screaming for him. I went under and under. If I could just feel his hair, if I could just grab his collar, 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 all right. Nobody said anything. They didn't have to. It was my fault. I killed 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 will 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 all 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 called 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 will 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 till
“No.”
There's another long pause. “Meet me at Otto's at six.”
Otto's is a cafe 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 pulls 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 killed. Ballistics has matched the bullet 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 illegal 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 wall with no number or mailbox. Rising three floors, the facade 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 calling 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 collection.
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 hall 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 tell 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 full 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.”
“Tell 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, pulling 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 wallpaper 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 tell you? She tried to rip him off. You must realize how much danger she's in . . .” I pause, “. .
