Lost (46 page)

The traces of hair dye on Mickey's towel have bothered me al along. Gerry Brandt didn't dye her hair and why would Howard bother with a detail like that?

“I don't pay for things twice,” Aleksei said. I know what that means now. He didn't organize Mickey's kidnapping but like Kirsten and Ray Murphy, he saw an opportunity. He wanted his daughter back—the only truly perfect thing he had ever created. So he paid the ransom in secret. No police and no publicity. And when Mickey arrived home that night it was Aleksei who intercepted her. He was waiting.

Then he hatched his plan—one that hinged on convincing the world that Mickey was dead. At first he imagined he could blame the kidnappers. He would take some of Mickey's blood or make her vomit, plant the evidence and encourage everyone to think that she had died at the hands of her abductors. Unfortunately, he didn't know who they were. Then something serendipitous happened—a made-to-measure suspect, with a corrupt sexuality and no alibi. Howard Wavel . The opportunity was almost too perfect.

And what of Mickey? He spirited her away—smuggling her out of the country, most likely on board his yacht. He changed her appearance and changed her name.

I don't know what Aleksei thought would happen then. Maybe one day, after enough years had passed, he planned to bring Mickey back to Britain with a new identity or perhaps he always intended to join her overseas.

The plan might have been flawless but for Gerry Brandt, a washed-up, drug-addled chancer, who thought he could steal apples from the same tree al over again. Having squandered the first ransom, he came back to Britain with a plan to do it al again. Mickey's body had never been found and he stil had a few strands of her hair and her swimsuit.

Kirsten knew immediately that Gerry was back in the country. She talked to Ray Murphy. Gerry's greed and stupidity threatened to expose them.

Unbeknownst to them, he also threatened to destroy Aleksei's grand design. The world believed Mickey was dead. A second ransom demand cal ed this into question. It must also have created a separate, more dangerous doubt in Aleksei's mind. Did these people
know
?

The only way to safeguard his secret completely was to silence them. He would pay the ransom, fol ow the trail and have everyone kil ed. I gave him the perfect alibi; he was fol owing me.

These thoughts are coming almost too quickly to put in any order or chronology but like Sarah, Mickey's friend, on that first morning at Dolphin Mansions—“I know what I know.”

“New Boy” Dave is on the other end of the phone.

“Have you found Aleksei?”

“His motor yacht arrived in Oostende in Belgium at eleven o'clock on Sunday morning.”

“Who was on board?”

“Stil no word.”

I can hear the rasp of my own breathing. “You have to listen to me! I know I've made a lot of mistakes but this time I'm right. You have to find Aleksei. You can't let him disappear.”

I pause. He's stil on the phone. The only thing we have in common now is Ali. Maybe that's enough. “You have to check the passenger manifests of every ferry and hovercraft and the Eurostar train services out of Waterloo. You can forget about the airlines. Aleksei doesn't fly. You'l need warrants for his house, office, cars, lockups, boatsheds . . . And you'l want his phone records and details of bank transactions going back three years.”

Dave is starting to lose patience with me. He doesn't have the authority to do half of these things and Campbel and Meldrum won't listen to anything I say.

Leaning back, I stare out of the window of the cab not actual y seeing anything but I'm turning pages in my head ful of notes, diagrams and figures; searching through the past for a clue.

When I did my detective training a guy cal ed Donald Kinsel a took me under his wing. Donald had spent years working undercover and wore his hair long, tied back in a ponytail and he had a bushy mustache, which was a trademark for coppers in the seventies until the Vil age People made it a different sort of trademark.

“Keep it simple,” was his motto. “Don't believe in conspiracy theories. Listen to them, work out the odds, and then file them in the same drawer as you put stuff you read in the
Socialist Worker
or on the
Daily Telegraph
editorial pages.”

Donald believed the truth lay somewhere in the middle. He was a pragmatist. When Diana, Princess of Wales, died in Paris he rang me. He'd retired by then.

“A year from now there wil be a dozen books about this,” he said. “People wil be blaming the CIA, MI5, the PLO, the Mafia, Osama bin Laden, another shooter on the grassy knol —you name it. There wil be secret witnesses, missing evidence, mystery vehicles, stolen reports, tire marks, poisonings and pregnancies . . . Let me tel you the one thing I can guarantee
won't
be in any of these books—the most likely answer. People
want
to believe conspiracies. They eat them up and say, ‘Please can I have some more?' They don't want to think that someone close to them or someone famous could die a mundane, ordinary, kitchen-sink sort of death.” What Donald was trying to say is that lives are complicated but most deaths aren't. People are complicated but not their crimes. Prosecutors and psychologists care about motives. I care about facts—the how, where, what and when, rather than the why. My favorite is “who,” the perpetrator—the face that fil s my empty picture frame.

Eddie Barrett is wrong. Al truth isn't a lie. I'm not naïve enough to believe the opposite, but facts I can hold on to. Facts I can write up in a report. Facts are more reliable than memories.

The cabdriver is staring at me in his mirror. I'm talking to myself.

“The second sign of madness,” I explain.

“What's the first one?”

“Kil ing lots of people and eating their genitals.”

He laughs and sneaks another look at me.

38

Three hours ago I learned that Mickey Carlyle might stil be alive. Twenty-four hours ago Aleksei's boat arrived in Oostende. He has a head start but wil only travel overland. He might already be there. Where?

The Netherlands is a possibility. He and Rachel lived there and Mickey was born in Amsterdam. Eastern Europe is more likely. He has connections and maybe even family.

I glance around the Professor's office at the dozen people who are manning phones and staring at screens. They have al answered the cal again—leaving work or taking time off. It almost feels like a proper incident room, ful of energy and expectation.

Roger is talking to the harbormaster at Oostende. There were six adults on board the motor yacht, including Aleksei, but no sign of a child. The launch is now moored at the Royal Yacht Club, the largest marina in Oostende, in the heart of the city. We have a list of names for the crew. Margaret and Jean are ringing the local hotels. Others are cal ing car rental companies, travel agents and ticket offices for rail and ferry services. Unfortunately, the possibilities appear endless. Aleksei could already have disappeared into Europe.

Without a warrant or a court order, we can't access his bank accounts, post boxes or telephone records. There is no way of tracing regular overseas payments and I doubt if the money would lead us to Mickey. Aleksei is too clever for that. His fortune wil be spread around the world in offshore tax havens like the Caymans, Bermuda and Gibraltar. Experts could spend the next twenty years trying to fol ow that paper trail.

I look at my watch. Every minute puts him farther away.

Grabbing my coat, I give Joe a nod. “Come on, let's go.”

“Where to?”

“We're going to look at a house.”

Contrary to popular belief, the most powerful man in the cut-flower industry doesn't possess a green thumb or even a greenhouse. The gardens surrounding Aleksei's mansion are rather rustic and overgrown with cedar trees and an orchard.

The electronic gates are open and we pul directly into the driveway, gravel snapping under the tires. The house looks closed up. Turrets of dark slate stand out solidly against the sky as though turning their backs on the city and choosing to gaze instead across Hampstead Heath.

Stepping out of the car, I try to take in the building, swiveling my head upward through the floors.

“OK, we're not doing anything il egal, are we?” asks Joe.

“Not yet.”

“I'm serious.”

“So am I.”

Walking slowly around the house, I marvel at the security. There are bars on the windows, security lights and sensor alarms attached to the exterior wal s. A large converted stable block is garage to a dozen cars covered by cloth sheets.

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 Wel ingtons.

“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 kil ing 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 fal s 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 al owed.”

“But you have a key?”

“Yeah, wel , 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 smal entrance hal with a stone floor and room to hang coats and deposit boots and umbrel as. The laundry must be close by. I can smel 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, fol owing 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 wal s.”

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 al got one of these.” Reaching into his jacket he pul s out a cel phone.

“Everyone?”

“Yep. The cook, the driver, the cleaners, even me—s'pose I'l have to give mine back now.”

“How long have you had this one?”

“Not long. He made us swap numbers al 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 cel 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 cal s or fix on a particular phone number and trace it back to him. The list of numbers must read like lottery results—al 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.