Lost (13 page)

“And how are the children going to judge you?”

He goes silent.

Sweat rings beneath his arms have spread out and merged, plastering his shirt to his skin so that I can see every freckle and mole. There's something else on his back, beneath the fabric. Something has discolored the material, turning it yel ow.

Howard has to look over his right shoulder to see me. He grimaces slightly. At that same moment, I force him forward across the table. Deaf to his squeals that are muffled against my forearm, I lift his shirt. His flesh is like pulped melon. Angry wounds crisscross his back, weeping blood and yel ow crystal ine scum.

Prison guards are running toward us. One of them puts a handkerchief over his mouth.

“Get a doctor,” I yel . “Move!”

Commands are shouted and phone cal s are made. Howard is screaming and thrashing like he's on fire. Suddenly, he lies stil , with his arms stretched across the table.

“Who did this to you?”

He doesn't answer.

“Talk to me. Who did this?”

He mumbles something. I can't quite hear him. Leaning closer, I pick up the words, “Suffer the little children to come unto me and forbid them not . . . never yield to temptation . .

.”

There is something tucked inside the sleeve of his shirt. He doesn't stop me pul ing it free. It's the wooden handle of a skipping rope, threaded with a twelve-inch strand of fencing wire. Self-flagel ation, self-mutilation, fasting and flogging—can someone please explain them to me?

Howard shrugs my hand away and gets to his feet. He won't wait for a doctor and he doesn't want to talk any more. He shuffles toward the door, with his flapping shoes, yel ow skin and shal ow breathing. At the last possible moment he turns and I'm expecting one of those pleading, kicked-dog looks.

Instead I get something different. This man whom I helped lock away for murder; who flays himself with fencing wire, who every day is spat upon, jeered, threatened and abused

. . . this man looks sorry for
me
.

Eighty-five steps and ninety-four hours—that's how long Mickey had been missing when I served a search warrant on number 9 Dolphin Mansions.

“Surprise. Surprise,” I said as Howard opened the door. His large eyes bulged slightly and his mouth opened but no sound came out. He was wearing a pajama top, long shorts with an elasticized waist and dark brown loafers that accentuated the whiteness of his shins.

I started like I always did—tel ing Howard how much I knew about him. He was single, never married. He grew up in Warrington, the youngest of seven children in a big loud Protestant family. Both his parents were dead. He had twenty-eight nieces and nephews and was godfather to eleven of them. In 1962 he was hospitalized after a traffic accident. A year later he suffered a nervous breakdown and became a voluntary outpatient at a clinic in north London. He had worked as a storeman, a laborer, a painter and decorator, a van driver and now a gardener. He went to church three times a week, sang in the choir, read biographies, was al ergic to strawberries and took photographs in his spare time.

I wanted Howard to feel like he was fifteen and I had just caught him jerking off in the showers at Cottesloe Park. And no matter what excuses he offered, I'd know he was lying.

Fear and uncertainty—the most powerful weapons in the known world.

“You left something out,” he mumbled.

“What's that?”

“I'm a diabetic. Insulin shots, the whole business.”

“My uncle had that.”

“Don't tel me—he gave up chocolate bars and started jogging and his diabetes went away. I hear that al the time. That and, ‘Christ, I would just die if I had to stick a needle in myself every day.' Or this is a good one, ‘You get that from being fat don't you?'”

People were trooping past us, wearing overal s and gloves. Some carried metal boxes with photographic equipment and lights. Duckboards had been laid like stepping-stones down the hal .

“What are you looking for?” he asked softly.

“Evidence. That's what detectives do. It's what we use to support a case. It turns hypothesis into theories and theories into cases.”

“I'm a case.”

“A work in progress.”

That was the truth of it. I couldn't say what I was looking for until I found it—clothing, fingerprints, binding material, videos, photographs, a seven-year-old girl with a lisp . . . any of the above.

“I want a lawyer.”

“Good. You can use my phone. Afterward we'l go outside and hold a joint press conference on the front steps.”

“You can't take me out there.” The television cameras were lined up along the pavement like metal Triffids, waiting to lash out at anyone who left the building.

Howard sat down on the staircase, holding on to the banister for support.

“I can smel bleach.”

“I was cleaning.”

“My eyes are watering, Howard. What were you cleaning?”

“I spil ed some chemicals in my darkroom.”

There were scratches on his wrists. I pointed to them. “How did you get those?”

“Two of Mrs. Swingler's cats got loose in the garden. One of your officers left the door open. I helped her get them back.” He listened to the sound of drawers being opened and furniture moved.

“Do you know the story of Adam and Eve, Howard? It was the most important moment in human history, the tel ing of the first lie. That's what separates us from the other animals. It has nothing to do with humans thinking on a higher plane or having easily available credit. We lie to each other. We deliberately mislead. I think you're a truthful person, Howard, but you're providing me with false information. A liar has a choice.”

“I'm tel ing you the truth.”

“Do you have any secrets?”

“No.”

“Did you and Mickey have a secret?”

He shook his head. “Am I under arrest?”

“No. You're helping us with our inquiries. You're a very helpful man. I noticed that right from the beginning when you were taking photographs and printing flyers.”

“I was showing people what Mickey looked like.”

“There you go. Helpful. That's what you are.”

The search took three hours. Surfaces were dusted, carpets vacuumed, clothes brushed and sinks dismantled. Overseeing the operation was George Noonan, a veteran scene of crime investigator who is almost albino with his completely white hair and pale skin. Noonan seems to resent searches where he doesn't have a body to work with. For him death is always a bonus.

“You might want to see this,” he said.

I fol owed him down the hal way to the sitting room. He had sealed off al sources of light by blacking out windows and using masking tape around the edges of the doors. He positioned me in front of the fireplace, closed the door and turned off the light.

Darkness. I couldn't even see my feet. Then I noticed a smal pattern of droplets, glowing blue-green on the carpet.

“They could be low-velocity bloodstains,” explained Noonan. “The hemoglobin in blood reacts to the luminol, a chemical that I sprayed on the floor. Substances like household bleach can trigger the same reaction but I think this is blood.”

“You said low velocity?”

“A slow bleeder—probably not a stab wound.”

The droplets were no bigger than bread crumbs and stopped abruptly in a straight line.

“There used to be something here—possibly a carpet or a rug,” he explains.

“With more blood on it?”

“He may have tried to get rid of the evidence.”

“Or wrapped up a body. Is there enough to get DNA?”

“I believe so.”

My knee joints creaked as I stood. Noonan turned on the light.

“We found something else.” He held up a pair of child's bikini briefs sealed in a plastic evidence bag. “There don't appear to be traces of blood or semen. I won't be sure until I get it back to the lab.”

Howard had waited on the stairs. I didn't ask him about the bloodstains or the underwear. Nor did I query the 86,000 images of children on his computer hard drive or the six boxes of clothing catalogs—al featuring children—beneath his bed. The time for that would come later.

Howard's world had been turned upside down and emptied like the contents of a drawer yet he didn't even raise his head as the last officer left.

Emerging onto the front steps, I blinked into the sunshine and turned to the cameras. “We have served a search warrant at this address. A man is helping us with our inquiries.

He is not under arrest. I want you to respect his privacy and leave the residents of this building alone. Do not jeopardize this investigation.” A barrage of questions came from beyond the cameras.

“Is Mickey Carlyle stil alive?”

“Are you close to making an arrest?”

“Is it true you found photographs?”

Pushing through the crowd I walked to my car, refusing to answer any questions. At the last moment, I turned back and glanced up at Dolphin Mansions. Howard peered from the window. He didn't look at me. Instead he stared at the TV cameras and realized, with a growing sense of horror, that they weren't going to leave. They were waiting for
him
.

10

Emerging from the prison, I get a sudden, stultifying sense of déjà vu. A black BMW pul s up suddenly, the door opens and Aleksei Kuznet steps onto the pavement. His hair is dark and wet, clinging to his scalp as though glued there.

How did he know I was here?

A bodyguard appears behind him, the sort of paid thug who bulks up in prison weight rooms and settles arguments with a tire iron. He has Slavic features and walks with his left arm swinging less freely than his right because of the gun beneath his armpit.

“DI Ruiz, are you visiting a friend?”

“I could ask you the same question.”

Ali is out of the car and running toward me. The Russian reaches inside his coat and for a moment I have visions of al hel breaking loose. Aleksei flashes a look and the situation defuses. Hands are withdrawn and coats are buttoned.

Ali's aggressive demeanor amuses Aleksei and he spends a moment examining her face and figure. Then he tel s her to run along because he doesn't need cookies today.

Ali glances at me, waiting for a signal. “Stretch your legs. I won't be long.”

She doesn't go far, just to the other side of the square, where she turns and watches.

“Forgive me,” Aleksei says, “I didn't mean to insult your young friend.”

“She's a police officer.”

“Real y! They take al colors nowadays. Has your memory returned?”

“No.”

“How unfortunate.”

His eyes rove over mine with an aloof curiosity. He doesn't believe me. He glances around the square.

“Do you know that nowadays there is a digital shotgun microphone that can pick up a conversation in a park or a restaurant from more than a thousand feet away?”

“The Met isn't that sophisticated.”

“Maybe not.”

“I'm not trying to trap you, Aleksei. Nobody is listening. I honestly can't remember what happened.”

“It is very simple—I gave you 965 one-carat or above, superior-quality diamonds. You promised to pick up my daughter. I made myself perfectly clear—I don't pay for things twice.”

His phone is ringing. Reaching into his jacket, he pul s out a sleek cel phone, smal er than a cigarette box, and reads the text message.

“I am a gadget geek, Inspector,” he explains. “Someone stole my phone recently. Of course, I reported it to the police. I also cal ed the thief and told him what I would do to him.”

“Did he return your property?”

“It makes no difference. He was very apologetic when I saw him last. He couldn't actual y tel me this in his own words. His vocal cords had burned off. People should mark acid bottles more careful y.”

Aleksei's eyes ghost across the cobblestones. “You took my diamonds. You were going to keep my investment safe.” I think of my overcoat on the seat of Ali's car. If only he knew!

“Is Mickey stil alive?”

“You tel me!”

“If there was a ransom demand, there must have been proof of life.”

“They sent strands of hair. You organized the DNA tests. The hair belonged to Mickey.”

“That doesn't prove she's alive. The hair could have come from a hairbrush or a pil ow; it could have been col ected three years ago. It could have been a hoax.”

“Yes, Inspector, but you
were
sure. You staked your life on it.”

I don't like the way he says “life.” He makes it sound like a worthless wager. Panic spikes in my chest.

“Why did you believe me?”

He blinks at me coldly. “Tel me what choice I had.”

Suddenly, I recognize his dilemma. Whether Mickey was alive or dead made no difference—Aleksei
had
to provide the ransom. It was about saving face and grasping at straws. Imagine a one-in-a-thousand chance of getting her back. He couldn't ignore it. How would it look? What would people say? A father is supposed to cling to impossible dreams.

He must keep his children safe and bring them home.

Maybe it's this knowledge but I feel a sudden rush of tenderness toward Aleksei. Almost as quickly I remember the attack at the hospital.

“Somebody tried to kil me yesterday.”