Lost

“So he could remember it.”

5

By the time I get back to the hospital it's almost dark. The whole place has a sour smell like the dead air in closed-up rooms. I have missed a physiotherapy session and Maggie is waiting to change my bandages.

“Somebody took some pills from the pharmacy cart yesterday,” she says, cutting the last of the bandages. “It was a bottle of morphine capsules. My friend is in trouble. They think it's her fault.”

Maggie isn't accusing me but I know there's a subtext. “We're hoping the capsules might turn up. Maybe they were misplaced.”

She withdraws, walking backward, the tray with bandages and scissors held before her.

“I hope your friend doesn't get into too much trouble,” I say.

Maggie nods, turns and is gone without a sound.

Lying back, I listen to the carts and gurneys rattling to distant rooms and someone waking from a nightmare with a scream. Four times during the evening I try to phone Rachel Carlyle. She's still not home. Ali has promised to run her name and vehicle through the Police National Computer.

There's nobody in the corridor outside my room. Maybe the weasels from the ACG have grown tired of watching me.

At 9:00 p.m. I call my mother at Villawood Lodge. She takes a long while to answer the phone.

“Were you sleeping?” I ask.

“I was watching TV.” I can hear it buzzing in the background. “Why haven't you come to see me?”

“I'm in the hospital.”

“What's wrong with you?”

“I hurt my leg, but I'm going to be fine.”

“Well if it's not serious you should come to see me.”

“The doctors say I have to be here for another week or so.”

“Do the twins know?”

“I didn't want to bother them.”

“Claire sent me a postcard from New York. She went to Martha's Vineyard last weekend. And she said Michael might be doing a yacht transfer to Newport, Rhode Island. They can catch up with each other.”

“That's nice.”

“You should call them.”

“Yes.”

I ask her a few more questions, trying to make conversation, but she isn't concentrating on anything except the TV. Suddenly, she starts sniffling. It feels like her nose is right in my ear.

“Good night, Daj.” That's what I call her.

“Wait!” She presses her mouth to the phone. “Yanko, come and see me.”

“I will. Soon.”

I wait until she hangs up. Then I hold the receiver and contemplate calling the twins—just to make sure they're OK. It's the same call I always imagine making but never do.

I imagine Claire saying, “Hi, Dad, how are you doing? Did you get that book I sent you? No, it's not a diet book; it's about lifestyle . . . cleansing your liver, purging toxins . . .” Then she invites me around for a vegetarian dinner that will purge more toxins and clear entire rooms.

I also imagine calling Michael. We'll get together for a beer, swapping jokes and talking football like a normal father and son. Only there is nothing normal about any of this. I'm imagining someone else's life. Neither of my children would waste a phone conversation, let alone an evening, on their father.

I love my children fit to bust—I just don't understand them. As babies they were fine, but then they turned into teenagers who drove too fast, played music too loud and treated me like some fascist conspirator because I worked for the Metropolitan Police. Loving children is easy. Keeping them is hard.

I fall asleep watching a vacation program on TV. The last thing I remember is seeing a woman with a permanent smile drop her sarong and dive into a pool.

Some time later the pain wakes me. There's a lethal swiftness in the air, like the vortex left behind by a passenger jet. Someone is in the room with me. Only his hands are in the light. Draped over the knuckles are polished-silver worry beads.

“How did you get in here?”

“Don't believe everything you read about hospital waiting lists.”

Aleksei Kuznet leans forward. He has dark eyes and even darker hair combed in rigid lines back from his forehead and kept there with hair gel and willpower. His other most notable feature is a pink puckered circle of scar tissue on his cheek, wrinkled and milky white. The watch on his wrist is worth more than I earn in a year.

“Forgive me, I didn't ask after your welfare. Are you well?”

“Fine.”

“That is very pleasing news. I am sure your mother will be relieved.”

He's sending me a message.

Tiny beads of perspiration gather on my fingertips. “What are you doing here?”

“I have come to collect.”

“Collect?”

“I seem to remember we had an arrangement.” His accent is classic public-school English—perfect yet cold.

I look at him blankly. His voice hardens. “My daughter—you were to collect her.”

I feel as though some snippet of the conversation has passed me by.

“What do you mean? How could I collect Mickey?”

“Dear me, wrong answer.”

“No, listen! I can't remember. I don't know what happened.”

“Did you see my daughter?”

“I don't think so. I'm not sure.”

“My ex-wife is hiding her. Don't believe anything else.”

“Why would she do that?”

“Because she's a cruel heartless bitch, who enjoys turning the knife. It can feel like a jousting stick.”

The statement is delivered with a ferocity that lowers the temperature.

Regaining his calm, he tugs at the cuffs of his jacket. “So I take it you didn't hand over the ransom.”

“What ransom? Who wanted the ransom?”

My hands are shaking. The uncertainty and frustration of the past few days condenses down to this moment. Aleksei knows what happened.

Tripping over the words, I plead with him to tell me. “There was a shooting on the river. I can't remember what happened. I need you to help me understand.”

Aleksei smiles. I have seen the same indolent, foreknowing expression before. The silence grows too long. He doesn't believe me. Bringing a hand to his forehead, he grips the front of his skull as though trying to crush it. He's wearing a thumb ring—gold and very thick.

“Do you always forget your failures, Inspector?”

“On the contrary, they're normally the only things I remember.”

“Somebody must take responsibility for this.”

“Yes, but first help me remember.”

He laughs wryly and points at me with his hand. His right index finger is aimed at my head and his gold thumb ring is like the hammer of a gun. Then he smoothly turns his hand and frames my face within a backward “L”.

“I want my daughter or I want my diamonds. I hope that's clear. My father told me never to trust Gypsies. Prove him wrong.”