Lost (11 page)

“That'd be none of your business.”

We look at each other for a few moments and Keebal grins. I'm getting too old for these swinging-dick contests.

“What exactly do you want?”

“I thought you might invite me back to your place.”

“Couldn't you get a warrant?”

“Seems not.”

What a nerve! He can't convince a judge to let him search my house and then expects me to say yes anyway. It's al part of building a case. If I say no Keebal wil say I'm being uncooperative. Fuck him!

“Listen, under normal circumstances, you know I'd happily let you come over. If I'd known I'd have cleaned up the place and bought a cake but I haven't been home in a few weeks. Maybe some other time.”

I pivot on the walking stick and rejoin Ali.

She raises an eyebrow. “I didn't know he was a friend of yours.”

“You know how it is—everyone is worried about me.”

I slip into the backseat of a black Audi. Ali takes the wheel and the car swings through bends and beneath a boom gate before emerging into the sunshine. She doesn't say a word on the drive. Instead her eyes flick between her mirrors and the road ahead. She purposely drops her speed and accelerates, weaving between traffic, checking to see if we're being fol owed.

Ali rummages on the seat next to her and tosses me a bul etproof vest. We argue over whether I'm going to wear it or not. I can see her losing patience with me.

“Sir, with al due respect, you either wear this vest or I wil put a bul et in your other leg and drive you back to the hospital.” Looking at her eyes in the mirror, I don't doubt her for a second. There are too many women in my life and none of the fringe benefits.

We drive south through Kensington and Earls Court, past the tourist hotels and fast-food joints. The playgrounds are dotted with mothers and toddlers playing on brightly colored swings and slides.

Rainvil e Road runs alongside the Thames, opposite the Barn Elms Wildfowl Reserve. I like living by the river. Of a morning I can look out of my bedroom window at the expanse of sky and pretend I don't live in a city of seven mil ion.

Ali parks at the front of the house, scanning the riverside pavement and the houses on the opposite side of the street. Out of the car, she moves quickly up the stairs, using my key to unlock the front door. Having searched the rooms, she comes back to me.

With her arm around my waist, I hobble inside. A mound of unopened letters, bil s and junk mail has col ected on the front mat. Ali scoops it al up in her arms. I haven't time to sort them out now. We have to leave quickly. Dumping the letters in a shopping bag, I walk through the house, trying to resurrect my memories.

I know this place by heart but there is nothing reassuring in the familiar. The dimensions seem the same, the colors and the furniture. The kitchen benches are clear except for three coffee mugs in the sink. I must have had company.

The kitchen table is littered with scraps of orange plastic, masking tape and squares of polystyrene foam cut with a serrated knife. I must have been wrapping something. Foam dust looks like fake snow on the floor.

My diary is beside the telephone—open on September 25, a Sunday. I was shot in the early hours of Monday morning. Tucked into the spine is an invoice for a classified advertisement in
The Sunday Times
. The text is in my handwriting:

Tuscan Villa Wanted: to sleep 6. Pool preferable. Patio.

Garden. Short drive from Florence. Sept/Oct. Two-month
booking.

I paid for the advertisement by credit card four days before the shooting. Why would I want to rent a Tuscan vil a?

I don't recognize the cel -phone number printed at the bottom. Picking up the receiver, I punch the numbers. A metal ic voice tel s me the number is unavailable. I can leave a message. It beeps. I don't know what to say and I don't want to leave my name. It might not be safe.

I hang up and flick backward through the diary, skimming over final reminders for unpaid bil s and dental appointments. There must be other clues. One name stands out—

Rachel Carlyle. I met her six times in the ten days prior to the shooting. Hope rises in me like a wave.

Going farther back through the pages, I look at the previous month. On the second Thursday in August I wrote a name: Sarah Jordan—the girl who waited on the front steps for Mickey to arrive. I don't remember meeting Sarah. How old would she be now—twelve, maybe thirteen?

Ali is upstairs trying to pack some clothes for me. “Do you have any spare sheets?” she cal s.

“Yeah. I'l get them.”

The linen cupboard is in the hal way near the laundry. I lean my walking stick against the door and reach up with both hands.

A sports bag is jammed at the back of the shelf. I pul it out and drop it to the floor until I find the sheets. Only then does it dawn on me. I stare down at the bag. I know there's a lot I have forgotten but I can't recal owning such a bag.

Easing myself onto one knee, I peel back the zipper. Inside there are four bright-orange packages. My hands are steady as I tear open the tape and peel back the plastic. A second layer is underneath and inside there is a black velvet pouch. Diamonds spil out onto my hand, tumbling into the crevices between my fingers.

Ali is coming down the stairs. “Did you find those sheets?”

There's no time to react. I look up at her, unable to explain. My voice sounds hoarse.

“Diamonds! It must be the ransom!”

Ali's hands are steady as she breaks ice from the freezer and drops it into my glass of whiskey. She makes herself a cup of coffee and slides onto the bench seat opposite me, waiting for an explanation.

I don't have one. I feel as if I'm lost in a strange place, surrounded by countries on the map I can't even name.

“They must be worth a fortune.”

“Two mil ion pounds,” I whisper.

“How do you know that?”

“I have no idea. They belong to Aleksei Kuznet.”

Fear clouds her eyes like the onset of fever. She knows the stories. I can imagine them being told after lights-out at probationer training.

Again I notice the scraps of plastic on the floor and dusting of foam. I wrapped the packages here; four identical bundles, each lined with polystyrene and wrapped in fluorescent plastic. They were meant to float.

Diamonds are easy to smuggle and hard to trace. They can't be picked up by sniffer dogs or tracked with serial numbers. Sel ing them isn't a problem. There are plenty of buyers in Antwerp or New York who deal in “blood” diamonds from dubious places like Angola, Sierra Leone and the Congo.

Ali leans forward, resting her forearms on the table. “What's the ransom doing here?”

“I don't know.” What was it that Aleksei said to me at the hospital: “I want my daughter or I want my diamonds.”

“We have to hand them in,” insists Ali.

The trailing silence goes on too long.

“You can't be serious! You're not going to keep them!”

“Of course not.”

Ali is staring at me. I hate the way I look in her eyes—diminished, undermined. She turns her head away, as though she doesn't want to see the mess I've made of my life. Is this why Keebal wanted a search warrant and the “fireman” tried to kil me?

The doorbel rings. Both of us jump.

Ali is on her feet. “Quick! Hide them! Hide them!”

“Calm down, you get the door.”

There are certain rules in policing that I learned very early on. The first is never to search a dark warehouse with an armed cop whose nickname is “Boom-Boom.” And the second is to take your own pulse first.

Using my forearm I scoop the bundles into the bag and notice beads of moisture left on the smooth surface of the table. The packages have been in water.

I hear Keebal's voice! He's standing in the front hal , silhouetted against the light. Ali turns back toward me, her eyes wide with alarm.

“I bought a cake,” he announces, holding up a shopping bag.

“You better come in then.”

With her back to him, Ali looks at me incredulously.

“Wil you put the kettle on please, Ali,” I say, putting my hand on the smal of her back and guiding her across to the sink.

“What are you doing?” she whispers, but I'm already turning back to Keebal.

“How do you take your tea?”

“Just a splash of milk.”

“We have none, I'm afraid.”

He holds up a carton of long-life milk. “I think of everything.”

Ali sets out the cups, keeping out of the way because her hands are shaking. Keebal finds a sports bag sitting on a chair.

“Just toss it on the floor,” I say.

He picks up the handles and swings the bag beneath his feet. Ali's hands are suspended over the teacups, frozen there.

“So what do you think happened, Ruiz? Even if you're tel ing the truth and you can't remember, you must have a theory.”

“Nothing as concrete as a theory.”

Keebal glances at his shoes, which are resting on the sports bag. He leans down and brushes a speck of dirt from one polished toe.

“You want my theory,” I say, attracting his attention. “I think this has something to do with Mickey Carlyle.”

“She died three years ago.”

“We didn't find her body.”

“A man went to prison for her murder. That makes her dead. Case closed. You resurrect her and you better be God Almighty because otherwise you're in big trouble.”

“But what if Howard is innocent.”

Keebal laughs at me. “Is that your theory! What do you want to do—set a pedophile free from prison? You sound like his defense lawyer. Remember what you're paid to do—

protect and serve. You're doing just the opposite if you let Howard Wavel walk out of prison.”

A few token rays of sunshine have settled on the paving stones in the garden. We sit in silence for a while, finishing our tea and leaving the cake uneaten. Eventual y, Keebal rises to his feet and puts the sports bag on the chair where he found it. He glances around the kitchen and then at the ceiling as if trying to penetrate the wood and plaster with X-ray vision.

“You think your memory is going to come back?” he asks.

“I'l keep you posted.”

“Do that.”

After he's gone Ali lowers her head onto the table in a mixture of relief and despair. She's scared, but not in a cowardly way. She doesn't understand what's happening.

I take the bag and drop it beside the front door.

“What are you doing?” she asks.

“We can't leave it here.”

“But it almost got you kil ed,” she says without flinching.

Right now I can't think of a better plan. I have to keep going. My only way out is to gather the pieces.

“What if you don't remember?” she whispers.

I don't answer. When I contemplate failure every scenario finishes with the same unpalatable truth. I put men in prison. I don't go there.

9

My clothes are in a suitcase in the trunk of Ali's car along with the shopping bag ful of the unopened mail. The diamonds are there, too. I have never had two mil ion pounds. I've never had a Ferrari either or a wife who could tie knots in cherry stems with her tongue. Maybe I should be more impressed.

The Professor is right, I have to fol ow the trail—the invoices, phone cal s and diary appointments. I have to retrace my steps until I find the ransom letters and the proof of life. I wouldn't have delivered a single stone without them.

Sarah Jordan lives around the corner from Dolphin Mansions. Her mother answers the door and remembers me. Behind her Mr. Jordan is double-parked on the sofa with the
Racing Post
on his stomach and the TV blaring.

“Sarah won't be long,” she says. “She's just gone to pick up a few things from the supermarket. Is everything al right?”

“Fine.”

“But you talked to Sarah a few weeks ago.”

“It's just a fol ow-up.”

The supermarket is only around the corner. I leave Ali at the house and go looking for Sarah, happy to stretch my legs. The brightly lit aisles are stacked with cartons and half-empty boxes creating an obstacle course for shopping carts.

On my second circuit, I see a young girl in a long coat lurking at the far end of the aisle. She glances in both directions and then stuffs chocolate bars into her pockets. Her right arm is pressed against her side, holding something else beneath her coat.

I recognize Sarah. She's tal er, of course, having lost her puppy fat. Light brown bangs fal across her forehead and her fine straight nose is dusted with freckles.

I glance up at the surveil ance camera bolted to the ceiling. It is pointing down the aisle away from her. Sarah knows the blind spots.

Wrapping the coat around her, she walks toward the checkout and puts a box of breakfast cereal and a bag of marshmal ows on the conveyor belt. Then she picks up a magazine and flicks through the pages, looking disinterested as the cashier deals with the customer ahead of her.

A young mother and toddler join the queue. Sarah looks up and notices me staring at her. Immediately she looks away and counts the loose change in her hand.

The store security guard, a Sikh wearing a bright blue turban, has been watching her through the window, hiding behind the posters for “red spot” specials. He marches through the automatic doors with one hand on his hip as though reaching for a nonexistent gun. The light behind him creates a halo around his turbaned head: the Sikh Terminator.