Lost

It was the first week of the summer holidays, three years ago when she entered my life. Eighty-five steps and then darkness; she vanished. How can a child disappear in a building with only five floors and eleven flats?

We searched every one of them—every room, cupboard and crawl space. I even checked the same places over and over again, somehow expecting her to suddenly be there, despite all the other searches.

Mickey was seven years old with blond hair, blue eyes and a gap-toothed smile. She was last seen wearing a bikini, a white headband, red canvas shoes, and carrying a striped beach towel.

Police cars had blocked the street outside and the neighbors were organizing searches. Someone had set up a trestle table with jugs of ice water and bottles of cordial. The temperature reached 30°C at nine o'clock that morning and the air smelled of hot bitumen and exhaust fumes.

A fat guy in baggy green shorts was taking photographs. I didn't recognize him at first but I knew him from somewhere. Where?

Then it came back to me, like it always does. Cottesloe Park—an Anglican boarding school in Warrington. His name was Howard Wavell, a baffling, unfortunate figure, who was three years behind me. My memory triumphs again.

I knew Mickey hadn't left the building. I had a witness. Her name was Sarah Jordan and she was only nine years old but she knew what she knew. Sitting on the bottom stair, sipping from a can of lemonade, she brushed mousy brown hair from her eyes. Tiny crosses clung to her earlobes like pieces of silver foil.

Sarah wore a blue-and-yellow swimsuit, with white shorts, brown sandals and a baseball cap. Her legs were pale and spotted with insect bites pink from her scratching. Too young to be body conscious, she swung her knees open and closed, resting her cheek against the coolness of the banister.

“My name is Detective Inspector Ruiz,” I said, sitting next to her. “Tell me what happened again.”

She sighed and straightened her legs. “I pressed the buzzer, like I said.”

“Which buzzer?”

“Eleven. Where Mickey lives.”

“Show me which button you pressed.”

She sighed again and walked across the foyer through the large front door. The intercom was just outside. She pointed to the top button. Pink nail varnish had been chipped off her fingernails.

“See! I know what number eleven is.”

“Of course, you do. What happened then?”

“Mickey's mum said Mickey would be right down.”

“Is that exactly what she said? Word for word?”

Her brow furrowed in concentration. “No. First she said hello and I said hello. And I asked if Mickey could come and play. We were going to sunbathe in the garden and play under the hose. Mr. Murphy lets us use the sprinkler. He says we're helping him water the lawn at the same time.”

“And who is Mr. Murphy?”

“Mickey says he owns the building, but I think he's just the caretaker.”

“Mickey didn't come down.”

“No.”

“How long did you wait?”

“Ages and ages.” She fans her face with her hand. “Can I have an ice cream?”

“In a minute . . . Did anyone come past you while you were waiting?”

“No.”

“And you didn't leave these steps—not even to get a drink . . .”

She shook her head.

“. . . or to talk to a friend, or to pat a dog?”

“No.”

“What happened then?”

“Mickey's mum came down with the trash. Then she said, ‘What are you doing? Where's Mickey?' And I said, ‘I'm still waiting for her.' Then she said she came down ages ago. Only she never did because I've been here the whole time . . .”

“What did you do then?”

“Mickey's mum told me to wait. She said not to move, so I sat on the stairs.”

“Did anyone come past you?”

“Only the neighbors who helped look for Mickey.”

“Do you know their names?”

“Some of them.” She counted quietly on her fingers and listed them. “Is this a mystery?”

“I guess you could call it that.”

“Where did Mickey go?”

“I don't know, sweetheart, but we're going to find her.”

3

Professor Joseph O'Loughlin has arrived to see me. I can see him walking across the hospital parking lot with his left leg swinging as if bound in a splint. His mouth is moving—smiling, wishing people good morning and making jokes about how he likes his martinis shaken not stirred. Only the Professor could make fun of Parkinson's disease.

Joe is a clinical psychologist and looks exactly like you'd expect a shrink to look—tall and thin with a tangle of brown hair like some absentminded academic escaped from a lecture hall.

We met a few years back during a murder investigation when I had him pegged as a possible killer until it turned out to be one of his patients. I don't think he mentions that in his lectures.

Knocking gently on the door, he opens it and smiles awkwardly. He has one of those totally open faces with wet brown eyes, like a baby seal just before it gets clubbed.

“I hear you're suffering memory problems.”

“Yeah, who the fuck are you?”

“Very good. Nice to see you haven't lost your sense of humor.”