Lost

“Do you know the hardest thing about being a father, Inspector? Trying to help your children not make the same mistakes as we did. You want to guide them. You want them to make certain decisions, marry certain people, believe certain things, but you can't make them go that way. They make their own decisions. My daughter chose to marry a gangster and a psychopath. She did it partly to punish me, I know that. I knew what sort of man Aleksei Kuznet was. It was bred into him. Like father, like son.”

Sir Douglas slaps his racquet through the air again. “Oddly enough, I actually felt sorry for Aleksei. Only an innocent millionaire would have satisfied Rachel—and short of winning the lottery or finding buried treasure in one's back garden, there's no such thing.”

I don't know where he's going with this but I try to keep the desperation out of my voice. “Just tell me where Rachel is.”

He ignores the statement. “I have always felt sorry for those people who choose not to have children. They miss out on what it means to be human, to feel love in all its forms.” His eyes have misted over. “I wasn't a very consistent father and I wasn't objective. I wanted Rachel to make me proud of her instead of realizing that I should always be proud of her.”

“How is she?”

“Recovering.”

“I need to speak to her.”

“I'm afraid that won't be possible.”

“You don't understand . . . there was a ransom demand. Rachel believed that Mickey was still alive. We both did. I need to find out why.”

“Is this an official investigation, Detective?”

“There must have been proof. There must have been some evidence to convince us.”

“I had a phone call from Chief Superintendent Smith. I don't know him well but he seems quite an impressive man. He alerted me to the fact that you might try to contact Rachel.”

He is no longer looking at me. He could be talking to the trees for all I know. “My daughter has suffered a breakdown. Some very callous and cruel people took advantage of her grief. She has barely said a word since the police found her.”

“I need her help—”

He raises his hand to stop me. “We have medical advice. She can't be upset.”

“People have died. A serious crime has been committed—”

“Yes, it has. But now something good has happened. My daughter has come home and I'm going to protect her. I'm going to make sure nobody hurts her again.”

He's serious. His eyes have a gleam of pure, unadulterated, idiotic determination. The whole conversation has had a ritualistic quality. I even expect him to say, “Maybe next time,” as though nothing would be simpler or more obvious than coming back another day.

Warm, melting undulations of fear ripple through me. I can't leave without talking to Rachel; too much is at stake.

“Does Rachel know that before Mickey disappeared you applied for custody of your granddaughter?”

He flinches now. “My daughter was an alcoholic, Inspector. We were concerned for Michaela. At one point Rachel fell in the bathroom and my granddaughter spent the night lying next to her on the floor.”

“How did you find out about that?”

He doesn't answer.

“You were spying on her.”

Again he doesn't respond. I've known about the custody application from the start. If Howard hadn't emerged as such a strong suspect I would have investigated it further and confronted Sir Douglas.

“How far would you have gone to protect Mickey?”

Angry now, he exclaims, “I didn't kidnap my granddaughter, if that's what you're suggesting. I wish I had—maybe then she would still be alive. Whatever happened in the past has been forgiven. My daughter has come home.”

He stands now. The conversation is over.

On my feet, I swing toward the house. He tries to intercept me but I brush him aside and begin yelling.

“RACHEL!”

“You can't do this! I demand you leave!”

“RACHEL!”

“Leave my property this instant.”

Ali tries to stop me. “Perhaps we should leave, Sir.”

Sir Douglas tackles me in front of the conservatory. With his tanned forearms and sinewy legs, he's surprisingly strong.

“Let it go, Sir,” says Ali, taking hold of my arms.

“I have to see Rachel.”

“Not this way.”

At that moment Thomas appears, wearing an apron over a pressed white shirt. He's carrying a silver candlestick like a club.

Suddenly the whole scene registers as being vaguely ridiculous. In Clue there is a candlestick among the possible murder weapons but, surprisingly, not a butler among the suspects. Blaming the staff is just another lousy cliché.

Thomas is standing over me now, while Sir Douglas brushes mud and grass clippings from his shorts. Ali takes my arm and helps me up, steering me toward the path.

Sir Douglas is already on the phone, no doubt complaining to Campbell. Turning, I shout, “What if you're making a mistake? What if Mickey is still alive?”

Only the birds answer back.

14