Lost (42 page)

In the same instant I fal over the side, plunging toward the water. Reaching up in midair, I grab onto the rope railing and hang on as my body swings through an arc, tipping the gangway on its side. The Russian plunges past me.

Swinging my good leg onto the dock, I climb to my feet. Aleksei is watching the Russian flailing his arms as he tries to stay afloat.

“I don't think he can swim,” I point out.

“Some people never learn,” says Aleksei, unconcerned.

I take a life buoy from the pylon and toss it into the water. The Russian hugs it to his chest.

“One last question: How did you know where the ransom was going to surface? Somebody must have told you.” Aleksei pul s back his lips in a grimace but his eyes are empty. “You have until tomorrow morning to return my diamonds.”

34

Ali is asleep. Tubes flow into her carrying painkil ers and out of her carrying waste. Every few hours they add another bag of liquid morphine. Time is measured by the gaps between them.

“You real y can't stay,” says the nursing sister. “Come back in the morning and she'l be awake.”

The corridors of the hospital are almost deserted. I walk to the visitors lounge and take a seat, closing my eyes. I wish I could have made Aleksei understand but his hatred has blinded him. He doesn't believe Mickey is stil alive. Instead, he thinks people have taken advantage of him because of his weakness—his family.

I think of Luke and wonder if maybe he's right. Daj is stil grieving about her lost family. I'm stil fretting about Claire and Michael, wondering what went wrong. Not caring would be so much easier.

My muscles ache and my whole body seems to be fighting against itself. Dreamlike images fil my head; bodies lowered into rivers or washed down sewers. Kirsten's turn is coming.

Darkness presses against the window. I gaze at the street below and feel nostalgic for the countryside. The rhythms of a city are set by pneumatic dril s, traffic lights and train timetables. I barely notice the seasons.

A reflection appears in the window beside me.

“I thought I might find you here,” says Joe, taking a seat and propping his legs on the low table. “How did it go with Aleksei?”

“He wouldn't listen.”

Joe nods. “You should get some sleep.”

“So should you.”

“You're long enough dead.”

“My stepfather used to say that. He's getting plenty of sleep now.”

Joe motions to the sofa opposite. “I've been thinking.”

“Yeah.”

“I figure maybe I know why this means so much to you. When you told me what happened to Luke you didn't tel me the whole story.” I feel a lump forming in my throat. I couldn't talk if I wanted to.

“You said he was riding the toboggan on his own. Your stepfather had gone to town, your mother was dyeing the bedsheets. You said you couldn't remember what you were doing but that's not true. You didn't forget. You were with Luke.”

I can see the day. Snow lay thick on the ground. From the top of Hil Field you could see the entire farm, al the way to Telegraph Point on the river and the wind socks on the aerodrome.

“You were looking after him.”

He had biscuit on his breath. He sat between my knees, rugged up in one of my hand-me-down jackets. He was so smal that my chin rested on his head. He wore an old flying cap, lined with wool that flapped from his ears and made him look like a Labrador puppy.

Joe explains. “When we were in the pub, before we found Rachel's car, I started describing a dream to you. It was
your
dream. I said you fantasized about saving Luke; you imagined being there, riding the toboggan down the hil , driving your boots into the snow to stop him before he reached the pond. That's when I should have realized. It wasn't a dream—

it was the truth.”

The bumps threw the toboggan in the air and Luke squealed with laughter. “Faster, Yanko! Faster!” He hugged my knees, leaning back against my chest. The track leveled off toward the end where the mesh fence sagged between posts. We were traveling faster than normal because of the extra weight. I put my boots down to stop but we hit the fence too fast.

One moment he was in my arms and the next I clutched at air.

The ice broke beneath him. It split into diamonds and triangles; shapes without curves. I waded in, screaming for him. I went under and under. If I could just feel his hair, if I could just grab his col ar, he'd be OK. I could save him. But it was too cold and the pond was too deep.

My stepfather came. He used a spotlight powered by the tractor engine and laid planks across the pond to crawl out. He hammered on the ice with an ax and reached down with his hands, feeling for the bottom. I watched from the bedroom window, praying that somehow Luke would be al right. Nobody said anything. They didn't have to. It was my fault. I kil ed him.

“You were twelve years old. It was an accident.”

“I lost him.”

Wiping wetness from my cheeks, I shake my head and curse him. What do other people know of guilt?

Joe is standing, offering his hand. “Come on, let's go.”

I don't look diminished in his eyes but it wil never be the same between us. I wish he could have left Luke alone.

On the drive to his office nothing is said. Rachel greets us at the door. She's been working al night.

“I might have found something,” she explains as we climb the stairs. “I remember something Kirsten told me during Howard's trial. We were talking about giving evidence in court and she said that she once got cal ed as a character witness for a friend who was facing charges.”

“Do you know what sort of charges?”

“No. And she didn't mention a name.”

I pick up the phone. I'm not owed any favors but maybe “New Boy” Dave wil grant me one for Ali's sake.

“Sorry to wake you.”

I hear him groan.

“I need your help. I want to cross-reference police and court records for Kirsten Fitzroy.”

“It's been done.”

“Yes, but you've been treating her as the subject. She might have been a witness.”

He doesn't reply. I know he's debating whether to hang up on me. There is no reason to help and a dozen reasons to say no.

“Can it wait til
proper
morning?”

“No.”

There's another long pause. “Meet me at Otto's at six.”

Otto's is a café between a betting shop and a launderette at the western end of Elgin Avenue. The Sunday-morning clientele are mainly cabbies and delivery drivers, priming themselves with coffee and carbohydrates for the day ahead.

I wait by the window. “New Boy” Dave is on time, dodging the dog shit and puddles, before ducking inside. His shirt is creased and hair uncombed.

He orders a coffee and pul s a scrap of paper from his pocket, holding it out of reach. “First, you can answer some questions for me. Gerry Brandt had a fake passport and driver's license in the name of Peter Brannigan. For the last three years he's been running a bar in Thailand. The guy's a scrote—where did he get that sort of money?”

“Drugs.”

“That's what I figured, but the DEA and Interpol have nothing on him.”

“He came back into the country three months ago. According to his uncle he was looking for investors. Ray Murphy's pub was also struggling.”

“So that explains the ransom demand. It also got them kil ed. Bal istics has matched the bul et from Brandt with the one found in Ray Murphy's body. Same rifle.” Dave looks at his watch. “I got to get to the hospital. I want to be there when Ali wakes up.”

He hands over the scrap of paper. “Six years ago Kirsten Fitzroy gave evidence at a soliciting trial at Southwark Crown Court. She was a character witness for a Heather Wilde, who was convicted of running an il egal brothel and living off immoral earnings.”

I remember that case. Heather ran a swinging club from a house in Brixton. She had a Web site, Wilde Times, but claimed that no money changed hands so it wasn't prostitution.

Where in Brixton? Dumbarton Road.

My memory triumphs again. It's a curse.

35

The single door is set in a whitewashed brick wal with no number or mailbox. Rising three floors, the façade has maybe a dozen windows, each divided by vertical bars and gray with dirt.

I don't know if Kirsten is inside. The place looks empty. I want to be sure but this time I won't be cal ing the police—not after what happened to Gerry Brandt.

Rain has beaded the hoods of cars parked down either side of the street. Walking along the pavement, I pass bicycles chained to the railing fence and trash cans waiting for col ection.

I knock and wait. Bolts slide and a barrel lock turns, before the door opens no more than a crack. An unsmiling, fifty-plus face appears looking me up and down.

“Mrs. Wilde?”

“Do you know what time it is?”

“I'm looking for Kirsten Fitzroy.”

“Never heard of her.”

Looking past her I see a narrow entrance hal and dimly lit sitting room. She tries to shut the door but my shoulder strikes it first, forcing her backward into a phone table that topples over.

“I don't want to cause any trouble. Just hear me out.” I help her right the table and pick up the phone books.

A greasy stain of lipstick smears her mouth and she reeks of damp ash and perfume. Her breasts are squeezed into a satin dressing gown, creating a cleavage that brings to mind honeydew melons. Daj always told me that you could tel if a honeydew melon was ripe if they were whitish in color. See how my memory works?

In the sitting room almost every piece of furniture is covered in sheets except for a wicker chair by the fireplace and an ornate lamp on a trestle table. The table also carries an open book, a cigarette box, a ful ashtray and a lighter in the shape of the Venus de Milo.

“Have you heard from Kirsten?”

“I told you I never heard of her.”

“Tel her I have her diamonds.”

“What diamonds?”

I've sparked her curiosity. “The ones she almost died for.”

Mrs. Wilde hasn't offered me a seat but I take one anyway, pul ing the sheet from an armchair. Her skin is taut and almost translucent except for her neck and the backs of her hands. She reaches for a cigarette and watches me through the flame of the lighter.

“Kirsten is in a lot of trouble,” I explain. “I'm trying to help her. I know she's a friend of yours. I thought she might come looking for you if she needed somewhere to hole up for a while.”

Smoke curls in ribbons from her lips. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

I glance around the room at the deep velvet wal paper and baroque furnishings. If there's one place more depressing than a brothel it's a former brothel. It's like they soak up the loathing and disappointment until they feel as tired and worn out as the sexual organs of the employees.

“A long while ago Kirsten told me that she would never cross Aleksei Kuznet or if she did she'd be catching the first plane to Patagonia. She missed her flight.” Aleksei's name has shaken her calmness.

“Didn't Kirsten tel you? She tried to rip him off. You must realize how much danger she's in . . .” I pause, “. . . how much danger you're both in.”

“I haven't done anything.”

“I'm sure Aleksei wil understand. He's a reasonable man. I saw him only yesterday. I offered him a deal—two mil ion pounds' worth of diamonds if he left Kirsten alone. He didn't take it. He sees himself as a man of honor. Money doesn't matter and neither do excuses. But if you haven't seen Kirsten, that's fine. I'l let him know.” Ash fal s from her cigarette and smudges her dress. “I might be able to ask around. You mentioned money.”

“I mentioned diamonds.”

“It might help me find her.”

“And I had you pegged as a humanitarian.”

Her top lip curls. “You see a limousine parked outside?”

Her eyelids seem to work on wires attached to the top of her forehead. I've heard it cal ed a Croydon face-lift—pul ing back your hair so tightly that everything else lifts.

Drawing out my wal et, I peel off three twenties. She counts with her eyes.

“There's a clinic in Tottenham. It patched her up. Expensive. But discreet.”

I put another two twenties on the stack. She has the money in her hand and it vanishes down her cleavage as if part of a conjuring trick. She tilts her head as though listening to the rain.