Eighty feet of lawn and flower bed had been dug up by then. Paving stones were propped against walls and turf rolled into muddy faggots. Howard had helped plant the garden two months earlier for Westminster in Bloom, a flower competition.
Twenty-two other sites were also excavated within the cemetery. Although it sounds like a clever hiding place, it's not an easy thing to conceal a body in a graveyard. First you have to bury it without anyone noticing, most probably at night. And it doesn't matter if you believe in ghosts or not, very few people are comfortable in cemeteries after dark.
A media blackout covered the dig, but I knew it couldn't hold. Someone must have phoned Rachel and she turned up that first afternoon. Two police officers had to hold her back behind the police tape. She fought against their arms, pleading with them to let her go.
“Is it Mickey?” she yelled at me.
I pulled her to one side, trying to calm her down. “We don't know yet.”
“You found something?”
“A towel.”
“Mickey's towel?”
“We won't know until—”
“Is it Mickey's towel?”
She read the answer in my eyes and suddenly broke free, running toward the trench. I pulled her back before she reached the edge, wrapping my arms around her waist. She was crying then, with her arms outstretched, trying to throw herself into the hole.
There was nothing I could say to comfort her—nothing that would ever be able to comfort her.
Afterward, I walked her up to the chapel, waiting for a police car to take her home. We sat outside on a stone bench beneath a poster on the noticeboard, which said, CHILDREN ARE THE HOPE OF THE WORLD.
Where! Show me! You can want them, worry about them, love them with all your being, but you can't keep them safe. Time and accidents and evil will defeat you.
Somewhere in the restaurant kitchen a tray of glasses shatters on the floor. Diners pause momentarily, perhaps in sympathy, and then conversations begin again. Joe looks across the table, inscrutable as ever. He'll say it's the Parkinson's mask but I think he enjoys being impenetrable.
“Why the hair dye?” he asks.
“What do you mean?”
“You said there were traces of hair dye on the towel. If Howard snatched Mickey off the stairs and killed her in his flat, why bother dyeing her hair?”
He's right. But the towel might have been stained earlier. Rachel could have colored her hair. I didn't ask her. I can see Joe filing the information away for future reference.
My main course has arrived but I'm no longer hungry. The morphine is doing this to me—ruining my appetite. I roll the spaghetti around a fork and leave it resting on the plate.
Joe pours another glass of wine. “You said you had doubts about Howard. Why?”
“Oddly enough, it's because of something you once said to me. When we first met and I was investigating the murder of Catherine McBride, you gave me a profile of her killer.”
“What did I say?”
“You said that sadists and pedophiles and sexual psychopaths aren't born whole. They're made.”
Joe nods, impressed either by my memory or by the quality of his advice.
I try to explain. “Until we found Mickey's towel, the case against Howard was more wishful thinking than hard evidence. Not a single complaint had ever been made against him by a parent or a child in his care. Nobody had ever called him creepy or suggested he be kept away from children. There were thousands of images on his computer, but only a handful of them could be classed as questionable and none of them proved he was a pedophile. He had no history of sexual offenses, yet suddenly he appeared, a full-fledged child killer.”
Joe peers at the wine bottle wrapped in raffia. “Someone can fantasize about children but never act. Their fantasy life can be rich enough to satisfy them.”
“Exactly, but I couldn't see the progression. You told me that deviant behavior could be almost plotted on the axis of a graph. Someone begins by collecting pornography and progresses up the scale. Abduction and murder are at the very end.”
“Did you find any pornography?”
“Howard owned a trailer that he claimed to have sold. We traced the location using gas and dry-cleaning receipts. It was at a campground on the South Coast. He paid the fees annually in advance. Inside there were boxes of magazines mostly from Eastern Europe and Asia. Child pornography.”
Joe leans forward. His little gray cells are humming like a hard drive.
“You're describing a classic grooming pedophile. He recognized Mickey's vulnerability. He became her friend and showered her with praise and presents, buying her toys and clothes. He took her photograph and told her how pretty she looked. Eventually, the sexual part of the ‘dance' begins, the sly touches and play wrestling. Non-sadistic pedophiles sometimes spend months and even years getting to know a child, conditioning them.”
“Exactly, they're extremely patient. So why would Howard invest all that time and effort into grooming Mickey and then suddenly snatch her off the stairs?”
Joe's arm trembles as if released from a catch. “You're right. A grooming pedophile uses slow seduction not violent abduction.”
I feel relieved. It's nice to have someone agree with me.
Joe adds a note of caution. “Psychology isn't an exact science. And even if Howard is innocent—it doesn't bring Mickey back to life. One fact doesn't automatically change the other. What happened when you told Campbell about your doubts?”
“He told me to put my badge down and act like a real person. Did I think Mickey was dead? I thought about the blood on the towel and I said yes. Everything pointed to Howard.”
“You didn't convict him—a jury did.”
Joe doesn't mean to sound patronizing but I hate people making excuses for me. He drains his glass. “This case really got to you, didn't it?”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“I think I know why.”
“Leave it alone, Professor.”
He pushes the wineglasses to one side and plants his elbow in the center of the table. He wants to arm wrestle me.
“You don't stand a chance.”
“I know.”
“So why bother?”
“It'll make you feel better.”
“How?”
“Right now you keep acting as though I'm beating up on you. Well, here's your chance to get even. Maybe you'll realize that this isn't a contest. I'm trying to help you.”
Almost immediately my heart feels stung. I notice the bitter yeasty odor of his medication and my throat constricts. Joe's hand is still waiting. He grins at me. “Shall we call it a draw?”
As much as I hate admitting it, Joe and I have a sort of kinship—a connection. Both of us are fighting against the “bastard time.” My career is coming to a close and his disease will rob him of old age. I think he also understands how it feels to be responsible, by accident or omission, for the death of another human being. This could be my last chance to make amends; to prove I'm worth something; to square up the Great Ledger.
17
It's dark by the time a black cab drops me at Ali's parents' place. She opens the door quickly and closes it again. A dustpan and brush rest on the floor amid broken pieces of pottery.
“I had a visitor,” she explains.
“Keebal.”
“How did you know?”
“I can smell his aftershave—Eau de Clan. Where are your parents?”
“At my Aunt Meena's house—they'll be home soon.”
Ali gets the vacuum cleaner, while I dump the broken pottery in the trash can. She's wearing a sari, which seems to own her as much as she owns it. Scents of cumin, sandalwood and jasmine escape from the folds.
“What did Keebal want?”
“I'm being charged with breaching protocols. Police officers on leave are not allowed to undertake private investigations or carry a firearm. There's going to be a hearing.”
“I'm sorry.”
“D
on't worry about it.”
“No, this is my fault. I should never have asked you.”
She reacts angrily. “Listen. I'm a big girl now. I make my own decisions.”
“I think I should leave.”
“No! This is not some glorious career I'm risking. I take care of ambassadors and diplomats, driving their spoiled children to school and their wives on shopping trips to Harrods. There's more to life.”
“What else would you do?”
“I could do lots of things. I could set up a business. Maybe I'll get married . . .”
“To ‘New Boy' Dave?”
She ignores me. “It's the politics that piss me off most—and guys like Keebal who should have been weeded out years ago, but instead they get promoted. He's a racist, chauvinist prick!”
I look at the broken vase. “Did you hit him?”
“I missed.”
“Shame.”
She laughs and I want to hug her. The moment passes.
Ali puts the kettle on and opens a packet of chocolate biscuits.
“I found out some interesting stuff today,” she says, dipping a biscuit into her coffee and licking her fingers. “Aleksei Kuznet has a motor cruiser. He keeps it moored at Chelsea Harbour and uses it mainly for corporate hospitality. The skipper is Serbian. He lives on board. I could ask him some questions but I thought maybe we should tread softly.”
“Good idea.”
“There's something else. Aleksei has been selling a lot of stocks and shares in his companies. His house in Hampstead is also on the market.”
“Why?”
“A friend of mine works for the Financial Times. She says Aleksei is liquidating assets but nobody knows exactly why. He's rumored to be highly leveraged and might need to pay off debts; or he could be getting ready to take over something big.”
“Selling his house.”
“It's been listed for the past month. Maybe we can dig up the basement and see where he buried his brother.”
“I heard Sacha got disemboweled.”
“That must have been before he went in the acid bath.”
We laugh wryly, each aware of how apocryphal stories have just enough truth to keep them alive.
Ali has something else but she pauses, holding me in suspense. “I did some checking on Kirsten Fitzroy. Remember she told us she ran an employment agency in the West End? It operated from a building in Mayfair, leased by a company registered in Bermuda. The lease expired eight months ago and all the bills were paid. Since then any correspondence has been directed to a serviced office in Soho and then redirected to a Swiss law firm, which represents the beneficial owners, a Nevada-based company.”
Corporate structures like this stand out like a dog's bollocks to everyone except DTI (Department of Trade and Industry) watchdogs. The only reason for them is to hide something or avoid paying taxes or escape liability.
“According to the neighbors the agency sometimes hosted private functions but mostly they hired staff out to short-term positions. The time sheets refer to cocktail waitresses, hostesses and waiters but there are no security numbers or tax records. Most were women and most had foreign-sounding names. Could be illegals.”
It smells like something else to me—cleft cheeks, dewy thighs and hollows between elastic and skin. Sex and money! No wonder Kirsten could afford the antique armor and medieval swords.
Ali retrieves her notes and sits on the sofa, massaging her feet as she reads. “I did a property search on Kirsten's flat. She bought that place for only £500,000—half the market value—from a private company called Dalmatian Investments. The major shareholder of Dalmatian Investments is Sir Douglas Carlyle.”
A frisson runs through me. “How do Kirsten and Sir Douglas know each other? And why was he so generous to her?”
“Maybe he was using her services,” suggests Ali.
“Or she did him some other favor.”
I might have misjudged Kirsten. It always struck me as odd her friendship with Rachel. They had very little in common. Rachel seemed determined to escape from her family's money and her privileged childhood, while Kirsten was equally devoted to moving up in the world and mixing in the right circles. She moved into Dolphin Mansions only weeks after Rachel did and the two became friends. They lived in each other's pockets, shopping, socializing and sharing meals.
Sir Douglas knew about Rachel collapsing drunk on the bathroom floor and Mickey spending the night lying next to her. He had a spy, a rat in the ranks, Kirsten. Half a million pounds is a lot of money for simply keeping watch on a neighbor. It's enough to make kidnapping a possibility and could also explain why someone wants to find Kirsten.
Ali collects my coffee cup. “I know you don't agree, Sir, but I still think it's a hoax.”
“Motive?”
“Greed, revenge, getting Howard out of prison—could be any of them.”
“Where does Kirsten come into it?”
“You said yourself she had the opportunity. She knew enough about the case and was close enough to Rachel to set up a hoax.”
“But would she do it to her friend?”
“You mean the one she was spying on?”
We could argue all night and still not find an answer that fits the known facts.
“There's one more thing,” says Ali, handing me a bundle of papers. “I managed to get hold of the incident logs for the night you were shot. It can be your bedtime reading.”
The photocopied pages cover four square miles of north London between the hours of 10:00 p.m. and 3:00 a.m.
“I can tell you now there were five drug overdoses, three stolen cars, six burglaries, a carjacking, five hoax calls, a brawl at a bachelor party, a house fire, eleven complaints about ringing burglar alarms, a burst water main, minor flooding, a nurse attacked on her way home from work and an unexploded teargas shell found in a trash can.”
“How many burglar alarms?”
“Eleven.”
“In the one street?”
“Yes. Priory Road.”
“Where was the burst water main?”
She consults the map and narrows her eyes. “On Priory Road. A row of shops got flooded.”
“Can you find me the crew who repaired the water main?”
“You want to tell me why?”
“A man's allowed to have his secrets. What if I'm wrong? I don't want to destroy your delusions of my grandeur.”
She doesn't even bother rolling her eyes. Instead she reaches past me and takes the phone.
“Who are you calling?”
“My boyfriend.”
18
I dream of drowning—sucking watery mud into my lungs. There's a bright light and a chaos of voices against the darkness. My chest heaves vomit and brown water that runs from my nose, mouth and ears.
A woman appears, hovering over me. Her hips rest on mine and her hands press against my chest. She bends again and her lips touch mine. A pale birthmark leaks across her throat, spilling into the hollow between her breasts.
It takes me a long while to wake. I don't want to leave the dream. Opening my eyes, I get a sense of something that hasn't happened for a long while—not like this. I raise the covers a few inches to make sure I'm not mistaken. I should be embarrassed but feel somewhat elated. Any time I manage the one-gun salute these days is cause for celebration.
My euphoria doesn't last. Instead I think of Mickey and the ransom and the shootings on the river. There are too many missing pieces. There must have been other letters. What did I do with them? I put them somewhere safe. If something happened to me on the ransom drop, I would have wanted someone to know the truth.
There was a Royal Mail receipt in my wallet when Joe looked through it yesterday. I sent a registered letter to someone. Dragging my trousers off the chair, I tip the receipts onto the bed. The ink has almost washed away and I can only make out the postcode but it's enough.
Daj answers on the first ring and yells into the phone. I don't think she understan
ds wireless technology and imagines I'm talking into a tin can.
“It's been three weeks. You don't love me.”
“I've been in the hospital.”
“You never call.”
“I called you twice last week. You hung up on me.”
“Piffle!”
“I was shot.”
“Are you dying?”
“No.”
“See! You're such a drama queen. Your friend came to see me—that psychologist chap, Professor O'Loughlin. He was very sweet. He stayed for tea . . .”
Throughout this guilt trip, she carries on a second conversation with someone in the background. “My other son, Luke, is a god. A beautiful boy, blond hair . . . eyes like stars. This one breaks my heart.”
“Listen, Daj, I need to ask you a question. Did I post you something?”
“You never send me anything. My Luke is such a sweet soul . . . Maybe you could knit him something. A vest to keep him warm.”
“Come on, Daj. I want you to think really hard.”
Something resonates in her. “You sent me a letter. You told me to look after it.”
“I'm coming to see you now. Keep the letter safe.”
“Bring me some dates.”
The main building of Villawood Lodge looks like an old school, with gable roofs and gargoyles above the downspouts. The sandstone is just a façade and behind it is a seventies redbrick building, with aluminum window frames and cement roofing tiles.
Daj is waiting for me on the enclosed veranda. She accepts two kisses on each cheek and looks disappointed with only one box of dates. Her hands and fingers are moving constantly, brushing her arms as though something is crawling on her skin.
Ali tries to stay in the background but Daj looks at her suspiciously. “Who are you?”
“This is Ali,” I say, making the introductions.
“She's very dark.”
“My parents were born in India,” explains Ali.
“Hmmmphf!”
I don't know why parents must embarrass their children. Maybe it's punishment for the mewling and puking and nights of broken sleep.
“Where is the envelope, Daj?”
“No, you talk to me first. You're going to take it and run away—just like last time.” She turns to a group of elderly residents. “This is my son, Yanko! Yes, he's the policeman. The one who never comes to see me.”
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