Lost

“The police have a new witness.”

“A witness or a suspect?”

“Both.”

“In your evidence several days ago you expressed an opinion that Michaela Carlyle might be alive. Is that still the case?”

“No, Your Honor.”

Sadness flickers in his eyes. “And this new witness has led you to question what happened?”

“She has confessed to the kidnapping of Michaela Carlyle and sending a subsequent ransom demand. She will testify that Mickey was released unharmed after three days.”

“And then what?”

“We believe she made it as far as Dolphin Mansions.”

The Judge can see where I'm going now. He grinds his teeth as though trying to wear them down. “This is ridiculous!”

Eddie interrupts. “We will be applying for bail, Your Honor.”

“You keep your mouth shut.”

I raise my voice above both of them. “Howard Wavell is a child killer. He should stay in prison.”

“Bullshit,” mutters Eddie. “He's ugly and he's weird but last time I looked that still wasn't a crime. We can both be grateful for that.”

“You can both be quiet,” says Lord Connelly, wanting to tear strips off someone. “Next person to utter a sound gets locked up for contempt.”

He addresses me. “DI Ruiz, I hope you're going to explain to that poor girl's family what's happening.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

He turns to the others. “I am going to grant the defense leave to appeal. I am also going to make sure they have plenty of opportunity to examine this new evidence. I want a level playing field. You can make your case for bail, Mr. Raynor, but I remind you that your client has been convicted of murder and the presumption of guilt must remain—”

“Your Honor, my client is gravely ill and requires medical attention he is not receiving in prison. The humanitarian considerations outweigh . . .”

Lord Connelly wags his finger. “Now is not the time or the place. Make your case in court.”

The rest of the hearing passes in a blur of legal argument and ill temper. Leave to appeal is granted and Lord Connelly orders a retrial but refuses to release Howard from prison. Instead he orders that he be transferred to a civilian hospital under armed guard.

There is pandemonium outside the courtroom. Reporters yell into phones and jostle to get close to Rachel, shouting questions and answers, as though wanting her to agree.

Her arms are locked around my waist, her breasts against my back. It's like a rugby maul without the ball as we try to cross the gain line. Eddie Barrett, an unlikely savior, takes his briefcase and swings it from side to side like a scythe, clearing a path.

“It might be time to consider an alternative exit,” he shouts, pointing to a door marked OFFICIALS ONLY.

Eddie is an old hand at exiting courthouses through basements and back doors. He leads us down corridors, past offices and holding cells, getting deeper into the building. Eventually, we emerge into a cobblestoned courtyard where industrial trash containers await collection and wire netting is stretched above our heads to stop the pigeons from landing.

The gates slide open electronically and an ambulance pulls through them. Howard is waiting on the stone steps, head in hands, staring sullenly at the tips of his scuffed shoes. Police officers and prison guards stand on either side of him.

Eddie lights a cigarette in the hollow of his hand, inclining his head as he does so. The smoke floats past his eyes and scatters as he exhales. He offers me one and I feel an impulse toward comradeship; the solidarity of lost soldiers on a battlefield.

“You know he did it.”

“That's not what he says.”

“But what do you think?”

Eddie chuckles. “You want true confessions talk to Oprah.”

Rachel is nearby, gazing toward Howard. The paramedics have opened the rear doors and are pulling out a stretcher.

“Can I talk to him?” she asks.

Eddie doesn't think it is appropriate.

“I just want to ask how he is.”

Eddie looks at me. I shrug my shoulders.

She crosses the courtyard. The police officers step aside and she stands beside the stretcher. I can't hear what they're saying. She reaches out and puts her hand on his shoulder.

Eddie raises his face to the square of sky above. “What are you trying to do, Inspector?”

“I'm trying to get to the truth.”

He inclines his head, respectful but stubborn. “In my experience almost all truths are lies.” His features have softened and his face looks unexpectedly gentle. “You said Mickey was set free by her kidnappers. When was that?”

“Wednesday night.”

He nods.

I remember that night. I watched Rachel being interviewed on News at Ten. That's why she wasn't there when Mickey arrived home. A detective was posted at her flat but Mickey didn't get a chance to press the buzzer. My mind puts everyone where they should have been. Mentally I lift off the roof of Dolphin Mansions and put people inside or take them out. It's like playing with dolls in a dollhouse. Mrs. Swingler, Kirsten, Ray Murphy . . . I put Mickey outside, walking up the steps.

A piece is missing. Turning away from Eddie I walk across the courtyard toward Howard. The paramedics have strapped him to a gurney and are lifting him into the ambulance.

“What did you do on Wednesday evenings, Howard?”

He looks at me blankly.

“Before you went to prison. What did you do?”

He clears his throat. “Choir practice. I never missed a choir practice—not in seven years.”

There is a pause for the information to sink in—barely a heartbeat, even less, the pause between heartbeats. I have been a fool. I have spent so much time concentrating on finding Kirsten that I didn't see the other possibilities.

Moving away from them, I can see myself running into the street, whistling at cabs to stop. At the same time I yell into my cell phone, making no sense at all. I don't have all the facts. But I have enough. I know what happened.

The traces of hair dye on Mickey's towel have bothered me all along. Gerry Brandt didn't dye her hair and why would Howard bother with a detail like that?

“I don't pay for things twice,” Aleksei said. I know what that means now. He didn't organize Mickey's kidnapping but like Kirsten and Ray Murphy, he saw an opportunity. He wanted his daughter back—the only truly perfect thing he had ever created. So he paid the ransom in secret. No police and no publicity. And when Mickey arrived home that night it was Aleksei who intercepted her. He was waiting.

Then he hatched his plan—one that hinged on convincing the world that Mickey was dead. At first he imagined he could blame the kidnappers. He would take some of Mickey's blood or make her vomit, plant the evidence and encourage everyone to think that she had died at the hands of her abductors. Unfortunately, he didn't know who they were. Then something serendipitous happened—a made-to-measure suspect, with a corrupt sexuality and no alibi. Howard Wavell. The opportunity was almost too perfect.

And what of Mickey? He spirited her away—smuggling her out of the country, most likely on board his yacht. He changed her appearance and changed her name.