Lost
Authors: Michael Robotham
Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Mystery & Detective, #Psychological, #Suspense, #Thrillers, #Police Procedural, #England, #Police, #Crimes Against, #Boys, #London (England), #Missing Children, #London, #Amnesia, #Recovered Memory
| Lost - SA | |
| Stand Alone [0] | |
| Michael Robotham | |
| Vintage (2006) | |
| Rating: | ★★★★☆ |
| Tags: | Fiction, General, Mystery & Detective, Psychological, Suspense, Thrillers, Police Procedural, England, Police, Crimes Against, Boys, London (England), Missing Children, London, Amnesia, Recovered Memory |
Det. Insp. Vincent Ruiz (a supporting character in Robotham's debut,
Suspect
) is hauled out of the Thames with a bullet wound in his leg and no memory of a shooting, let alone how he wound up in the water in Robotham's fine, moody second thriller. Keebal, a nasty cop from internal affairs, hounds Ruiz from the start, and everyone seems to know something Ruiz doesn't. When psychologist Joe O'Loughlin (the protagonist of
Suspect
) shows Ruiz a picture of young Mickey Carlyle—a seven-year-old girl kidnapped three years earlier whom everyone but Ruiz thinks is dead—he figures there must be some connection between her case and his shooting. Despite his injuries, Ruiz retraces this investigation with the help of his partner, a young Sikh woman named Ali. The past returns in dribs and drabs and none too gently. Mickey is the daughter of a Russian-born crime lord, Aleksei Kuznet; a cache of diamonds and a man known as a "grooming paedophile" also figure prominently in the splintered plot. The warm relationship between Ruiz and Joe, who suffers from Parkinson's, counterpoints the main story line's grit. Robotham works some good wrinkles into Ruiz's relationship with Ali and an empathetic nurse, too. The result is a thoughtful and subtle thriller, with convincing, three-dimensional characters.
(Feb.)
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.
Adult/High School Robotham's second mystery features some of the cast from
Suspect
(Doubleday, 2005), including Detective Inspector Vincent Ruiz and clinical psychologist Joseph O'Loughlin. The fast-paced action opens with a half-dead Ruiz being fished out of the Thames. When he awakens from his coma, he has no memory of why he was in the river, almost dead from a bullet wound to his leg, nor can he remember anything from the week leading up to his injury. With the help of O'Loughlin, Ruiz begins piecing together details that show he was following up on the disappearance of eight-year-old Mickey Carlyle. The only problem? Mickey disappeared three years earlier, and a sexual predator has been convicted of her murder. As Ruiz retraces his steps, he relives several incidents from his past that are linked to his need to investigate a closed case. This is a fast-paced thriller with plenty of adventure; Ruiz's hunt for answers takes him deep into the sewers below London and into the cold waters of the Thames. The characters are complex; Ruiz, the son of a Gypsy woman raped by German soldiers in World War II, is haunted by the childhood drowning of his half-brother, even though he's estranged from his own children. Robotham understands that some quests are worth any sacrifice no matter how long the odds of success might be. This is a subtle and taut thriller with convincing characters and strong psychological components.
Erin Dennington, Chantilly Regional Library, Fairfax County, VA
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.
Contents
Title Page
Epigraph
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Also by Michael Robotham
Copyright Page
For my mother and father
Wealth lost, something lost;
Honor lost, much lost;
Courage lost, all lost.
GE RMA N P ROV E RB
acknowledgments
I wish to thank the usual suspects, such as my agent, Mark Lucas, and my different publishers around the world who have helped me to find the heart of
Lost
. They share my gratitude along with those who toil in the background bringing books to life.
Again I am indebted to Vivien, a passionate reader, stern critic, bedroom psychologist, gentle reviewer and mother to my children, who has lived with my characters and my sleepless nights. Last time I said a lesser woman would have slept in the guest room. I was wrong. A lesser woman would have banished
me
to the guest room.
1
The Thames, London
I remember someone once tel ing me that you know it's cold when you see a lawyer with his hands in his
own
pockets. It's colder than that now. My mouth is numb and every breath is like slivers of ice in my lungs.
People are shouting and shining flashlights in my eyes. In the meantime, I'm hugging this big yel ow buoy like it's Marilyn Monroe. A very fat Marilyn Monroe, after she took al the pil s and went to seed.
My favorite Monroe film is
Some Like It Hot
with Jack Lemmon and Tony Curtis. I don't know why I should think of that now, although how anyone could mistake Jack Lemmon for a woman is beyond me.
A guy with a real y thick mustache and pizza breath is panting in my ear. He's wearing a life vest and trying to peel my fingers away from the buoy. I'm too cold to move. He wraps his arms around my chest and pul s me backward through the water. More people, silhouetted against the lights, take hold of my arms, lifting me onto the deck.
“Jesus, look at his leg!” someone says.
“He's been shot!”
Who are they talking about?
People are shouting al over again, yel ing for bandages and plasma. A black guy with a gold earring slides a needle into my arm and puts a bag over my face.
“Someone get some blankets. Let's keep this guy warm.”
“He's palping at one-twenty.”
“One-twenty?”
“Palping at one-twenty.”
“Any head injuries?”
“That's negative.”
The engine roars and we're moving. I can't feel my legs. I can't feel anything—not even the cold anymore. The lights are also disappearing. Darkness has seeped into my eyes.
“Ready?”
“Yeah.”
“One, two, three.”
“Watch the IV lines. Watch the IV lines.”
“I got it.”
“Bag a couple of times.”
“OK.”
The guy with pizza breath is puffing real y hard now, running alongside the gurney. His fist is in front of my face, pressing a bag to force air into my lungs. They lift again and square lights pass overhead. I can stil see.
A siren wails in my head. Every time we slow down it gets louder and closer. Someone is talking on a radio. “We've pumped two liters of fluid. He's on his fourth unit of blood.
He's bleeding out. Systolic pressure dropping.”
“He needs volume.”
“Squeeze in another bag of fluid.”
“He's seizing!”
“He's seizing. See that?”
One of the machines has gone into a prolonged cry. Why don't they turn it off?
Pizza breath rips open my shirt and slaps two pads on my chest.
“CLEAR!” he yel s.
The pain almost blows the top of my skul clean off.
He does that again and I'l break his arms.
“CLEAR!”
I swear to God I'm going to remember you, pizza breath. I'm going to remember exactly who you are. And when I get out of here I'm coming looking for you. I was happier in the river. Take me back to Marilyn Monroe.
I am awake now. My eyelids flutter as if fighting gravity. Squeezing them shut, I try again, blinking into the darkness.
Turning my head, I can make out orange dials on a machine near the bed and a green blip of light sliding across a liquid crystal display window like one of those stereo systems with bouncing waves of colored light.
Where am I?
Beside my head is a chrome stand that catches stars on its curves. Suspended from a hook is a plastic satchel bulging with a clear fluid. The liquid trails down a pliable plastic tube and disappears under a wide strip of surgical tape wrapped around my left forearm.
I'm in a hospital room. There is a pad on the bedside table. Reaching toward it, I suddenly notice my left hand—not so much my hand as a finger. It's missing. Instead of a digit and a wedding ring I have a lump of gauze dressing. I stare at it idiotical y, as though this is some sort of magic trick.
When the twins were youngsters, we had a game where I pul ed off my thumb and if they sneezed it would come back again. Michael used to laugh so hard he almost wet his pants.
Fumbling for the pad, I read the letterhead: St. Mary's Hospital, Paddington, London. There is nothing in the drawer except a Bible and a copy of the Koran.
I spy a clipboard hanging at the end of the bed. Reaching down, I feel a sudden pain that explodes from my right leg and shoots out of the top of my head. Christ! Do not, under any circumstances, do that again.
Curled up in a bal , I wait for the pain to go away. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath. If I concentrate very hard on a particular point just under my jawbone, I actual y feel the blood sliding back and forth beneath my skin, squeezing into smal er and smal er channels, circulating oxygen.
My estranged wife, Miranda, is such a lousy sleeper that she said my heart kept her awake because it beat too loudly. I didn't snore or wake with the night terrors, but my heart pumped up a riot. This has been listed among Miranda's grounds for divorce. I'm exaggerating, of course. She doesn't need extra justification.
