Lost jo-2

by Michael Robotham

  The Royal Free Hospital in Hampstead is less than half a mile from where Rachel's car was abandoned and three miles from where she was found. Ali waits outside while I go through the main doors.

  The receptionist is in her fifties with reddish-brown hair pinned tightly to her skull. She might be a nurse but it's hard to tell without a uniform.

  “I'm Detective Inspector Ruiz. I need some information about a woman who was treated here two weeks ago.” I notice her name tag and add, “Thank you very much, Joanne.”

  She straightens and touches her hair.

  “Her name is Rachel Carlyle. She was brought in by the police.”

  Joanne is leaning on her elbows, looking at me.

  “Perhaps you should check on the computer,” I suggest.

  Blushing slightly, she turns to the keyboard. “I'm afraid Miss Carlyle is no longer a patient.”

  “Why was she admitted?”

  “I'm afraid I can't give you that sort of information.”

  “What day did she check out?”

  “Let me see . . . September 29.”

  “Do you know where she went?”

  “Well, there is an address . . . I'm not sure . . .”

  I know what she's going to say. She's going to ask for some official identification or a letter of authority. I no longer have a badge.

  Then I notice her staring at my hands, in particular my Gypsy ring. It's fourteen-karat yellow gold, mounted with a champagne colored diamond. According to Daj it belonged to my grandfather, although I don't know how she knows this or how she managed to recover it from Auschwitz.

  People are superstitious about Gypsies. My mother used to play on it. At school fetes and local fairs she would set down her cloth-covered table and shuffle the tarot cards, telling fortunes at a few quid a time. Private readings were conducted in the cottage parlor, with the curtains drawn and incense stinking the air.

  “The dead come back through children,” Daj would say. “They steal their souls.”

  None of this crap about Gypsy curses and fortune-telling impressed me but sometimes when I interview a suspect, I notice them grow suddenly anxious when they see my ring. They look just like Joanne does now.

  Her eyes move to my left hand—the one missing a finger.

  “A bullet did that,” I say, holding it up for her. “Sometimes I think the finger is still there. It itches. You were going to give me the address.”

  She shudders slightly. “I think her father might have signed her out. Sir Douglas Carlyle.”

  “Don't bother about the address. I know where he lives.”

  Sir Douglas Carlyle is a retired banker and a descendant of Robert the Bruce, King of Scotland. I interviewed him during the original investigation and he didn't seem to like me very much. Then again, he didn't have much time for Rachel either. The two of them hadn't spoken in eleven years—ever since she dropped out of university, embraced the politics of the left, and disowned him for being rich and titled.

  Rachel did everything she could to provoke him, working part-time for homeless shelters, housing cooperatives and environmental groups, saving the world one tree at a time. However, the real sword in her father's side was marrying Aleksei Kuznet, a foreigner and a flower seller.

  The thing that struck me about Sir Douglas was his equanimity and patience. He remained convinced that one day Rachel would come back to him. Now it seems he may have been right.

  Parking out front of the large house in Henley, I self-consciously check my appearance in the side mirror. Titled people make me feel uncomfortable. I could never be a class warrior. A large white fountain dominates the garden, surrounded by paths that radiate between flower beds and angular patches of lawn.

  I can hear laughter coming from outside and the gentle thwack of ball on racquet. There are wild cries of exultation and breathless moans of despair. Either someone is playing tennis or it's the soundtrack to a sixties blue movie.

  The tennis court at the side of the house is hidden behind fences draped with ivy. We follow a path and emerge at a pagoda beside the courts, where trays of cold drinks have been set out on the table. Two couples are on court. The men are my age, sporting expensive suntans and muscled forearms. The women are younger and prettier, wearing miniskirts and midriff tops that show off their flat stomachs.

  Sir Douglas is about to serve. With his aggressive countenance and eagle nose, he makes a social game look serious.

  “Can I help you?” he asks, irritated by the interruption. Then he recognizes me.

  “I am sorry to trouble you, Sir Douglas, I am looking for Rachel.”

  Angrily, he slams the ball into the side fence. “I really can't be dealing with this now.”

  “It's important.”

  He troops off the court with his playing partner, who brushes past me as she reaches for a zip-up jacket to stay warm. She towels her face and neck. It's a very long neck. I read about Sir Douglas's divorce from Rachel's mother.

  “This is Charlotte,” he says.

  She beams. “You can call me Tottie. Everyone does. I've been Tottie forever.”

  I can see that.

  Sir Douglas waves to the far end of the court. “And those are friends of ours.” He shouts to them: “Why don't you go and get ready for lunch? We'll meet you inside.”

  The couple wave back.

  Sir Douglas looks even fitter than I remember, with one of those deep suntans you see on sailing types and Australians. You could cut off his arm and the tan would go all the way through.

  “Is Rachel here?”

  “What makes you think that?” He's testing me.

  “You collected her from the hospital ten days ago.”

  He plays an imaginary backhand. “I don't know if you recall, Inspector, but my daughter has never liked me very much. She thinks the Establishment is some sort of criminal society like the Mafia and that I am the Godfather. She doesn't believe in titles or privilege or the education that I paid for. She thinks there is only dignity in being poor and has swallowed the popular mythology of the working class being full of decent hardworking people possessed of piety and common sense. Breeding, however, is a curse.”

  “Where is she?”

  He drinks from a glass of lemonade and looks at Tottie. Why do I get the impression I'm about to be fed a plate of bullshit?

  “Perhaps you should go inside sweetheart,” he says. “Tell Thomas he can clear these things away.”

  Thomas is the butler.

  Tottie stands and stretches her long legs. She pecks him on the cheek. “Don't let it upset you, dear.”

  Sir Douglas motions us to the chairs, holding one for Ali.

  “Do you know the hardest thing about being a father, Inspector? Trying to help your children not make the same mistakes as we did. You want to guide them. You want them to make certain decisions, marry certain people, believe certain things, but you can't make them go that way. They make their own decisions. My daughter chose to marry a gangster and a psychopath. She did it partly to punish me, I know that. I knew what sort of man Aleksei Kuznet was. It was bred into him. Like father, like son.”

  Sir Douglas slaps his racquet through the air again. “Oddly enough, I actually felt sorry for Aleksei. Only an innocent millionaire would have satisfied Rachel—and short of winning the lottery or finding buried treasure in one's back garden, there's no such thing.”

  I don't know where he's going with this but I try to keep the desperation out of my voice. “Just tell me where Rachel is.”

  He ignores the statement. “I have always felt sorry for those people who choose not to have children. They miss out on what it means to be human, to feel love in all its forms.” His eyes have misted over. “I wasn't a very consistent father and I wasn't objective. I wanted Rachel to make me proud of her instead of realizing that I should always be proud of her.”

  “How is she?”

  “Recovering.”

  “I need to speak to her.”

  “I'm
afraid that won't be possible.”

  “You don't understand . . . there was a ransom demand. Rachel believed that Mickey was still alive. We both did. I need to find out why.”

  “Is this an official investigation, Detective?”

  “There must have been proof. There must have been some evidence to convince us.”

  “I had a phone call from Chief Superintendent Smith. I don't know him well but he seems quite an impressive man. He alerted me to the fact that you might try to contact Rachel.”

  He is no longer looking at me. He could be talking to the trees for all I know. “My daughter has suffered a breakdown. Some very callous and cruel people took advantage of her grief. She has barely said a word since the police found her.”

  “I need her help—”

  He raises his hand to stop me. “We have medical advice. She can't be upset.”

  “People have died. A serious crime has been committed—”

  “Yes, it has. But now something good has happened. My daughter has come home and I'm going to protect her. I'm going to make sure nobody hurts her again.”

  He's serious. His eyes have a gleam of pure, unadulterated, idiotic determination. The whole conversation has had a ritualistic quality. I even expect him to say, “Maybe next time,” as though nothing would be simpler or more obvious than coming back another day.

  Warm, melting undulations of fear ripple through me. I can't leave without talking to Rachel; too much is at stake.

  “Does Rachel know that before Mickey disappeared you applied for custody of your granddaughter?”

  He flinches now. “My daughter was an alcoholic, Inspector. We were concerned for Michaela. At one point Rachel fell in the bathroom and my granddaughter spent the night lying next to her on the floor.”

  “How did you find out about that?”

  He doesn't answer.

  “You were spying on her.”

  Again he doesn't respond. I've known about the custody application from the start. If Howard hadn't emerged as such a strong suspect I would have investigated it further and confronted Sir Douglas.

  “How far would you have gone to protect Mickey?”

  Angry now, he exclaims, “I didn't kidnap my granddaughter, if that's what you're suggesting. I wish I had—maybe then she would still be alive. Whatever happened in the past has been forgiven. My daughter has come home.”

  He stands now. The conversation is over.

  On my feet, I swing toward the house. He tries to intercept me but I brush him aside and begin yelling.

  “RACHEL!”

  “You can't do this! I demand you leave!”

  “RACHEL!”

  “Leave my property this instant.”

  Ali tries to stop me. “Perhaps we should leave, Sir.”

  Sir Douglas tackles me in front of the conservatory. With his tanned forearms and sinewy legs, he's surprisingly strong.

  “Let it go, Sir,” says Ali, taking hold of my arms.

  “I have to see Rachel.”

  “Not this way.”

  At that moment Thomas appears, wearing an apron over a pressed white shirt. He's carrying a silver candlestick like a club.

  Suddenly the whole scene registers as being vaguely ridiculous. In Clue there is a candlestick among the possible murder weapons but, surprisingly, not a butler among the suspects. Blaming the staff is just another lousy cliché.

  Thomas is standing over me now, while Sir Douglas brushes mud and grass clippings from his shorts. Ali takes my arm and helps me up, steering me toward the path.

  Sir Douglas is already on the phone, no doubt complaining to Campbell. Turning, I shout, “What if you're making a mistake? What if Mickey is still alive?”

  Only the birds answer back.

  14

  Fumbling in my pocket, I take out a morphine capsule and swallow it dry, feeling it catch in my throat. Twenty minutes later I'm peering through pale translucent gauze. The car seems to float between the red lights and people drift along the pavements like leaves on a river.

  A conga line of buses comes to a stuttering halt. My stepfather died at a bus stop in Bradford in October 1995. He had a stroke on his way to see a heart specialist. See what happens when buses don't run on time? He looked very distinguished in his coffin, like a lawyer or a businessman rather than a farmer. His remaining hair was plastered across his scalp and parted exactly in a manner he never managed in life. I copied it for a while. I thought it made me look more English.

  Daj came to live in London after the funeral. She moved in with me and Miranda. The two of them were like oil and vinegar. Daj was the vinegar of course: balsamic—strong and dark. No matter how they were mixed together, they always separated and I was caught in between.

  On the pavement, beneath a canvas awning, a young flower seller is enclosed by buckets of blooms. Tugging at the sleeves of her jumper, she covers her fists and hugs herself to keep warm. Aleksei employs a lot of refugees and immigrants on his flower stalls because they're cheap and grateful. I wonder what this girl dreams about when she goes to sleep at night in her bedsit hotel or shared house. Does she see herself as being blessed?

  Tens of thousands of Eastern Europeans have washed up here from former Soviet satellite states that have declared themselves independent and then immediately begun to crumble. Sometimes it seems as if the whole of Europe is destined to tear itself apart, divided into smaller and smaller parcels until there isn't enough land left to sustain a language or a culture. Maybe we're all destined to become Gypsies.

  Fury and fear are driving me. Fury at being shot and fear of not finding out why. I want to either remember or forget. I can't live in the middle. Either give me back the missing days or erase them completely.

  Ali senses my despair. “Facts not memories solve cases. That's what you said. We just have to keep investigating.”

  She doesn't understand. Rachel had the answers. She was going to tell me what happened.

  “He was never going to let you see her. We have to find another way.”

  “If I could get a message to her . . .”

  Suddenly, the curious, chemical detachment lifts and a face floats into my thoughts—a woman with dark-brown hair and a birthmark that leaks across her throat like spilled caramel. Kirsten Fitzroy—Rachel's best friend and former neighbor.

  Some women have a particular gaze from the day they are born. They look at you as though they know exactly what you're thinking and will always know. Kirsten was like that. In the days after Mickey disappeared she was the rock that Rachel clung to, shielding her from the media and making her meals.

  Kirsten could get a message to her. She could find out what happened. I know she lives somewhere in Notting Hill.

  “I can get the address,” says Ali, pulling off the road. She punches speed dial on her cell phone, no doubt calling “New Boy” Dave.

  Twenty minutes later we pull up outside a large whitewashed Georgian house in Ladbroke Square, overlooking the communal gardens. The surrounding streets are painted in candy colors and dotted with coffee shops and outdoor restaurants. Kirsten has moved up in the world.

  Her flat is on the third floor, facing the street. I pause on the landing to get my breath back. That's when I notice the door is slightly ajar. Ali peers up and down the stairwell, automatically on edge.

  Nudging the door open, I call Kirsten's name. No answer.

  The lock has almost been torn off and splinters of wood lie inside the door. Farther along the hallway there are papers and clothes strewn haphazardly on the sea-grass matting.

  Ali unclips her holster and motions for me to stay put. I shake my head. It's easier if I cover her back. She spins through the door and crouches, peering down the hallway to the kitchen. I enter behind her, facing in the opposite direction into the sitting room. Furniture is overturned and someone has filleted the sofa with a samurai sword. The stuffing spills out like the bloated intestines of a slain beast.

  Rice-paper lampshades lie torn and
crushed on the floor. Floating flowers are marooned in a dry bowl and a shoji screen is smashed into pieces.

  Moving from room to room, we discover more wreckage. Foodstuffs, appliances and utensils litter the kitchen floor between upturned drawers and open cupboards. A chair lies broken. Someone has used it to search above the cabinets.

  At first glance it looks more like an act of vandalism than a robbery. Then I notice several envelopes lying amid the destruction. The return addresses have been carefully torn off. There is no diary or address book beside the telephone. Someone has also cleared the corkboard of notes and photographs. Torn corners are all that remain, trapped beneath colored pins.

  The morphine has left me with a sense of depleted reality. I go into the bathroom and splash water on my face. A towel and chemise are folded over the towel rail and a lipstick has fallen into the bath. Retrieving it, I unscrew the lid and stare at the pointed nub, holding it like a crayon.

  Above the washbasin, tilted slightly downward, is a rectangular mirror with mother-of-pearl inlaid into the frame. I've lost weight. My cheeks are hollow and my eyes are deeply wrinkled at the edges. Or maybe it's someone else in the mirror. I have been replicated and imprisoned in a slightly different universe. The real world is on the other side of the glass. Already I can feel the opiate wearing off. I want to hold on to the unreality.

  Returning the lipstick to a shelf, I marvel at the salves, pastes, powders and potpourri. From among them I can summon up Kirsten's fragrance and our first meeting at Dolphin Mansions the day after Mickey disappeared.

  Tall and slim with tapered limbs, Kirsten's cream-colored slacks hung so low on her hips that I wondered what was holding them up. Her flat was full of antique armor and weaponry, including two samurai swords crossed on the wall and a Japanese warrior's helmet made from iron, leather and silk.

  “They say it was worn by Toyotomi Hideyoshi,” Kirsten explained. “He was the daimyo who unified Japan in the sixteenth century: the ‘Age of Battles.' Are you interested in history, Detective Inspector?”

  “No.”

  “So you don't believe we can learn from our mistakes?”

  “We haven't so far.”