“It's a hoax.”
“You've
“It still smells like a hoax.”
“What would change your mind?”
“Proof of life.”
“The letter contains strands of hair.”
“I have it tested.”
“What else?”
“I have everything analyzed—the ink, the handwriting, the paper—”
“Who does that?”
“The Forensic Science Service.”
“But your boss refuses to believe you? He tells you to leave the case alone.”
“He's wrong!”
“Nobody believes the letter except you and the girl's mother. Why do you believe?”
“It can't just be the hair. I need more proof.”
“Like what?”
“A photograph or better still a video. And it has to include something time sensitive like the front page of a newspaper.”
“Anything else?”
“Blood or skin tissue—something that can't be three years old.”
“If there's no such proof, do you still go ahead with the ransom drop?”
“I don't know. It's too far-fetched.”
“Maybe you want to catch the hoaxers.”
“I wouldn't put Rachel in danger for that.”
“So you must believe it.”
“Yes.”
“None of your colleagues agree with you. Why?”
“Perhaps the proof of life isn't conclusive.”
Joe has turned his chair slightly away from me, so his gaze fixes me off center. Whenever I pause or falter, he finds a new question. It's like painting by numbers, working inward from the edges.
“Why would someone wait three years to post a ransom demand?”
“Maybe they didn't kidnap her for ransom—not at first.”
“Why kidnap her then?”
I'm struggling now. According to Rachel, until Mickey disappeared nobody in England knew that Aleksei was her father. Sir Douglas Carlyle obviously did, but if he kidnapped Mickey he's hardly likely to send a ransom demand.
“So someone else took Mickey and we go back to the same question: Why wait three years?” says Joe.
Again, I don't know the answer. I'm guessing. “Either they didn't have her or they wanted to keep her.”
“Why give her up now?”
I see where he's going now. The ransom makes no sense. What do I really imagine: that Mickey has been chained to a radiator for the past three years? It's not credible. She isn't sitting in a waiting room, rocking her legs beneath a chair, expecting to be rescued.
Joe is still talking. “There's another issue. If Mickey is still alive, we have to consider whether she wants to come home. Three years is a long time at the age of seven. She could have formed attachments, found a new family.”
“But she wrote a letter!”
“What letter?”
The realization is like a sharp gust of wind. I remember this! A postcard in a child's hand—written in capital letters! I can recite the text:
DEAR MUMMY,I MISS YOU VERY MUCH AND I WANT TO COME HOME. I SAY MY PRAYERS EVERY NIGHT AND ASK FOR THE SAME THING. THEY SAY THEY WILL LET ME GO IF YOU SEND THEM SOMETHING. I THINK THEY WANT MONEY. I HAVE ?25 AND SOME GOLD COINS IN MY MONEY BOX UNDER MY BED. PLEASE HURRY. I CAN SEE YOU AGAIN SOON BUT ONLY IF YOU DON'T CALL THE POLICE.
LOVE,
MICKEY
P.S. I HAVE BOTH MY FRONT TEETH NOW.
For a moment I feel like I might hug Joe. God, it's good to remember. It's better than morphine.
“What did you do with the postcard?” he asks.
“I had it analyzed.”
“Where?”
“A private lab.”
I can picture the postcard flattened under glass, being scanned by some sort of machine—a video spectral comparator. It can tell if any letters have been altered and what inks have been used.
“It looked like a child's handwriting.”
“You don't sound certain.”
“I'm not.”
I remember a handwriting expert explaining to me how most children tend to write “R”s with the extender coming down from the intersection of the vertical line and the loop. This didn't happen on the postcard. And children also draw the capital “E” with a center line the same length as the upper and lower lines. And they cross their capital “J”s, whereas adults drop the line.
But the main clue came from the lines. Children have difficulty writing on blank paper. They tend to slew their writing down to the lower right corner. And they have trouble judging how much space words will use so they run out of room on the right-hand margin.
The ransom letter was perfectly straight.
“So it wasn't written by a child?” asks Joe.
“No.”
My heart suddenly aches.
Joe tries to keep me focused. “What about the strands of hair?”
“There were six of them.”
“Any instructions for the ransom?”
“No.”
“So there must have been more letters . . . or phone calls.”
“That makes sense.”
Joe is still drawing on his pad, creating a spiral with a dark center. “The ransom packages were waterproof and designed to float. The orange plastic made them easier to see in the dark. Why were there four identical bundles?”
“I don't know. Maybe there were four kidnappers.”
“They could have divided the diamonds themselves.”
“You have a theory.”
“I think the packages had to fit into something . . . or float through something.”
“Like a drain.”
“Yes.”
I'm exhausted but exhilarated. It feels like my eyes have been partially opened and light is filtering inside.
