Lost (31 page)

“Indirectly, it may do. I'm aware of the nature of the investigation but not the precise details. There is a media blackout in place.” The Rook puts his oar in, more out of habit than desire. “Justice must be seen to be done, Your Honor.” Lord Connel y rules in favor of the Crown and the public gal ery and press benches are cleared. This is when the real arguments begin, ful of phrases like “with al due respect” and “my learned friend” (legal shorthand for “you complete moron”). Then again, what do I know? The Rook and Miss Hanley could be the best of friends. They could be shagging each other's wigs off in chambers.

My name is cal ed. I button my jacket on the walk to the witness box and unbutton it as I sit down.

The Rook looks up from his notes as if surprised that I've bothered showing. He rises slowly to his feet, drops his chin and tries to look at me through the top of his head. The first few questions are the easy ones—name, rank, years of experience as a police officer.

Miss Hanley is on her feet. “My learned friend seems to be placing great faith in the credibility of this witness. However, he has failed to mention that DI Ruiz was suspended as head of the Serious Crime Group several days ago and yesterday afternoon, fol owing an internal disciplinary hearing, he was sacked. He is no longer a serving member of the London Metropolitan Police and is the subject of a criminal investigation—”

Lord Connel y motions her to sit down. “You'l get your opportunity to question the witness.”

The Rook consults his notepad and then does something I don't expect. He takes me through the original investigation, getting me to restate the evidence against Howard. I talk about the photographs, the bloodstains, the missing carpet and Mickey's beach towel. He had the opportunity, the motive and the corrupted sexuality.

“At what point did Howard Wavel become a suspect in the original investigation?”

“Everyone who lived in Dolphin Mansions was immediately a suspect.”

“Yes, but at what point did you focus your attentions upon Mr. Wavel ?”

“He became of particular interest when he was seen acting suspiciously on the day Michaela disappeared. He also failed to provide an alibi.”

“He failed to provide one or didn't have one?”

“He didn't have one.”

“In what way was he acting suspiciously?”

“He was taking photographs of the search parties and people who had gathered outside Dolphin Mansions.”

“Was there anyone else taking photographs?”

“There were several press photographers.”

The Rook gives a wry smile. “So having a camera didn't automatical y make someone a suspect?”

“A young girl was missing. Most of the other neighbors were helping look for her. Mr. Wavel 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 Wavel 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 wel ?”

“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. Wavel '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 al eging that her daughter was stil alive.”

“And you believed this letter?”

“I agreed to have the hair tested.”

The Rook is more insistent. “You stil 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. Wavel 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 cal ing 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 tel 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 mil ion man-hours . . . many of them focused on my client.”

“We fol owed 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 sexual y assaulting a minor?”

“His girlfriend.”

“A sex offender who was seen outside Dolphin Mansions but you didn't regard him as being an important enough suspect to bother finding. Instead you focused your investigation exclusively on my client, a committed Christian, who had never been in trouble with the law. And when you obtained evidence that could suggest Michaela Carlyle might stil be alive you sought to hide it.”

“I made the results available to my superiors.”

“But not to his defense.”

“With al due respect, Sir, it's not my job to help defense lawyers.”

“You're absolutely right, Mr. Ruiz. Your job is to establish the truth. And in this case you sought to hide the truth. You sought to ignore evidence or at worst conceal it, just as you ignored Gerry Brandt as a suspect.”

“No.”

The Rook sways back and forth on his heels. “Was the ransom demand a hoax, Detective Inspector?”

“I don't know.”

“And are you wil ing to stake your career . . .” he corrects himself, “. . . your reputation and, more importantly, my client's freedom on the absolute conviction that Michaela Carlyle was murdered three years ago?”

There's a long pause. “No.”

Even the Rook is taken by surprise. He pauses to compose himself. “So you believe she may stil be alive?”

“When you don't find a body there is always a chance.”

“And has that possibility become greater as a result of this ransom demand?”

“Yes.”

“No further questions.”

I don't look at Campbel or Eddie Barrett or Howard Wavel . I keep my eyes straight ahead as I walk out of the courtroom. Inside my jacket, pressed against my heart, a cel phone is vibrating.

Fumbling for the button, I take the cal .

“I've just heard the news on the radio,” says Joe. “They've found a body in the river.”

“Where?”

“Somewhere near the Isle of Dogs.”

This is how it looks: a bleak Thursday afternoon, a strong wind and water slapping against the pylons of Trinity Pier. A dredger squats low in the water, with skeletal arms held aloft and black pipes snaking across the decks. Spotlights have turned brown water into a murky white. Two water-police Zodiacs made of rubberized canvas with wooden bottoms fight the outgoing tide, dropping floating plastic pontoons in their wake.

The Professor parks on a slip road that comes to a dead end where the River Lea enters the Thames estuary. The river is two hundred yards wide at this point, with the Mil ennium Dome silhouetted against the porridgelike sky on the distant bank.

Halfway down the sloping metal ramp “New Boy” Dave steps away from a huddle of detectives. His shoulders are shaking and he's caught between wanting to spit in my face or smash it with his fists. This is about Ali.

“Fuck off! Just fuck off!” It's almost a wail. He pushes me in the chest, forcing me backward.

I want to say I'm sorry but the lump in my throat won't move. Instead I look over Dave's shoulder at the police divers preparing their tanks and equipment. “Who did they find?” The other detectives have circled like spectators at a playground fight. None of them want me here. I'm an outsider, a maverick, worse stil a traitor. Joe tries to intervene. “Ali wouldn't want this. Just tel us who you found.”

“Fuck you!”

As I try to step around Dave, he grabs me by my arm, swinging me hard into the brick-and-wire retaining wal . A kidney punch sends me down. He is standing over me looking wasted and wild. There's a trickle of blood down his chin where he's bitten his lip.

What happens next lacks a certain degree of elegance. I sink my fist into his groin and take hold. Dave groans in a high reedy voice and drops to his knees. I don't let go.

He raises his fists, wanting to pound me into the ground, but I squeeze even harder. He curls up in pain, unable to lift his head. My breath is hot on his cheek.

“Don't go bad on me, Dave,” I whisper. “You're one of the good ones.”

Letting him go, I ease myself up until I'm sitting against the wal , staring at the smooth darkness of the water. Dave drags himself alongside me, trying to get his breath back.

Glancing at the other detectives, I tel them to leave us alone.

“Who did they find?”

“We don't know,” Dave says, grimacing slightly. “The dredger sliced the body in half.”

“Let me see it.”

“Unless you can recognize this poor bastard from below the waist you're no use to anyone, especial y me.”

“How did he die?”

He pauses too long before he answers. “There is evidence of a gunshot wound.” In the same breath, he arches his neck and looks past me. A coroner's van has pul ed alongside the wharf. The back doors open. A stretcher slides from within.

“I didn't mean for Ali to get hurt—you know that.”

He looks at his fists. “I'm sorry I hit you, Sir.”

“That's OK.”

“Campbel wil go ape shit if he knows you're here.”

“So don't tel him. I'l stay out of the way.”

As the last rays of sunlight strike the towers of Canary Wharf, four divers tumble backward from the Zodiacs. Slick as seals, they disappear beneath the surface leaving barely a trace behind.

The officer in charge is short and barrel-chested, clad in a wet suit that makes him look as if he's carved from ebony. He swings an air tank into a boat and wipes both hands before offering one to me. “Sergeant Chris Kirkwood.”

“Ruiz.”

“Yeah, I know who you are.”

“You got a problem talking to me?”

“Nah.” He shakes his head. “I got other problems. Visibility is down to three feet and the current is running at four knots. Someone chained this bastard to a barrel of concrete.

We're gonna need cutting gear.” He swings another air tank into the boat.

“How long has he been in the water?”

“Most bodies eventual y come up. Takes about five days at this time of year, but this guy was meant to stay down there. Usual y a body stays together pretty good in the Thames. None of the marine life can chew through ligaments. I reckon chummy has been down there two, maybe three weeks . . .” As he describes the process I can picture a body swaying beneath the water, white and waxlike, moving back and forth with the tide. Involuntarily, I shudder and reach for a morphine capsule. There are none left.