Lost

“A young girl was missing. Most of the other neighbors were helping look for her. Mr. Wavell seemed more interested in recording the event for posterity.”

The Rook waits. He's letting everyone know that he expects a better answer.

“Prior to your seeing Howard Wavell at Dolphin Mansions that day had you ever come across him before?”

“We went to the same boarding school back in the sixties. He was a few years behind me.”

“Did you know each other well?”

“No.”

“As the officer in charge of the investigation, did you think about either stepping down or absenting yourself from interviews because of your past association?”

“No.”

“Did you know Mr. Wavell's family?”

“I may have met one or two of them.”

“So you don't remember going out with his sister?”

I pause, racking my brain.

The Rook smiles. “Perhaps you dated too many girls to remember.”

Everyone cracks up. Howard laughs as hard as anyone.

The Rook waits for the laughter to subside. Almost in passing, he remarks, “Four weeks ago you took an envelope containing six hairs to a private laboratory in central London and asked for a DNA test to be carried out.”

“Yes.”

“Is that normal police procedure—using a private facility to conduct DNA tests?”

“No.”

“I think I'm right in saying that the Forensic Science Service do DNA tests for the police.”

“It was a private request not a police one.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Unofficial? How did you pay?”

“Cash.”

“Why?”

“I don't see how that's relevant—”

“You paid in cash because you didn't want a record of the transaction, isn't that the case? You didn't leave your address or phone number with the laboratory.”

He doesn't give me a chance to answer, which is probably for the best. I'm dying here. Perspiration is leaking down my chest and settling in a pool at my navel.

“What exactly did you ask the technicians at Genetech to do for you?”

“I wanted them to extract DNA from the hair strands and compare it with the DNA of Michaela Carlyle.”

“A girl who is supposed to be dead.”

“Someone had sent a ransom demand to Rachel Carlyle alleging that her daughter was still alive.”

“And you believed this letter?”

“I agreed to have the hair tested.”

The Rook is more insistent. “You still haven't explained why you asked a private laboratory to conduct the test.”

“It was a favor for Mrs. Carlyle. I didn't believe the hair would be a match for her daughter.”

“You wanted to keep it a secret?”

“No. I was concerned that any official request would be misconstrued. I didn't want it perceived that I had doubts about the original investigation.”

“You wanted to deny Mr. Wavell his right to natural justice?”

“I wanted to be sure.”

The Rook walks back to the table and picks up a second sheet of paper, snapping it with his fingers as though calling the edges to attention.

Why doesn't he ask me the result of the DNA test? Perhaps he doesn't know the answer. If the hair didn't match Mickey's DNA profile, the ransom demand was more likely to be a hoax, weakening Howard's case.

The Rook begins again. “Subsequently, a second package was posted to Mrs. Carlyle. What did it contain?”

“A child's swimsuit.”

“What can you tell us about this swimsuit?”

“It was a pink-and-orange bikini, similar to the one worn by Michaela Carlyle on the day she disappeared.”

“Similar or the same one?”

“Forensic analysis couldn't produce a definitive answer.”

The Rook is circling now. He has the face of a bird and the soul of a crocodile. “How many murders have you investigated, Detective?”

I shrug. “Upward of twenty.”

“And how many missing children cases?”

“Too many.”

“Too many to remember?”

“No, Sir.” My eyes are locked on his. “I remember every last one of them.”

The power of the statement throws him slightly. He turns back to the bar table, consulting his notepad.

“There must be a degree of pressure on the officer in charge of a high-profile investigation. A young girl is missing. Parents are scared. People want to be reassured.”

“It was a thorough investigation. We didn't cut corners.”

“No, quite right.” He reads from a list. “Eight thousand interviews, 1,200 statements, more than a million man-hours . . . many of them focused on my client.”

“We followed every important lead.”

The Rook is leading me somewhere. “Were there any suspects that you didn't pursue?”

“Not if they were important.”

“What about Gerry Brandt?”

I can feel myself hesitate. “He was a person of interest for a short time.”

“And why did you discount him?”

“We made extensive inquiries—”

“You couldn't find him, isn't that the case?”

“Gerry Brandt was a known drug dealer and burglar. He had contacts within the criminal underworld who I believe helped hide him.”

“This is the same man who was photographed outside Dolphin Mansions on the day Michaela disappeared?”

“That's correct, Sir.”

He turns away from me now, addressing a wider audience. “A man with a previous conviction for sexually assaulting a minor?”

“His girlfriend.”