Lost (45 page)

“I'm so sorry. It was a stupid, foolish quest. I just wanted . . . I just hoped Mickey might be alive, you know. And now look! You're here and people are dead and Rachel is grieving al over again. And tomorrow Howard is going to get his retrial. It's my fault. What I've done is unforgivable.” Ali doesn't answer. Outside the sky is tinged with pink and the streetlights are blinking on. I rock forward and stare into the glass. She reaches out and puts her hand on my shoulder to stop it shaking.

“It hurts al over,” I moan. “Why put a child on this Earth and give her seven years if you're going to al ow her to be kidnapped, raped, tortured, terrified or whatever else happened?”

“There's no answer to that.”

“I don't believe in God. I don't believe in eternal life or Heaven or reincarnation. Wil you ask your God for me? Ask him why.” Ali looks at me sadly. “He doesn't work like that.”

“Wel ask him for his grand plan. While he concentrates on the big picture, who looks after kids like Mickey? One child might seem petty and trivial among a few bil ion but he could start by saving one at a time.”

I down the rest of the whiskey, feeling the alcohol burn my throat. I'm already drunk, but not drunk enough.

A black cab drops me home. Fumbling for the keys, I stagger inside and up the stairs, where I lean over the toilet and vomit. Afterward I splash water on my face, letting it leak down my neck and chest.

Staring back from the mirror is a pal id, leering stranger. In his eyes I see Mickey standing at the bottom of the escalator and Daj behind the razor wire and Luke lying beneath the ice.

I seem to have no other memories. Missing children, abused children and dead children fil my thoughts. Babies drowned in bathtubs, toddlers shaken into comas, children sent to gas chambers or snatched from playgrounds or suffocated beneath pil ows. How can I blame God when I couldn't save one little girl?

37

Opposite the Royal Courts of Justice a deliveryman is unloading naked mannequins from a truck. Male and female dummies are frozen in an orgy of plaster, some with wigs and others bare. The driver carries them two at a time, balanced across his shoulders, with his hands between each pair of buttocks to stop them from fal ing. I can see him laughing as cabdrivers toot their horns and office workers lean out of windows.

I stand and watch. It's good to smile.

The feeling doesn't last. Rachel Carlyle looks up as I approach along the corridor. Her gaze is not quite focused and her smile vague, as though she doesn't immediately recognize me. Light coming through high windows is broken and refracted, dissipating before it reaches the depths of the marble entrance hal .

I take her off to one side, finding an empty conference room. Making her sit down I tel her the same story that Kirsten told me, trying to leave nothing out. When I reach the point about Mickey crossing London alone, late at night, she squeezes her eyes shut, endeavoring to rid herself of the image.

“Where is Kirsten now?”

“She's battling an infection. The next forty-eight hours wil be crucial.”

Rachel's face is etched with concern. Her capacity for forgiveness is beyond mine. I can imagine her saying a prayer for Kirsten or lighting a candle. She should be railing against her and against me. I raised her hopes and look at us now.

Instead she blames herself. “If I hadn't asked Aleksei for the ransom none of this would have happened.”

“No. He was punishing them for what happened to Mickey, not for anything you did.”

Her voice drops. “I just wanted her back.”

“I know.”

I look at my watch. We're due in court. Rachel pauses for a moment, drawing strength, before leaving the room. The corridors and public areas have emptied slightly. The Rook is on the stairs. Eddie Barrett is three steps above him, putting them at eye level. The Rook looks invigorated while Eddie growls and gesticulates, almost eating the air.

Rachel takes my arm to steady herself. “If Aleksei received an original ransom demand why didn't he say anything?”

“I guess he didn't want the police involved.”

“Yes, but afterward, when Mickey didn't come home, he could have said something then.”

I don't know the answer. I suspect he didn't want to advertise his mistake. He is also conceited enough to believe he could find Mickey before the police. He must have known how close she came to making it home—less than eighty-five steps. How that must have torn him apart.

Lord Connel y keeps everyone waiting. He enters the courtroom at ten minutes past ten and the room rises. Then he careful y places his walnut palm gavel to his right and his glass of water to his left.

Howard emerges from below. He is clutching a Bible with red ribbons marking the pages. His eyes look bruised but defiant. Eddie Barrett shakes his hand and Howard gives him a weary smile.

Fiona Hanley, QC, is already on her feet. “Perhaps I can expedite these proceedings a little, Your Honor. Due to information that has come to light over the weekend, the Crown does not oppose the defense application and are content for this case to be retried at the court's earliest convenience.” There is an audible gasp. Blood surges in the air and eyes shift to Howard. I don't think he understands. Even Eddie Barrett looks amazed.

“My chambers,” Lord Connel y says. He exits stage right like a black-caped crusader.

Four of us wait in the outer office. Eddie Barrett and the Rook are whispering in one corner. The Rook is actual y smiling, an expression that doesn't come natural y to him.

Meanwhile, Fiona Hanley avoids my gaze, wrapping her robe around herself.

Lord Connel y's assistant, a large-breasted black woman, has a bril iant smile reserved only for His Honor. She has been with him fifteen years and we've al heard the rumors.

“He'l see you now,” she says, pointing to the door.

Eddie takes a step back and lets Miss Hanley go first, bowing slightly and showing his monklike dome.

There are only three chairs in front of the Judge's desk. I stand with my back to the bookshelves that line the wal s. Lord Connel y has removed his wig. His
own
hair is similarly white, trimmed neatly above his ears. His voice takes on a kind of exalted public-school inflection.

“I spent four days writing up this judgment and now you spring this.” His gaze settles on Fiona.

“I apologize, Your Honor, I only learned of this late yesterday.”

“And whose bright idea was it?”

“Further information has come to light—”

“Which casts doubt on Mr. Wavel 's guilt?”

She hesitates. “It creates complications.”

“I hope you're not tel ing me one thing and meaning something else.”

Eddie is beside himself with glee. The Judge fixes him with a glare. “And you can keep your thoughts to yourself, Mr. Barrett. I have had a bel yful of you in my courtrooms and I won't put up with it in here.”

Eddie's smile is erased.

Getting to his feet, Lord Connel y walks behind his chair and braces his hand on the backrest. His eyes settle on me. “I understand that I shouldn't refer to your rank anymore, DI Ruiz, but perhaps you can enlighten me on what is happening here.”

“The police have a new witness.”

“A witness or a suspect?”

“Both.”

“In your evidence several days ago you expressed an opinion that Michaela Carlyle might be alive. Is that stil the case?”

“No, Your Honor.”

Sadness flickers in his eyes. “And this new witness has led you to question what happened?”

“She has confessed to the kidnapping of Michaela Carlyle and sending a subsequent ransom demand. She wil testify that Mickey was released unharmed after three days.”

“And then what?”

“We believe she made it as far as Dolphin Mansions.”

The Judge can see where I'm going now. He grinds his teeth as though trying to wear them down. “This is ridiculous!” Eddie interrupts. “We
will
be applying for bail, Your Honor.”

“
You
keep your mouth shut.”

I raise my voice above both of them. “Howard Wavel is a child kil er. He should stay in prison.”

“Bul shit,” mutters Eddie. “He's ugly and he's weird but last time I looked that stil wasn't a crime. We can both be grateful for that.”

“You can both be quiet,” says Lord Connel y, wanting to tear strips off someone. “Next person to utter a sound gets locked up for contempt.” He addresses me. “DI Ruiz, I hope you're going to explain to that poor girl's family what's happening.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

He turns to the others. “I am going to grant the defense leave to appeal. I am also going to make sure they have plenty of opportunity to examine this new evidence. I want a level playing field. You can make your case for bail, Mr. Raynor, but I remind you that your client has been convicted of murder and the presumption of guilt must remain—”

“Your Honor, my client is gravely il and requires medical attention he is not receiving in prison. The humanitarian considerations outweigh . . .” Lord Connel y wags his finger. “Now is not the time or the place. Make your case in court.”

The rest of the hearing passes in a blur of legal argument and il temper. Leave to appeal is granted and Lord Connel y orders a retrial but refuses to release Howard from prison.

Instead he orders that he be transferred to a civilian hospital under armed guard.

There is pandemonium outside the courtroom. Reporters yel into phones and jostle to get close to Rachel, shouting questions and answers, as though wanting her to agree.

Her arms are locked around my waist, her breasts against my back. It's like a rugby maul without the bal as we try to cross the gain line. Eddie Barrett, an unlikely savior, takes his briefcase and swings it from side to side like a scythe, clearing a path.

“It might be time to consider an alternative exit,” he shouts, pointing to a door marked OFFICIALS ONLY.

Eddie is an old hand at exiting courthouses through basements and back doors. He leads us down corridors, past offices and holding cel s, getting deeper into the building.

Eventual y, we emerge into a cobblestoned courtyard where industrial trash containers await col ection and wire netting is stretched above our heads to stop the pigeons from landing.

The gates slide open electronical y and an ambulance pul s through them. Howard is waiting on the stone steps, head in hands, staring sul enly at the tips of his scuffed shoes.

Police officers and prison guards stand on either side of him.

Eddie lights a cigarette in the hol ow of his hand, inclining his head as he does so. The smoke floats past his eyes and scatters as he exhales. He offers me one and I feel an impulse toward comradeship; the solidarity of lost soldiers on a battlefield.

“You know he did it.”

“That's not what he says.”

“But what do
you
think?”

Eddie chuckles. “You want true confessions talk to Oprah.”

Rachel is nearby, gazing toward Howard. The paramedics have opened the rear doors and are pul ing out a stretcher.

“Can I talk to him?” she asks.

Eddie doesn't think it is appropriate.

“I just want to ask how he is.”

Eddie looks at me. I shrug my shoulders.

She crosses the courtyard. The police officers step aside and she stands beside the stretcher. I can't hear what they're saying. She reaches out and puts her hand on his shoulder.

Eddie raises his face to the square of sky above. “What are you trying to do, Inspector?”

“I'm trying to get to the truth.”

He inclines his head, respectful but stubborn. “In my experience almost al truths are lies.” His features have softened and his face looks unexpectedly gentle. “You said Mickey was set free by her kidnappers. When was that?”

“Wednesday night.”

He nods.

I remember that night. I watched Rachel being interviewed on
News at Ten
. That's why she wasn't there when Mickey arrived home. A detective was posted at her flat but Mickey didn't get a chance to press the buzzer. My mind puts everyone where they should have been. Mental y I lift off the roof of Dolphin Mansions and put people inside or take them out. It's like playing with dol s in a dol house. Mrs. Swingler, Kirsten, Ray Murphy . . . I put Mickey outside, walking up the steps.

A piece is missing. Turning away from Eddie I walk across the courtyard toward Howard. The paramedics have strapped him to a gurney and are lifting him into the ambulance.

“What did you do on Wednesday evenings, Howard?”

He looks at me blankly.

“Before you went to prison. What did you do?”

He clears his throat. “Choir practice. I never missed a choir practice—not in seven years.”

There is a pause for the information to sink in—barely a heartbeat, even less, the pause between heartbeats. I have been a fool. I have spent so much time concentrating on finding Kirsten that I didn't see the other possibilities.

Moving away from them, I can see myself running into the street, whistling at cabs to stop. At the same time I yel into my cel phone, making no sense at al . I don't have al the facts. But I have enough. I know what happened.