Lost

She smiles self-consciously. “They bring good luck. That's why their trunks are raised.”

“What about that one?” I point to the woolly mammoth, which has a lowered trunk.

“An ex-boyfriend gave that to me. He's also extinct.”

She picks up the scraps of bandages and straightens a lace doily on the bedside table. “I had a call this morning about Rachel Carlyle.” She pauses and my hopes soar. “She suffered some sort of nervous breakdown. A night watchman found her sitting in a stolen car on some wasteland in Kilburn.”

“When was this?”

“On the morning you were pulled from the river. The police took her to the hospital—the Royal Free in Hampstead.”

Rather than joy I feel relief. Up until now I have tried not to think of who might have been on the boat. The longer Rachel remained missing, the harder this had become.

“Was she interviewed?”

“No. The police didn't talk to her at all.”

This is Campbell's doing. He won't investigate anything associated with Mickey Carlyle because he's frightened of where it might lead. It's not a cover-up if you don't lift the covers in the first place. Plausible deniability is a coward's defense.

“They searched Rachel's flat and found your messages on her answering machine. They also found a set of your clothes. They don't want you anywhere near her—not so close to Howard's appeal.”

“Where is Rachel now?”

“She checked out ten days ago.”

Someone close to Campbell must have told Ali these things, a detective who worked on the original investigation. It was probably “New Boy” Dave King, who has always fancied her. We call him “New Boy” because he was the newest member of the Serious Crime Group, but that was eight years ago.

“How is your boyfriend?”

She screws up her face. “That would be none of your business.”

“He's a good lad, Dave. Very fit looking. I think he must work out.”

She doesn't respond.

“He's not the sharpest quill on the porcupine but you could do a lot worse.”

“He's not really for me, Sir.”

“Why's that?”

“Well for one thing his legs are skinnier than mine. If he can fit into my pants he can't get into my pants.”

She keeps a completely straight face for about fifteen seconds. Poor Dave. She's far too sharp for him.

Downstairs in the kitchen I meet Ali's mother. She's barely five feet tall, dressed in a bright green sari that makes her look like a bauble on a Christmas tree.

“Good morning, Inspector, welcome to our home. I trust you slept well.” Her dark eyes seem to be smiling at me and her accent is incredibly proper as though I'm someone important. She doesn't even know me.

“Fine, thank you.”

“I have prepared you breakfast.”

“I normally eat breakfast closer to lunch.”

Her look of disappointment makes me regret the statement. She doesn't seem bothered. She is already clearing the table from the first sitting. Some of Ali's brothers still live at home. Two of them run a garage in Mile End, one is an accountant and the other is at university.

A toilet flushes at the rear of the house and Ali's father appears moments later dressed in a British Rail uniform. He has a salt-and-pepper beard and a bright blue turban. Shaking my hand, he bows his head slightly.

“You are welcome, Inspector.”

Ali appears, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt. Her father swallows his disappointment.

“We're all British now, Babba,” she says, kissing him on the forehead.

“Outside these walls, yes,” he replies. “In this house you are still my daughter. It's bad enough that you cut your hair.”

Ali is supposed to wear a sari when she visits her parents. I saw her once, looking self-consciously beautiful, wrapped in orange-and-green silk. She was on her way to a cousin's wedding. I felt strangely envious. Instead of being caught between two cultures she seemed to straddle them.

“Thank you for letting me stay like this,” I say, trying to change the subject.

Mr. Barba rocks his head from side to side. “That's quite all right, Inspector. My daughter has explained everything . . .”

Somehow I doubt that.

“You are very welcome. Sit. Eat. I must apologize for leaving.”

He takes a lunch box and thermos from the kitchen bench. Mrs. Barba walks him to the front door and kisses his cheek. Whistling steam billows from the kettle and Ali begins making a fresh pot of tea.

“You'll have to forgive my parents,” she says. “And I should warn you about the questions.”

“Questions?”

“My mother is very nosey.”

A voice answers from the hallway. “I heard that.”

“She also has ears like a bat,” whispers Ali.

“I heard that, too.” Mrs. Barba appears again. “I'm sure you don't talk to your mother like this, Inspector.”

I feel a stab of guilt. “She's in a retirement home.”

“And I'm sure it's very nice.”

Does that mean expensive?

Mrs. Barba puts her arms around Ali's waist. “My daughter thinks I spy on her just because I come to clean her house once a week.”

“I don't need you to clean.”

“Oh, yes! And if you are Queen and I am Queen, who is to fetch the water?”

Ali rolls her eyes. Mrs. Barba directs a question at me. “Do you have any children, Inspector?”

“Two.”

“You're divorced, aren't you?”

“Twice. I'm trying for third time lucky.”

“That is sad for you. Do you miss your wife?”

“Yes, but my aim is improving.”

The joke doesn't make her smile. She puts a fresh cup of tea in front of me. “Why didn't your marriage work out?”

Ali looks horrified. “You don't ask questions like that, Mama!”

“That's all right,” I say. “I don't really know the answer.”

“Why not? My daughter says you are very clever.”

“Not in matters of the heart.”

“It's not hard to love a wife.”

“I could love one, I just couldn't hold on to her.”

Without realizing how it happens, I'm telling her how my first wife, Laura, died of breast cancer at thirty-eight and my second wife, Jessie, left me when she realized that marriage wasn't just for the weekend. Now she's in Argentina filming a documentary about polo players and most likely shagging one of them. And my current wife, Miranda, packed her bags because I spent more time in the office than I did at home. It sounds like a soap opera.

Mrs. Barba picks up on the melancholy note in my voice when I talk about Laura, who should have been my childhood sweetheart because then I would have known her longer than fifteen years. We deserved more. She deserved more.

One thing leads to another and soon I'm telling her about the twins—how Claire is dancing in New York and every time I see her disfigured toes I feel like arresting everyone at the New York City Ballet; and the last I heard