered.”
Pulling open my shirt, I show her the bulletproof vest.
The Professor slumps in a chair, his hands gripping the armrests. The last few minutes have drained his reserves. Ali pours him a glass of water. He takes it with his right hand—the steady one.
“Where did you learn to drive like that?”
“At Silverstone,” he replies. “I won an advanced driving course at a school trivia night.”
“Michael Schumacher eat your heart out.”
Ali has barricaded the front door and is moving through the rooms, checking to see if anything is missing. Whoever broke in triggered the alarm and then fled.
“Did you see anyone?”
“No.”
“Where are the diamonds?”
Ali opens a drawer. “I put them where a girl puts anything personal—with her underwear.”
Four velvet pouches are tucked inside. She opens one of them and diamonds spill through her fingers onto the duvet. Sometimes when you see an excess of something rare and beautiful it begins to pale. Diamonds are different. They always take your breath away.
I can hear police sirens approaching. Ali goes downstairs to meet them. I don't expect there'll be fingerprints or physical evidence left behind but we'll go through the motions of making statements and dusting for prints. Joe still doesn't understand how the ransom ended up with Ali. I relate the whole story about the linen cupboard and the scraps of plastic on my kitchen floor.
I have to admire his sense of priorities. Instead of being frightened or angry, he sits on Ali's bed and studies the remnants of the packages, the bright orange plastic, white foam and electrical tape. The transmitter is the size of a matchbox with twin wires separated from a smaller battery unit.
“Why are they packed like this?”
“I think they were meant to float.”
“So you took the diamonds to the river.”
“I don't know. This type of transmitter sends out a signal every ten seconds and is picked up by a receiver. Unlike a satellite tracking device the transmitter has a limited range—about three miles in the city and six miles in the countryside.”
“How accurate is it?”
“Down to within fifty yards.”
If Rachel acted as the ransom courier and I went with her, I would have arranged for someone to follow us, tracking the signals. Aleksei had the most to gain. They were his diamonds and it was his daughter.
Joe weighs the transmitter in his hands. “But how did the ransom wind up in your cupboard? Something must have gone wrong.”
“Tell me about it! I got shot.”
“No, but think about it. You were in the hospital for two weeks. If Aleksei knew you had the diamonds, he could have taken them back at any time. Instead he waited.”
“Perhaps he wanted someone else to find them first—like Keebal.”
Almost immediately, I try to push the thought away. I'm not a believer in conspiracy theories and I have nothing against Keebal except the job he does—spying on his colleagues—but someone tipped him off about the diamonds. It must have been Aleksei. Are they working together or feeding off each other?
The Professor is still studying the packaging as if trying to re-create the dimensions.
“What do we do now?” asks Ali, returning upstairs.
“We take advantage of this.” I toss her the transmitter.
She grins. We're both singing from the same song sheet. “Are you thinking Intercity Express?”
“Nah, it's too fast.” I look at my watch. “The printing presses are just starting to run at Wapping. Some of those newspaper trucks drive all the way to Cornwall.”
Bon voyage!
13
Condensation drips steadily down the dormer window creating rainbow patterns on the windowsill. What day is it? Thursday. No, it's Friday. Lying in bed, I listen to the delivery trucks, pneumatic drills and workmen shouting to each other. This is London's dawn chorus.
Against my better judgment I let Ali bring me here last night—to her parents' house in Millwall. We couldn't stay at her flat—not after what happened.
Ali's parents were both asleep when we arrived and exhaustion drove me to bed soon afterward. Ali showed me the spare room and left a fresh towel and cake of soap on the end of the bed like at some fancy B & B.
This must be Ali's old room. The shelves and tops of bookcases are crammed with elephants of all description, ranging from tiny blown-glass figurines to a large furry mammoth guarding the wooden chest at the end of the bed.
There's a light knock on the door. “I brought you a cup of tea,” says Ali, pushing the door open with her hip. “I also have to change the dressing on your leg.”
She's wearing a dressing gown with a frayed cord and an elephant sewn into the pocket. Her bare feet are out-turned slightly, which splays her knees and puts me in mind of a penguin, which is strange considering she moves so gracefully.
“How did you sleep?”
“Great.”
She knows I'm lying. Sitting next to me, she sets out scissors, bandages and surgical tape. For the next fifteen minutes I watch her unwrapping and rewrapping my thigh.
“These stitches are nearly ready to come out.”
“Where did you learn first aid?”
“I have four brothers.”
“I thought most Indian lads were pretty peaceful.”
“They don't start the fights.”
She cuts off the last strip of tape and wraps it around my leg. “Does it hurt, today?”
“Not so much.”
She wants to ask about the morphine but changes her mind. As she leans forward to retrieve the scissors, her dressing gown falls open and I glimpse her breasts beneath a T-shirt. The nipples are dark, sharp peaks. Immediately, I feel guilty and look away.
“So what are you going to do with the diamonds?” she asks.
“Hide them somewhere safe.” I glance around the room. “You seem to like elephants.”
She smiles self-consciously. “They bring good luck. That's why their trunks are raised.”
“What about that one?” I point to the woolly mammoth, which has a lowered trunk.
“An ex-boyfriend gave that to me. He's also extinct.”
She picks up the scraps of bandages and straightens a lace doily on the bedside table. “I had a call this morning about Rachel Carlyle.” She pauses and my hopes soar. “She suffered some sort of nervous breakdown. A night watchman found her sitting in a stolen car on some
wasteland in Kilburn.”
“When was this?”
“On the morning you were pulled from the river. The police took her to the hospital—the Royal Free in Hampstead.”
Rather than joy I feel relief. Up until now I have tried not to think of who might have been on the boat. The longer Rachel remained missing, the harder this had become.
“Was she interviewed?”
“No. The police didn't talk to her at all.”
This is Campbell's doing. He won't investigate anything associated with Mickey Carlyle because he's frightened of where it might lead. It's not a cover-up if you don't lift the covers in the first place. Plausible deniability is a coward's defense.
“They searched Rachel's flat and found your messages on her answering machine. They also found a set of your clothes. They don't want you anywhere near her—not so close to Howard's appeal.”
“Where is Rachel now?”
“She checked out ten days ago.”
Someone close to Campbell must have told Ali these things, a detective who worked on the original investigation. It was probably “New Boy” Dave King, who has always fancied her. We call him “New Boy” because he was the newest member of the Serious Crime Group, but that was eight years ago.
“How is your boyfriend?”
She screws up her face. “That would be none of your business.”
“He's a good lad, Dave. Very fit looking. I think he must work out.”
She doesn't respond.
“He's not the sharpest quill on the porcupine but you could do a lot worse.”
“He's not really for me, Sir.”
“Why's that?”
“Well for one thing his legs are skinnier than mine. If he can fit into my pants he can't get into my pants.”
She keeps a completely straight face for about fifteen seconds. Poor Dave. She's far too sharp for him.
Downstairs in the kitchen I meet Ali's mother. She's barely five feet tall, dressed in a bright green sari that makes her look like a bauble on a Christmas tree.
“Good morning, Inspector, welcome to our home. I trust you slept well.” Her dark eyes seem to be smiling at me and her accent is incredibly proper as though I'm someone important. She doesn't even know me.
“Fine, thank you.”
“I have prepared you breakfast.”
“I normally eat breakfast closer to lunch.”
Her look of disappointment makes me regret the statement. She doesn't seem bothered. She is already clearing the table from the first sitting. Some of Ali's brothers still live at home. Two of them run a garage in Mile End, one is an accountant and the other is at university.
A toilet flushes at the rear of the house and Ali's father appears moments later dressed in a British Rail uniform. He has a salt-and-pepper beard and a bright blue turban. Shaking my hand, he bows his head slightly.
“You are welcome, Inspector.”
Ali appears, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt. Her father swallows his disappointment.
“We're all British now, Babba,” she says, kissing him on the forehead.
“Outside these walls, yes,” he replies. “In this house you are still my daughter. It's bad enough that you cut your hair.”
Ali is supposed to wear a sari when she visits her parents. I saw her once, looking self-consciously beautiful, wrapped in orange-and-green silk. She was on her way to a cousin's wedding. I felt strangely envious. Instead of being caught between two cultures she seemed to straddle them.
“Thank you for letting me stay like this,” I say, trying to change the subject.
Mr. Barba rocks his head from side to side. “That's quite all right, Inspector. My daughter has explained everything . . .”
Somehow I doubt that.
“You are very welcome. Sit. Eat. I must apologize for leaving.”
He takes a lunch box and thermos from the kitchen bench. Mrs. Barba walks him to the front door and kisses his cheek. Whistling steam billows from the kettle and Ali begins making a fresh pot of tea.
“You'll have to forgive my parents,” she says. “And I should warn you about the questions.”
“Questions?”
“My mother is very nosey.”
A voice answers from the hallway. “I heard that.”
“She also has ears like a bat,” whispers Ali.
“I heard that, too.” Mrs. Barba appears again. “I'm sure you don't talk to your mother like this, Inspector.”
I feel a stab of guilt. “She's in a retirement home.”
“And I'm sure it's very nice.”
Does that mean expensive?
Mrs. Barba puts her arms around Ali's waist. “My daughter thinks I spy on her just because I come to clean her house once a week.”
“I don't need you to clean.”
“Oh, yes! And if you are Queen and I am Queen, who is to fetch the water?”
Ali rolls her eyes. Mrs. Barba directs a question at me. “Do you have any children, Inspector?”
“Two.”
“You're divorced, aren't you?”
“Twice. I'm trying for third time lucky.”
“That is sad for you. Do you miss your wife?”
“Yes, but my aim is improving.”
The joke doesn't make her smile. She puts a fresh cup of tea in front of me. “Why didn't your marriage work out?”
Ali looks horrified. “You don't ask questions like that, Mama!”
“That's all right,” I say. “I don't really know the answer.”
“Why not? My daughter says you are very clever.”
“Not in matters of the heart.”
“It's not hard to love a wife.”
“I could love one, I just couldn't hold on to her.”
Without realizing how it happens, I'm telling her how my first wife, Laura, died of breast cancer at thirty-eight and my second wife, Jessie, left me when she realized that marriage wasn't just for the weekend. Now she's in Argentina filming a documentary about polo players and most likely shagging one of them. And my current wife, Miranda, packed her bags because I spent more time in the office than I did at home. It sounds like a soap opera.
Mrs. Barba picks up on the melancholy note in my voice when I talk about Laura, who should have been my childhood sweetheart because then I would have known her longer than fifteen years. We deserved more. She deserved more.
One thing leads to another and soon I'm telling her about the twins—how Claire is dancing in New York and every time I see her disfigured toes I feel like arresting everyone at the New York City Ballet; and the last I heard from Michael he was crewing on charter yachts in the Caribbean.
“You don't see much of them.”
“No.”
She shakes her head and I wait for a lecture on parental responsibility. Instead, she pours another cup of tea and begins talking about her children and her faith. She doesn't see any difference between races or genders or religions. Humanity is all the same except in some countries where life is held more lightly and hatred gets a hearing.
Ali apologizes again for her mother when we get outside.
“I thought she was very nice.”
“She drives me crazy.”
“Wanna swap?”
We have changed vehicles since yesterday. Ali has borrowed a car from one of her brothers. I know it is part of her training—never using the same vehicle or driving the same route two days in a row. People spend years learning this stuff. I wonder what happens to them afterward. Are they frightened of the world just like Mickey Carlyle?
Edging through the traffic, north along the Edgware Road, I feel a sense of expectation. The uncertainty could end today. Once I find Rachel she'll tell me what happened. I might not remember but I'll know.
We cross a railway bridge and turn right into an industrial area, full of car-repair shops, wrecker yards, spray painters and engineering workshops. Pigeons pick at the trash behind a café.
The road runs out and we pull up on a patch of
wasteland littered with rusting drums, broken chimney pots, fence posts and scaffolding. An abandoned freezer, pockmarked by stones, rises above the weeds.
“This is where they found Rachel. She was sitting in the passenger seat of a stolen car,” says Ali, studying an ordinance survey map on her lap. “The car was reported missing the previous evening from a multistory parking garage in Soho.”
The skies have cleared and the sun is shining strongly, reflecting off the puddles. Climbing out of the car, I walk toward the freezer, moving gingerly across the broken ground. The nearest factory or warehouse is fifty yards away. London is littered with sites like this one. People imagine high-density living with every spare foot being utilized, but there are thousands of empty warehouses, vacant blocks and patches of waste ground.
I don't know what I expected to find. Answers. Witnesses. Something familiar. Everybody leaves a trail. The ridiculous thing is, I can't look at a vacant lot without thinking what crops might grow there. I'm in the middle of a vast city and I'm thinking about barley and rapeseed.
“Why can't I remember any of this?”
“You might never have been here,” says Ali. “Rachel abandoned her car three miles from here.”
“I would have followed her.”
“How?”
“I don't know.”
Finding the smoothest path through the weeds and rubble, she moves ahead of me until we reach a wire fence. Beyond are railway tracks—the Bakerloo line. The ground trembles as a train rattles past.
Turning left at the fence, we come to a pedestrian footbridge over the tracks. The platforms of Kilburn Station are partially visible to the north. The dual tracks have weeds growing at the edges and rubbish has collected in the ditches.
It's a good location to drop a ransom. Quiet. The factories and warehouses would have been empty at night. There are major roads leading north and south. The railway line runs east-west. Ten minutes traveling in any direction would put someone miles away.
“I need you to get hold of the incident logs from the local police stations,” I tell Ali. “I want to know everything that happened that night within a two-mile radius—burglaries, assaults, parking tickets, broken streetlights, whatever you can find.”
“What are you looking for?”
“I'll tell you when I find it.”
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