At the back of the house, I notice smoke rising from an incinerator. A gardener with a solid build and a mustache like a hula skirt above his top lip looks up as we approach. He's wearing a tweed coat and trousers tucked into Wellingtons.
“Good afternoon.”
He takes off his cap. “Good afternoon to you.”
“You work here?”
“I do, Sir.”
“Where is everyone?”
“Gone. The place is up for sale. I'm just keeping the gardens tidy.”
I notice boxes of leaves and grass clippings.
“What's your name?”
“Harold.”
“Did you ever meet the owner, Mr. Kuznet?”
“Oh, yes, Sir. I used to clean his motors. He was very particular about what wax and polish I used, with no abrasives. He knows the difference between a wax and a polish—not many people do.”
“Was he a good boss?”
“Better 'n most, I reckon.”
“A lot of people were scared of him.”
“Yeah, but I can't see why. You hear stories, don't you? 'Bout him killing his brother, burying bodies in the basement and doing them other terrible things. But I say it like I see it. He was always good to me.”
“Did you ever see a young girl around here?”
Harold scratches his chin. “Can't say I remember any children. Good house for a kiddie—look at them grounds—my grandkids would love this place.”
Joe has wandered off, staring upward at the eaves, as though looking for nesting pigeons. He drifts sideways and almost falls over a sprinkler head.
“What's wrong with your mate—he got the shakes?”
“Parkinson's.”
Harold nods. “My uncle had that.”
He sweeps more leaves into a mound.
“If you're thinking of buying the place you missed the agent. She was here earlier showing the police around. I thought you were another copper.”
“Not anymore. Do you think we could have a look inside?”
“I'm not allowed.”
“But you have a key?”
“Yeah, well, I know where she keeps them.”
I take a tin of hard candies from my pocket and remove the lid, offering him one.
“Listen, Harold, I don't have much time. There's a little girl who we're trying to find. She went missing a long time ago. It's important I look inside. Nobody is going to know.”
“A little girl, you say.”
“Yes.”
He contemplates this for a moment while sucking on a candy. Having made a decision, he puts down the rake and starts walking up the gentle slope toward the house. The ground levels out on a boggy croquet lawn in front of the conservatory. Joe catches up with us, trying not to get his shoes wet.
The side door of the house opens into a small entrance hall with a stone floor and room to hang coats and deposit boots and umbrellas. The laundry must be close by. I can smell detergent and spray starch.
Harold unlocks the next door and we emerge into a large kitchen, with a central bench and brushed-steel appliances. It opens out through an arch into the conservatory, where the breakfast table could seat a dozen people.
Joe has wandered away from us again. This time he's peering beneath chairs and the table, following the edge of the baseboards. “Have you noticed anything unusual about this place?” he asks.
“Like what?”
“There are no telephone lines. The house isn't even hooked up.”
“Maybe they're underground.”
“Yes, that's what I thought, but I can't even see sockets in the walls.”
I turn to Harold. “Are there any telephones?”
He grins. “He's sharp, your mate. Mr. Kuznet didn't believe in normal phones. I don't think he trusted 'em. We all got one of these.” Reaching into his jacket he pulls out a cell phone.
“Everyone?”
“Yep. The cook, the driver, the cleaners, even me—s'pose I'll have to give mine back now.”
“How long have you had this one?”
“Not long. He made us swap numbers all the time. I never had the same number more than a month before he changed it.”
Aleksei was obviously paranoid about his telephones being tapped or monitored. He must have leased hundreds of cell phones, doling them out to his employees at work and at home, rotating them, swapping his own number among them, making it almost impossible for anybody to keep track of his calls or fix on a particular phone number and trace it back to him. The list of numbers must read like lottery results—all put through the one account.
My mind clings to this idea as if for some reason I know it's important. They say elephants never forget. They remember watering holes hundreds of miles away that they haven't visited in twenty years. My memory is a bit like that. It throws away some things like people's birthdays, anniversaries and song lyrics, but give me eighty witness statements and I can remember every detail.
Here's what I remember now. Aleksei had a phone stolen. He told me about it when we were outside Wormwood Scrubs. It was a new model. He loves his gadgets.
Turning suddenly, I head for the door, leaving Joe scrambling to keep up. He chases me across the gravel trying to hear what I'm saying on the phone.
“New Boy” Dave answers but I don't give him a chance to speak. “Aleksei had a phone stolen a few months back. He said he reported it to the police so there should be a record.”
I pause. Dave is still on the line. I can hear him tapping at a keyboard. The only other sound I hear is the soft stirring of every wet thing inside me.
Pacing across the driveway I wander along a path of crushed marble that circles the rose garden. At the far end, beyond an arbor, is a sandstone column supporting a sundial. It has a small plaque at the base. The inscription reads, FAMILIES ARE FOREVER.
Dave comes back to me. “He reported a cell phone stolen on August 28.”
“OK, listen carefully. You need to pull up the phone records for that number. Look for any international calls made on August 14. It's important!”
“Why?”
Dave doesn't have children. He doesn't understand. “Because a parent never forgets a birthday.”
39
Birch and elm trees are etched on the ridges like charcoal drawings and the clouds are white breath against a blue sky. The black Gallant rattles and bumps over the pitted tarmac, sliding through patches of black ice in the shadows.
Our driver wrestles with the wheel, seemingly oblivious to the deep ditches on either side of the road. Two identical black Gallants are following us, being sprayed with mud.
The surrounding marshland has iced over at the edges, forming a fragile layer that creeps toward the center of pools and ponds. A refinery with a flaming orange tower reflects from the oily surface.
On one side of the road, separated by a ditch, is a railway track. A clutch of wooden shacks huddle alongside it, more like woodpiles than dwellings. Icicles hang from wet gutters and mounds of dirty snow are piled next to the walls. The only signs of life are thin wisps of smoke from the chimneys and the emaciated dogs picking through the trash cans.
The blacktop ends suddenly and we plunge into a monochrome forest on a track that snakes between the trees. There are tire marks in the mud. One set. There are no return tracks and no roads other than this one. Aleksei's car is somewhere up ahead.
Rachel has barely said a word since we arrived in Moscow. Sitting beside me in the backseat, she keeps her hands at her sides as though bracing herself for the potholes.
Our driver looks more like a military cadet than a policeman. There appears to be mildew sprouting from his top lip and his cheekbones are so sharp they could have been carved with a scalpel. Beside him is Major Dmitri Menshikov, a senior investigator with the Moscow police. The Major met us at Sheremetyevo Airport and ever since has provided a running commentary as though we're here on a guided tour.
For the past twenty-four hours we have tracked Aleksei Kuznet acr
oss Western Europe. After reaching Oostende, he stayed overnight and then caught a train from Brussels to Berlin on Monday morning. He then transferred onto an overnight train to Warsaw, crossing into Poland in the early hours of Tuesday.
That's where we almost lost him. If Aleksei continued by rail the most direct route to Moscow was via Brest and Minsk, but according to border guards who stopped the train in Belarus, he wasn't on board. He might have bought a car in Warsaw, but Russian authorities make it difficult to bring vehicles into the country, forcing delays of up to two days. Aleksei couldn't afford to wait. His other options were to either take a bus or a different train, through Lithuania and Latvia.
“New Boy” Dave came through for me. He found the cell-phone records for the stolen handset. Aleksei made dozens of international calls that month but on August 14—Mickey's birthday—he telephoned a dacha southwest of Moscow and talked for more than an hour.
Dmitri turns in his seat. “And you have no idea who is living in this house?” He speaks English with an American accent.
“Nothing firm.”
“Are you even sure this girl is in Russia?”
“No.”
“So this is a theory.” He nods apologetically to Rachel.
Turning back to the track, he holds on to his hat as we hit another bump. The shadows are impenetrable spaces between the trees.
“And you think you will recognize this girl if she is your daughter?”
Rachel nods.
“After more than three years! Children forget. Maybe she is happy here. Maybe you should leave her alone.”
The forest relents for a moment, opening out into a clearing dotted with prefabricated houses, rusting cars and power cables slung from poles. Crows lift off from the ground like scraps of ash swirling from a fire.
Soon the trees blur the side of the track again and the car slides in and out of the ruts. Crossing a narrow bridge over a murky tributary, we come to an open gate across the road. A lake emerges on our left, the dark water broken by a makeshift pier that leans at an angle. Tied to one of the pylons are inner tubes, marooned in thickening ice.
Overnight snow has settled on the newly formed crust, so thin I can see the darkness of the lake beneath it, thick like blood. A shiver runs through me and I imagine Luke's face, pressing up against the ice from below.
The house, screened by ash trees, emerges at the end of a driveway paved with loose gravel. Most of the windows are shuttered and outdoor tables and chairs rest upside down on a paved area within a rose garden.
The driveway runs out at a large rectangular courtyard. A silver Mercedes, streaked with mud, is parked near the doors to a stable. The driver's door is open and Aleksei is sitting on the ground, propped against the wheel. A fine rain is falling, collecting on the shoulders of his overcoat and clinging to his hair. His face is completely white except for a neat black hole in his forehead. He looks surprised, as though he slipped on the ice and is gathering his thoughts before he gets up again.
The black Gallants pull up on the far side of the courtyard. The doors open and guns are pointed across hoods or bonnets or whatever the Russians call them.
A man steps from the door of the house carrying a rifle in the crook of his arm. He is younger than Aleksei but has the same narrow nose and high forehead. His heavy trousers are tucked into lace-up boots and a knife hangs from a sheath on his belt.
Stepping out from behind the car, I walk toward him. He raises the rifle and rests it across his shoulder like a boy soldier.
“Hello, Sacha.”
He nods and doesn't answer. Glancing at Aleksei he shows a flicker of remorse in the lowering of his eyelids.
“Everyone thinks you're dead.”
“The old Sacha is dead. You von't find him here.”
He has lost almost all trace of his English accent. Unlike Aleksei, Sacha didn't ever try to hide his Russian accent or his roots.
Rachel steps out of the car. She hasn't taken her eyes off Aleksei. It is as if she imagines he is going to wipe the blood from his forehead and stand up, having rested long enough.
The rain has turned to sleet.
“You want to tell me what happened?”
He glances at his boots. “Things have gone too far. He should never have come. He took her away from one home and now he wanted to take her away again. He has caused enough trouble.”
A woman appears in the doorway behind him. A young girl is pressed against her.
“This is my wife, Elena,” says Sacha.
Her arm is wrapped around the girl's shoulders, shielding her from the sight of Aleksei's body.
“We have taken good care of her. She has never wanted for anything.” Sacha searches for the words. “She has been like a daughter . . .”
Rachel's hand flutters to her mouth as if trying to stop her breath escaping. She moves forward, past my shoulder, crossing the distance between them.
Mickey is wearing jodhpurs and a riding jacket. Her hair is plaited and rests across her shoulder. Elena has an identical plait.
Edging closer, Rachel drops to her knees. The toes of her boots barely move the frozen gravel.
Mickey says something to Elena in Russian.
“English now,” says Sacha. “You're going home.”
“But this is home.”
He smiles at her gently. “Not anymore. You are an English girl.”
“No!” She shakes her head angrily, beginning to cry.
“Listen to me.” Sacha rests the rifle against the wall of the house and crouches beside her. “Don't cry. I have taught you to be strong. Remember when we went ice fishing last winter? How cold it was? You never once complained. Nyet.”
She throws her arms around him, sobbing into his neck.
Rachel has watched with a mixture of trepidation and expectation. She takes a deep breath. “I've missed you, Mickey.”
Mickey lifts her face and smears a tear across her cheek with the palm of her hand.
“I've been waiting for you a long time. I stayed in the one place—hoping I might find you. I still have your room and all your toys.”
“I can ride a horse now,” announces Mickey.
“Really!”
“And I can ice-skate. I'm not scared of going outside anymore.”
“I can see that. You've grown so tall. I bet you can reach the top cupboard in the kitchen, near the window.”
“Where you keep the treats.”
“You remember.” Rachel's eyes are shining. She holds out her fingers. Mickey looks at her tentatively and stretches out her own hand. Rachel draws her close and breathes in the smell of her hair.
“I'm OK now,” says Mickey. “You don't have to cry.”
“I know.”
Rachel looks up at me and then at Sacha, who thumps his chest trying to clear his throat. The young Russian policemen have gathered around Aleksei's body, running fingers over the collar of his handmade shirt and feeling the softness of his cashmere overcoat. Dmitri has unclipped the wristwatch and compares it to his own.
Meanwhile, the snow whispers down, swirling in eddies and whirlpools, turning shades of gray into black and white.
Another country. Another mother and child.
Daj is in a wheelchair with me alongside, enduring one of those long silences that other people find awkward. She is wrapped in a white shawl that she holds together with her curling hands as she stares motionless out the window like an ancient malevolent bird of prey.
Behind us a flower-arranging class is setting up on the tables. Blue rinses and gray heads hum, coo and twitter to each other, as they sort through greenery and blooms of different colors.
I show Daj the front page of a newspaper. The photograph is of Mickey and Rachel, embracing for the cameras in the arrival hall at Heathrow Airport. You can just see me in the background, pushing the luggage cart. Perched on the top suitcase is a hand-painted babushka doll.
Joe is in the photograph, too. Standing next to him is Ali out of her wh
eelchair, leaning on his shoulder for support. She's holding a poster saying, “Welcome home, Mickey!”
“Remember that missing girl, Daj—the one I tried to find all those years ago? Well, I found her. I brought her home.”
For a brief moment Daj looks at me proudly, curling her long fingers through mine. Then I realize that she doesn't understand. Her mind is answering a different statement.
“Make sure Luke doesn't go outside without his scarf.”
“OK.”
“And if he rides his bike make sure he tucks his trouser bottoms into his socks so he doesn't get grease on them.”
I nod. She lets go of my hand and brushes a nonexistent crumb from her lap.
From now on I will visit her more often—not just at weekends but in the evening, too. I know that most of the time she forgets I am here. She labors to remember but it's beyond her powers and fading strength.
Villawood Lodge is expensive and most of my savings are gone. For the briefest of moments I contemplated keeping a handful of the diamonds or perhaps giving some of them to Ali as compensation for what she's been through. She wouldn't have taken them, of course, and I can understand why. They're covered in blood.
Harold, the gardener at Aleksei's house in Hampstead, found the stones and gratefully accepted a reward. He was even photographed by the newspapers, leaning on a sundial and pointing to where he discovered the four velvet bags.
Daj turns her head and listens. Someone is playing the piano in the music room. Outside an exercise class power walks through the garden, a platoon of swinging arms and swaying buttocks. The leader lifts her knees and glances over her shoulder to make sure she hasn't left any stragglers behind.
“I can see all the lost children,” Daj whispers. “You have to find them.”
“I can't bring them all back.”
“You haven't tried.”
She is looking at me now—recognizing me. I want to hold on to the moment because I know it won't last. Something will stir the breeze and her mind will scatter like dandelion seeds.
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