Lost

My brain is caught in a vague, desperate pause. Maybe they framed Howard. They put Mickey's blood on a towel and planted it in the cemetery. The police and the courts did the rest.

“You still have no proof that Mickey is alive.”

“I know.”

Bending toward the fire, Joe asks a question of the flames instead of me. “Why send the ransom demand now?”

“Greed.”

At least it's a motive I understand. Joe can have his psychopaths and sadists but give me an old-fashioned everyday motive I can identify with.

“Who did the shooting? Who wanted them dead?”

“Someone who wanted to silence them or punish them,” I whisper, rocking forward in the armchair. “It could have been Sir Douglas. If he arranged Mickey's kidnapping he may have been threatened with blackmail.”

“Or what else? I know you don't think it's him.”

“Aleksei.”

“You said he was following you and Rachel that night.”

“Following the diamonds.”

Joe waits for my explanation. I know he's already there but he wants to hear me lay out the arguments. “Aleksei was never going to stand back and let anyone walk away with two million pounds. Whether they kidnapped Mickey or not, whether she was dead or alive, somebody was going to pay. Look what he did to his own brother.”

“Did that include killing you?”

“No. I wasn't supposed to be on the boat. Nobody expected anyone to follow the ransom through the sewers.”

“And the attack in the hospital?”

The memory climbs up my throat and hangs there. “I don't know. I haven't worked that out yet. Maybe he was frightened that I'd put the pieces together or perhaps he thinks I saw something that night . . .”

I still can't explain how the diamonds ended up in my linen cupboard. I know they were in the pizza box and I saw the packages on the deck of the Charmaine. Most of the facts fit but not all of them.

I have to convince the Met to reopen the investigation. This isn't about Howard Wavell anymore. Yes, he belongs in prison but not for this crime. Aleksei is the true monster.

I shudder awake and feel like weeping with tiredness. The day is just beginning but I can't tell where the last one ended. All night I have drowned in sewers and watched red dots dancing across the walls.

Julianne gives me a cheery smile in the kitchen. “How are you feeling?”

Five seconds of my life evaporate considering this and I decide not to answer. Instead I gratefully accept a cup of coffee.

“Where are the girls?”

“Joe is dropping Charlie at school. He took Emma along for the ride.”

Her pale blue eyes stare at me with the vague, almost accusatory air of someone who has discovered the one true path to happiness—married life. Wrapped in a crimson skirt and light sweater, she looks beautiful as always. I can imagine her walking barefoot along a beach in some warm country, supporting a child on her slender hip. The Professor is a lucky man.

The front door opens. Joe is carrying Emma in one arm and the morning papers under the other. Julianne takes the toddler and kisses her cold nose, running her fingers through her curls.

“Cold nose, warm heart.”

Joe opens a paper on the table. “There's a very small piece—just a couple of paragraphs—about a body found in the Thames.”

“It's too early. They won't do a postmortem until today.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I have to convince them to investigate the shootings. Will you come with me? I need someone to back me up.”

“I don't think they'll listen to me.”

“We have to try.”

On the drive to New Scotland Yard my hands begin to shake. Maybe it's obvious to Joe what I'm going through—the headaches, stomach cramps, the constant churning in my guts. If he does recognize the withdrawal symptoms he doesn't say anything.

At the Yard we are made to wait like any other members of the public. My request to see the Commissioner is sent via the public affairs department through various branches of bureaucracy, only to be rejected. I ask to see the Assistant Commissioner. Again the request goes upstairs and is passed around like a problem that nobody wants. Eventually, I'm directed back to Campbell Smith.

We cross the city and cool our heels for another hour downstairs at the Harrow Road Police Station. Joe spends his time studying the missing persons posters as if he's at the National Portrait Gallery. Receptionists, secretaries and uniforms ignore us. A month ago I used to run this place. I gave it my life.

Eventually, Campbell agrees to see us.

Joe limps alongside me down the corridor, our footsteps echoing on the shiny floor. At the far end of the incident room civilian operators sit at a bank of computer screens. The flurry of their keystrokes sounds like rain falling on plastic. Some wear headsets, talking to officers in the field, running checks on names, addresses and license plates.

There's a new head of the Serious Crime Group—DI John Meldrum. He spies me. “Hey, we once had a guy who looked just like you working here. I think he might be dead.”

“But not buried,” I yell back. “Congratulations on the promotion.”