missing.
I don't think I'm a bad cop. Maybe I'll find that out, too.
8
Dr. Bennett is walking backward down the corridor in his Cuban-heeled cowboy boots.
“You're not supposed to leave. This is madness. Think about your leg.”
“I feel fine.”
He puts his hand over the button for the lift. “You're under police protection, you can't leave.”
I pretend to stumble and he reaches out to catch me. At the same moment I stab the walking stick against the down arrow. “Sorry, Doc, but I've arranged my own protection.” I motion to Ali, who's carrying my belongings in a plastic bag. That's all I want to take out of here.
For the first time since the shooting I feel like my old self. I'm a detective not a victim. Members of the staff begin appearing in the corridor. Word is spreading. They've come to say goodbye. I shake hands and mumble “Thank you” while I wait for the lift to arrive.
The doors open and Maggie emerges. She looks like a jovial panda with black eyes and a bandaged nose. I don't know what to say to her.
“Were you going to leave without saying goodbye?”
“No.”
Ali produces a bunch of flowers and Maggie beams, throwing her arms around me, crushing the blooms against my chest. I've been a pain in the arse and managed to put her in a hospital bed but she still wants to hug me. I'll never understand women.
Downstairs, rocking on a walking stick, I cross the foyer. My leg is getting stronger and if I concentrate really hard I look like someone with a pebble in his shoe rather than a bullet wound. More nurses and doctors wish me good luck. I'm a celebrity—the detective who survived an assassination attempt. I want my fifteen minutes of fame to be over.
The place is crawling with police officers, guarding the entrances and rooftops. They're wearing black body armor and carrying automatic weapons. None of them knows what to do. They're supposed to be guarding me but now I'm leaving.
Ali leads the way, taking me through an exit door and down concrete stairs to the parking garage. As I cross toward her car, I notice John Keebal leaning against a pillar. He doesn't approach. Instead he cracks a peanut and drops the shells into a neat pile at his feet.
Briefly leaving Ali, I walk over to him.
“Are you visiting a sick granny or waiting for me?”
“Thought I'd give you a ride home but I guess you're covered,” he replies, giving Ali the once-over. “Bit young for you, isn't she?”
“That'd be none of your business.”
We look at each other for a few moments and Keebal grins. I'm getting too old for these swinging-dick contests.
“What exactly do you want?”
“I thought you might invite me back to your place.”
“Couldn't you get a warrant?”
“Seems not.”
What a nerve! He can't convince a judge to let him search my house and then expects me to say yes anyway. It's all part of building a case. If I say no Keebal will say I'm being uncooperative. Fuck him!
“Listen, under normal circumstances, you know I'd happily let you come over. If I'd known I'd have cleaned up the place and bought a cake but I haven't been home in a few weeks. Maybe some other time.”
I pivot on the walking stick and rejoin Ali.
She raises an eyebrow. “I didn't know he was a friend of yours.”
“You know how it is—everyone is worried about me.”
I slip into the backseat of a black Audi. Ali takes the wheel and the car swings through bends and beneath a boom gate before emerging into the sunshine. She doesn't say a word on the drive. Instead her eyes flick between her mirrors and the road ahead. She purposely drops her speed and accelerates, weaving between traffic, checking to see if we're being followed.
Ali rummages on the seat next to her and tosses me a bulletproof vest. We argue over whether I'm going to wear it or not. I can see her losing patience with me.
“Sir, with all due respect, you either wear this vest or I will put a bullet in your other leg and drive you back to the hospital.”
Looking at her eyes in the mirror, I don't doubt her for a second. There are too many women in my life and none of the fringe benefits.
We drive south through Kensington and Earls Court, past the tourist hotels and fast-food joints. The playgrounds are dotted with mothers and toddlers playing on brightly colored swings and slides.
Rainville Road runs alongside the Thames, opposite the Barn Elms Wildfowl Reserve. I like living by the river. Of a morning I can look out of my bedroom window at the expanse of sky and pretend I don't live in a city of seven million.
Ali parks at the front of the house, scanning the riverside pavement and the houses on the opposite side of the street. Out of the car, she moves quickly up the stairs, using my key to unlock the front door. Having searched the rooms, she comes back to me.
With her arm around my waist, I hobble inside. A mound of unopened letters, bills and junk mail has collected on the front mat. Ali scoops it all up in her arms. I haven't time to sort them out now. We have to leave quickly. Dumping the letters in a shopping bag, I walk through the house, trying to resurrect my memories.
I know this place by heart but there is nothing reassuring in the familiar. The dimensions seem the same, the colors and the furniture. The kitchen benches are clear except for three coffee mugs in the sink. I must have had company.
The kitchen table is littered with scraps of orange plastic, masking tape and squares of polystyrene foam cut with a serrated knife. I must have been wrapping something. Foam dust looks like fake snow on the floor.
My diary is beside the telephone—open on September 25, a Sunday. I was shot in the early hours of Monday morning. Tucked into the spine is an invoice for a classified advertisement in
I paid for the advertisement by credit card four days before the shooting. Why would I want to rent a Tuscan villa?
I don't recognize the cell-phone number printed at the bottom. Picking up the receiver, I punch the numbers. A metallic voice tells me the number is unavailable. I can leave a message. It beeps. I don't know what to say and I don't want to leave my name. It might not be safe.
I hang up and flick backward through the diary, skimming over final reminders for unpaid bills and dental appointments. There must be other clues. One name stands out—Rachel Carlyle. I met her six times in the ten days prior to the shooting. Hope rises in me like a wave.
Going farther back through the pages, I look at the previous month. On the second Thursday in August I wrote a name: Sarah Jordan—the girl who waited on the front steps for Mickey to arrive. I don't remember meeting Sarah. How old would she be now—twelve, maybe thirteen?
Ali is upstairs trying to pack some clothes for me. “Do you have any spare sheets?” she calls.
“Yeah. I'll get them.”
The linen cupboard is in the hallway near the laundry. I lean my walking stick against the door and reach up with both hands.
