Lost jo-2

by Michael Robotham

  My jaw clenches and I feel the red mist descending.

  Eddie takes a step back. “Yeah, that's the temper I heard so much about. Have fun in court.”

  I know he's winding me up. That's what Eddie does—gets under people's skin, looking for the softest flesh.

  Spectators are crammed into the public gallery and there are three full rows of press, including four sketch artists. The furnishings and fittings predate microphones and recording equipment so cables snake across the floor, pinned beneath masking tape.

  I look around for Rachel, hoping she might be here. Instead I see Aleksei, who is watching me as though waiting for me to instantly disintegrate. To his left is the Russian and to the right a young black man with loose limbs and liquid eyes.

  The Rook adjusts his horsehair wig and glances across at his adversary, Fiona Hanley, QC, a handsome woman, who reminds me of my second wife, Jessie, who has the same cool detachment and honey-colored eyes. Miss Hanley is busy shuffling papers and rearranging box files as though creating a mini-fortress around her. She turns and gives me an uncertain smile as though we might have met somewhere before (only about a dozen times).

  “All rise.”

  Lord Connelly, the Chief Justice, enters and pauses, surveying the courtroom as though keeping watch over the pearly gates. He sits. Everybody sits.

  Howard Wavell appears next, climbing the stairs into the dock. Gape-mouthed and gray, with his hair hanging limply across his forehead, he has a vague, forgetful frown as though he's lost his bearings. Eddie whispers something to him and they laugh. I'm seeing conspiracies everywhere.

  Campbell thinks this has been Howard's plan from the very beginning. The ransom demand, the lock of Mickey's hair, her bikini—all were part of an elaborate hoax designed to cast doubt on his conviction and set him free.

  I don't buy it because it begs the same question that Joe keeps asking me: Why wait three years?

  Lord Connelly adjusts a lumbar cushion behind his back and clears his throat. He spends a moment studying the courtroom ceiling and begins.

  “I have studied the defense submissions regarding the original trial of Mr. Wavell. While I am willing to agree with several of the points raised about the trial judge's summing up, on balance I don't feel they altered the outcome of the jury's deliberations. However, I am willing to hear oral arguments. Are you ready to proceed, Mr. Raynor?”

  The Rook is on his feet, pushing his black gown along his forearms. “Yes, Your Honor, I will be seeking to introduce fresh evidence.”

  “Does this evidence address the grounds for appeal or the original offense?”

  “The original offense.”

  Miss Hanley objects. “Your Honor, my learned friend seems intent on rerunning this trial even before being granted leave to appeal. We have been given a witness list with two dozen names. Surely he doesn't intend calling them all.”

  Lord Connelly looks at the list.

  The Rook clarifies the situation. “It may be that we call only one witness, Your Honor. It very much depends upon what he has to say.”

  “I hope you're not embarking on a fishing expedition, Mr. Raynor.”

  “No, Your Honor, I can assure you that's not the case. I wish to call the Detective Inspector who was in charge of the original investigation into the disappearance of Michaela Carlyle.”

  Lord Connelly underlines my name on the list. “Miss Hanley, the overriding purpose of the Criminal Appeal Act is to further the interests of justice. It allows fresh evidence to be admitted by the prosecution and the defense. However, I warn you, Mr. Raynor, that I'm not going to allow you to rerun this trial.”

  Miss Hanley immediately makes an application for the proceedings to be heard in a closed court.

  “Your Honor, there are issues involved that go beyond the immediate fate of Mr. Wavell. An important criminal investigation could be jeopardized if certain information is made public.”

  What investigation? Campbell is only interested in nailing me.

  “Does this investigation involve Mr. Wavell?” asks Lord Connelly.

  “Indirectly, it may do. I'm aware of the nature of the investigation but not the precise details. There is a media blackout in place.”

  The Rook puts his oar in, more out of habit than desire. “Justice must be seen to be done, Your Honor.”

  Lord Connelly rules in favor of the Crown and the public gallery and press benches are cleared. This is when the real arguments begin, full of phrases like “with all due respect” and “my learned friend” (legal shorthand for “you complete moron”). Then again, what do I know? The Rook and Miss Hanley could be the best of friends. They could be shagging each other's wigs off in chambers.

  My name is called. I button my jacket on the walk to the witness box and unbutton it as I sit down.

  The Rook looks up from his notes as if surprised that I've bothered showing. He rises slowly to his feet, drops his chin and tries to look at me through the top of his head. The first few questions are the easy ones—name, rank, years of experience as a police officer.

  Miss Hanley is on her feet. “My learned friend seems to be placing great faith in the credibility of this witness. However, he has failed to mention that DI Ruiz was suspended as head of the Serious Crime Group several days ago and yesterday afternoon, following an internal disciplinary hearing, he was sacked. He is no longer a serving member of the London Metropolitan Police and is the subject of a criminal investigation—”

  Lord Connelly motions her to sit down. “You'll get your opportunity to question the witness.”

  The Rook consults his notepad and then does something I don't expect. He takes me through the original investigation, getting me to restate the evidence against Howard. I talk about the photographs, the bloodstains, the missing carpet and Mickey's beach towel. He had the opportunity, the motive and the corrupted sexuality.

  “At what point did Howard Wavell become a suspect in the original investigation?”

  “Everyone who lived in Dolphin Mansions was immediately a suspect.”

  “Yes, but at what point did you focus your attentions upon Mr. Wavell?”

  “He became of particular interest when he was seen acting suspiciously on the day Michaela disappeared. He also failed to provide an alibi.”

  “He failed to provide one or didn't have one?”

  “He didn't have one.”

  “In what way was he acting suspiciously?”

  “He was taking photographs of the search parties and people who had gathered outside Dolphin Mansions.”

  “Was there anyone else taking photographs?”

  “There were several press photographers.”

  The Rook gives a wry smile. “So having a camera didn't automatically make someone a suspect?”

  “A young girl was missing. Most of the other neighbors were helping look for her. Mr. Wavell seemed more interested in recording the event for posterity.”

  The Rook waits. He's letting everyone know that he expects a better answer.

  “Prior to your seeing Howard Wavell at Dolphin Mansions that day had you ever come across him before?”

  “We went to the same boarding school back in the sixties. He was a few years behind me.”

  “Did you know each other well?”

  “No.”

  “As the officer in charge of the investigation, did you think about either stepping down or absenting yourself from interviews because of your past association?”

  “No.”

  “Did you know Mr. Wavell's family?”

  “I may have met one or two of them.”

  “So you don't remember going out with his sister?”

  I pause, racking my brain.

  The Rook smiles. “Perhaps you dated too many girls to remember.”

  Everyone cracks up. Howard laughs as hard as anyone.

  The Rook waits for the laughter to subside. Almost in passing, he remarks, “Four weeks ago you took an envelope containing six hairs to a pri
vate laboratory in central London and asked for a DNA test to be carried out.”

  “Yes.”

  “Is that normal police procedure—using a private facility to conduct DNA tests?”

  “No.”

  “I think I'm right in saying that the Forensic Science Service do DNA tests for the police.”

  “It was a private request not a police one.”

  He raises his eyebrows. “Unofficial? How did you pay?”

  “Cash.”

  “Why?”

  “I don't see how that's relevant—”

  “You paid in cash because you didn't want a record of the transaction, isn't that the case? You didn't leave your address or phone number with the laboratory.”

  He doesn't give me a chance to answer, which is probably for the best. I'm dying here. Perspiration is leaking down my chest and settling in a pool at my navel.

  “What exactly did you ask the technicians at Genetech to do for you?”

  “I wanted them to extract DNA from the hair strands and compare it with the DNA of Michaela Carlyle.”

  “A girl who is supposed to be dead.”

  “Someone had sent a ransom demand to Rachel Carlyle alleging that her daughter was still alive.”

  “And you believed this letter?”

  “I agreed to have the hair tested.”

  The Rook is more insistent. “You still haven't explained why you asked a private laboratory to conduct the test.”

  “It was a favor for Mrs. Carlyle. I didn't believe the hair would be a match for her daughter.”

  “You wanted to keep it a secret?”

  “No. I was concerned that any official request would be misconstrued. I didn't want it perceived that I had doubts about the original investigation.”

  “You wanted to deny Mr. Wavell his right to natural justice?”

  “I wanted to be sure.”

  The Rook walks back to the table and picks up a second sheet of paper, snapping it with his fingers as though calling the edges to attention.

  Why doesn't he ask me the result of the DNA test? Perhaps he doesn't know the answer. If the hair didn't match Mickey's DNA profile, the ransom demand was more likely to be a hoax, weakening Howard's case.

  The Rook begins again. “Subsequently, a second package was posted to Mrs. Carlyle. What did it contain?”

  “A child's swimsuit.”

  “What can you tell us about this swimsuit?”

  “It was a pink-and-orange bikini, similar to the one worn by Michaela Carlyle on the day she disappeared.”

  “Similar or the same one?”

  “Forensic analysis couldn't produce a definitive answer.”

  The Rook is circling now. He has the face of a bird and the soul of a crocodile. “How many murders have you investigated, Detective?”

  I shrug. “Upward of twenty.”

  “And how many missing children cases?”

  “Too many.”

  “Too many to remember?”

  “No, Sir.” My eyes are locked on his. “I remember every last one of them.”

  The power of the statement throws him slightly. He turns back to the bar table, consulting his notepad.

  “There must be a degree of pressure on the officer in charge of a high-profile investigation. A young girl is missing. Parents are scared. People want to be reassured.”

  “It was a thorough investigation. We didn't cut corners.”

  “No, quite right.” He reads from a list. “Eight thousand interviews, 1,200 statements, more than a million man-hours . . . many of them focused on my client.”

  “We followed every important lead.”

  The Rook is leading me somewhere. “Were there any suspects that you didn't pursue?”

  “Not if they were important.”

  “What about Gerry Brandt?”

  I can feel myself hesitate. “He was a person of interest for a short time.”

  “And why did you discount him?”

  “We made extensive inquiries—”

  “You couldn't find him, isn't that the case?”

  “Gerry Brandt was a known drug dealer and burglar. He had contacts within the criminal underworld who I believe helped hide him.”

  “This is the same man who was photographed outside Dolphin Mansions on the day Michaela disappeared?”

  “That's correct, Sir.”

  He turns away from me now, addressing a wider audience. “A man with a previous conviction for sexually assaulting a minor?”

  “His girlfriend.”

  “A sex offender who was seen outside Dolphin Mansions but you didn't regard him as being an important enough suspect to bother finding. Instead you focused your investigation exclusively on my client, a committed Christian, who had never been in trouble with the law. And when you obtained evidence that could suggest Michaela Carlyle might still be alive you sought to hide it.”

  “I made the results available to my superiors.”

  “But not to his defense.”

  “With all due respect, Sir, it's not my job to help defense lawyers.”

  “You're absolutely right, Mr. Ruiz. Your job is to establish the truth. And in this case you sought to hide the truth. You sought to ignore evidence or at worst conceal it, just as you ignored Gerry Brandt as a suspect.”

  “No.”

  The Rook sways back and forth on his heels. “Was the ransom demand a hoax, Detective Inspector?”

  “I don't know.”

  “And are you willing to stake your career . . .” he corrects himself, “. . . your reputation and, more importantly, my client's freedom on the absolute conviction that Michaela Carlyle was murdered three years ago?”

  There's a long pause. “No.”

  Even the Rook is taken by surprise. He pauses to compose himself. “So you believe she may still be alive?”

  “When you don't find a body there is always a chance.”

  “And has that possibility become greater as a result of this ransom demand?”

  “Yes.”

  “No further questions.”

  I don't look at Campbell or Eddie Barrett or Howard Wavell. I keep my eyes straight ahead as I walk out of the courtroom. Inside my jacket, pressed against my heart, a cell phone is vibrating.

  Fumbling for the button, I take the call.

  “I've just heard the news on the radio,” says Joe. “They've found a body in the river.”

  “Where?”

  “Somewhere near the Isle of Dogs.”

  This is how it looks: a bleak Thursday afternoon, a strong wind and water slapping against the pylons of Trinity Pier. A dredger squats low in the water, with skeletal arms held aloft and black pipes snaking across the decks. Spotlights have turned brown water into a murky white. Two water-police Zodiacs made of rubberized canvas with wooden bottoms fight the outgoing tide, dropping floating plastic pontoons in their wake.

  The Professor parks on a slip road that comes to a dead end where the River Lea enters the Thames estuary. The river is two hundred yards wide at this point, with the Millennium Dome silhouetted against the porridgelike sky on the distant bank.

  Halfway down the sloping metal ramp “New Boy” Dave steps away from a huddle of detectives. His shoulders are shaking and he's caught between wanting to spit in my face or smash it with his fists. This is about Ali.

  “Fuck off! Just fuck off!” It's almost a wail. He pushes me in the chest, forcing me backward.

  I want to say I'm sorry but the lump in my throat won't move. Instead I look over Dave's shoulder at the police divers preparing their tanks and equipment. “Who did they find?” The other detectives have circled like spectators at a playground fight. None of them want me here. I'm an outsider, a maverick, worse still a traitor. Joe tries to intervene. “Ali wouldn't want this. Just tell us who you found.”

  “Fuck you!”

  As I try to step around Dave, he grabs me by my arm, swinging me hard into the brick-and-wire retaining wall. A kidney punch sends me do
wn. He is standing over me looking wasted and wild. There's a trickle of blood down his chin where he's bitten his lip.

  What happens next lacks a certain degree of elegance. I sink my fist into his groin and take hold. Dave groans in a high reedy voice and drops to his knees. I don't let go.

  He raises his fists, wanting to pound me into the ground, but I squeeze even harder. He curls up in pain, unable to lift his head. My breath is hot on his cheek.

  “Don't go bad on me, Dave,” I whisper. “You're one of the good ones.”

  Letting him go, I ease myself up until I'm sitting against the wall, staring at the smooth darkness of the water. Dave drags himself alongside me, trying to get his breath back. Glancing at the other detectives, I tell them to leave us alone.

  “Who did they find?”

  “We don't know,” Dave says, grimacing slightly. “The dredger sliced the body in half.”

  “Let me see it.”

  “Unless you can recognize this poor bastard from below the waist you're no use to anyone, especially me.”

  “How did he die?”

  He pauses too long before he answers. “There is evidence of a gunshot wound.” In the same breath, he arches his neck and looks past me. A coroner's van has pulled alongside the wharf. The back doors open. A stretcher slides from within.

  “I didn't mean for Ali to get hurt—you know that.”

  He looks at his fists. “I'm sorry I hit you, Sir.”

  “That's OK.”

  “Campbell will go ape shit if he knows you're here.”

  “So don't tell him. I'll stay out of the way.”

  As the last rays of sunlight strike the towers of Canary Wharf, four divers tumble backward from the Zodiacs. Slick as seals, they disappear beneath the surface leaving barely a trace behind.

  The officer in charge is short and barrel-chested, clad in a wet suit that makes him look as if he's carved from ebony. He swings an air tank into a boat and wipes both hands before offering one to me. “Sergeant Chris Kirkwood.”

  “Ruiz.”

  “Yeah, I know who you are.”

  “You got a problem talking to me?”

  “Nah.” He shakes his head. “I got other problems. Visibility is down to three feet and the current is running at four knots. Someone chained this bastard to a barrel of concrete. We're gonna need cutting gear.” He swings another air tank into the boat.