Lost (23 page)

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 smel his aftershave—Eau de Clan. Where are your parents?”

“At my Aunt Meena's house—they'l 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 al owed to undertake private investigations or carry a firearm. There's going to be a hearing.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Don'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'l 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 sel ing 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.”

“Sel ing 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 al the bil s 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 bol ocks 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 il egals.” It smel s like something else to me—cleft cheeks, dewy thighs and hol ows 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 cal ed 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 equal y 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 col apsing 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 mil ion 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 col ects my coffee cup. “I know you don't agree, Sir, but I stil 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 al night and stil 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 tel you now there were five drug overdoses, three stolen cars, six burglaries, a carjacking, five hoax cal s, 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 shel 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 tel me why?”

“A man's al owed 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 rol ing her eyes. Instead she reaches past me and takes the phone.

“Who are you cal ing?”

“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, spil ing into the hol ow 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 wal et 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 yel s into the phone. I don't think she understands 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 cal .”

“I cal ed 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 real y 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 Vil awood 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.”

I feel my cheeks redden. Daj didn't just steal a Jewish woman's name—she adopted a whole demeanor.

“What do you mean, I ran away last time?”

She turns to Ali. “You see he never listens. Not even as a baby. Head ful of fluff.”

“When was I here last?”

“See! You've forgotten. It's been so long. Luke doesn't forget. Luke looks after me.”

“Luke is dead, Daj. What day did I come?”

“Hmmphf! It was a Sunday. You had the newspapers and you were waiting for a cal .”

“How do you know?”

“The mother of that missing girl cal ed you. She must have been very upset. You were tel ing her to be patient and wait for the cal .” She returns to brushing her arms with her hands.

“I need to see that envelope.”

“You won't find it unless I tel you where it is.”

“I don't have time for this.”

“You never have time. I want you to take me for a walk.”

She's wearing her walking shoes and a warm coat. I take her arm and we shuffle along the white gravel path, moving in slow motion as her feet struggle to keep up with mine. A handful of residents are doing tai chi on the lawn. Elsewhere the gardeners are planting bulbs for the spring.