Lost

There are wild cries of exultation and breathless moans of despair. Either someone is playing tennis or it's the soundtrack to a sixties blue movie.

The tennis court at the side of the house is hidden behind fences draped with ivy. We follow a path and emerge at a pagoda beside the courts, where trays of cold drinks have been set out on the table. Two couples are on court. The men are my age, sporting expensive suntans and muscled forearms. The women are younger and prettier, wearing miniskirts and midriff tops that show off their flat stomachs.

Sir Douglas is about to serve. With his aggressive countenance and eagle nose, he makes a social game look serious.

“Can I help you?” he asks, irritated by the interruption. Then he recognizes me.

“I am sorry to trouble you, Sir Douglas, I am looking for Rachel.”

Angrily, he slams the ball into the side fence. “I really can't be dealing with this now.”

“It's important.”

He troops off the court with his playing partner, who brushes past me as she reaches for a zip-up jacket to stay warm. She towels her face and neck. It's a very long neck. I read about Sir Douglas's divorce from Rachel's mother.

“This is Charlotte,” he says.

She beams. “You can call me Tottie. Everyone does. I've been Tottie forever.”

I can see that.

Sir Douglas waves to the far end of the court. “And those are friends of ours.” He shouts to them: “Why don't you go and get ready for lunch? We'll meet you inside.”

The couple wave back.

Sir Douglas looks even fitter than I remember, with one of those deep suntans you see on sailing types and Australians. You could cut off his arm and the tan would go all the way through.

“Is Rachel here?”

“What makes you think that?” He's testing me.

“You collected her from the hospital ten days ago.”

He plays an imaginary backhand. “I don't know if you recall, Inspector, but my daughter has never liked me very much. She thinks the Establishment is some sort of criminal society like the Mafia and that I am the Godfather. She doesn't believe in titles or privilege or the education that I paid for. She thinks there is only dignity in being poor and has swallowed the popular mythology of the working class being full of decent hardworking people possessed of piety and common sense. Breeding, however, is a curse.”

“Where is she?”

He drinks from a glass of lemonade and looks at Tottie. Why do I get the impression I'm about to be fed a plate of bullshit?

“Perhaps you should go inside sweetheart,” he says. “Tell Thomas he can clear these things away.”

Thomas is the butler.

Tottie stands and stretches her long legs. She pecks him on the cheek. “Don't let it upset you, dear.”

Sir Douglas motions us to the chairs, holding one for Ali.

“Do you know the hardest thing about being a father, Inspector? Trying to help your children not make the same mistakes as we did. You want to guide them. You want them to make certain decisions, marry certain people, believe certain things, but you can't make them go that way. They make their own decisions. My daughter chose to marry a gangster and a psychopath. She did it partly to punish me, I know that. I knew what sort of man Aleksei Kuznet was. It was bred into him. Like father, like son.”

Sir Douglas slaps his racquet through the air again. “Oddly enough, I actually felt sorry for Aleksei. Only an innocent millionaire would have satisfied Rachel—and short of winning the lottery or finding buried treasure in one's back garden, there's no such thing.”

I don't know where he's going with this but I try to keep the desperation out of my voice. “Just tell me where Rachel is.”

He ignores the statement. “I have always felt sorry for those people who choose not to have children. They miss out on what it means to be human, to feel love in all its forms.” His eyes have misted over. “I wasn't a very consistent father and I wasn't objective. I wanted Rachel to make me proud of her instead of realizing that I should always be proud of her.”

“How is she?”

“Recovering.”

“I need to speak to her.”

“I'm afraid that won't be possible.”

“You don't understand . . . there was a ransom demand. Rachel believed that Mickey was still alive. We both did. I need to find out why.”

“Is this an official investigation, Detective?”

“There must have been proof. There must have been some evidence to convince us.”

“I had a phone call from Chief Superintendent Smith. I don't know him well but he seems quite an impressive man. He alerted me to the fact that you might try to contact Rachel.”

He is no longer looking at me. He could be talking to the trees for all I know. “My daughter has suffered a breakdown. Some very callous and cruel people took advantage of her grief. She has barely said a word since the police found her.”

“I need her help—”

He raises his hand to stop me. “We have medical advice. She can't be upset.”

“People have died. A serious crime has been committed—”

“Yes, it has. But now something good has happened. My daughter has come home and I'm going to protect her. I'm going to make sure nobody hurts her again.”

He's serious. His eyes have a gleam of pure, unadulterated, idiotic determination. The whole conversation has had a ritualistic quality. I even expect him to say, “Maybe next time,” as though nothing would be simpler or more obvious than coming back another day.

Warm, melting undulations of fear ripple through me. I can't leave without talking to Rachel; too much is at stake.

“Does Rachel know that before Mickey disappeared you applied for custody of your granddaughter?”

He flinches now. “My daughter was an alcoholic, Inspector. We were concerned for Michaela. At one point Rachel fell in the bathroom and my granddaughter spent the night lying next to her on the floor.”

“How did you find out about that?”

He doesn't answer.

“You were spying on her.”

Again he doesn't respond. I've known about the custody application from the start. If Howard hadn't emerged as such a strong suspect I would have investigated it further and confronted Sir Douglas.

“How far would you have gone to protect Mickey?”

Angry now, he exclaims, “I didn't kidnap my granddaughter, if that's what you're suggesting. I wish I had— maybe then she would still be alive. Whatever happened in the past has been forgiven. My daughter has come home.”

He stands now. The conversation is over.

On my feet, I swing toward the house. He tries to intercept me but I brush him aside and begin yelling.

“RACHEL!”

“You can't do this! I demand you leave!”

“RACHEL!”

“Leave my property this instant.”

Ali tries to stop me. “Perhaps we should leave, Sir.”

Sir Douglas tackles me in front of the conservatory. With his tanned forearms and sinewy legs, he's surprisingly strong.

“Let it go, Sir,” says Ali, taking hold of my arms.

“I have to see Rachel.”

“Not this way.”