“You can relax now,” he says. “You did very well.”
“I remembered the postcard.”
“Yes.”
“It mentioned Mickey's money box. It even gave a specific amount. Only someone very close to Mickey and Rachel would know something like that.”
“A verifiable detail.”
“It's not enough.”
“Give it time.”
16
London has three private laboratories that do genetic testing. The biggest is Genetech Corporation on Harley Street. Although it's late Friday afternoon, the place is still open. The reception area has a granite counter, leather chairs and a framed poster that reads, PEACE OF MIND PATERNITY KITS. Isn't that an oxymoron?
The receptionist is a tall pale girl with straggly hair and a vacant face. She's wearing pearl earrings and has a plastic cigarette lighter tucked under her bra strap.
“Welcome to Genetech, how can I help you?”
“Do you remember me?”
She blinks slowly. “Um, well, I don't think so. Have you been here before?”
“I was hoping you might be able to tell me. My name is Detective Inspector Vincent Ruiz. I might have been here about a month ago.”
“Did you order a test?”
“I believe so.”
She doesn't bat an eyelid. I could be asking for a paternity test on Prince William and she'd act like it happens every day. She jots down my details and flicks at the keys of a computer. “Was it a police matter?”
“A private test.”
“Yes, here it is—a DNA test. You wanted a comparison done on an earlier sample . . .” She pauses and gives a puzzled hum.
“What is it?”
“You also wanted us to analyze an envelope and a letter. You paid cash. Almost ?450.”
“How long did the tests take?”
“These were done in five days. It can sometimes take six weeks. You must have been in a hurry. Is there a problem?”
“I need to see the test results again. They didn't arrive.”
“But you collected them personally. It says so right here.” She taps the computer screen.
“You must be mistaken.”
Her eyes fill with doubt. “So you want copies?”
“No. I want to speak to whoever conducted the tests.”
For the next twenty minutes I wait on a black leather sofa, reading a brochure on genetic testing. We live in suspicious times. Wives check on husbands; husbands check on wives; and parents discover if their teenage children are taking drugs or sleeping around. Some things are safer left alone.
Eventually, I'm escorted upstairs, along sterile corridors and into a white room with benches lined with microscopes and machines that hum and blink. A young woman in a white coat peels off her rubber gloves before shaking hands. Her name is Bernadette Foster and she doesn't look old enough to have done her A levels let alone mastered these surroundings.
“You wanted to ask about some tests,” she says.
“Yes, I need a fuller explanation.”
Sliding off a high stool, she opens a filing cabinet and produces a bright-green folder.
“From memory the results were self-explanatory. I extracted DNA from strands of hair and compared this with earlier tests done by the Forensic Science Service, which I assume you provided.”
“Yes.”
“Both samples—new and old—belonged to a girl called Michaela Carlyle.”
“Could the test be wrong?”
“Thirteen markers were the same. You're looking at one chance in ten billion.”
Even though I'm expecting the news, I suddenly feel unsteady on my feet. Both samples were the same. This doesn't breathe air into Mickey's lungs or pump blood through her veins but it
Miss Foster looks up from her notes. “If you don't mind me asking, why did you ask us to do the test? We don't usually do police work.”
“It was a private request from the girl's mother.”
“But you're a detective.”
“Yes.”
She looks at me expectantly but then realizes I'm not going to explain. Referring back to the folder, she takes out several photographs. “Head hairs are usually the longest and have a uniform diameter. Uncut hair appears tapered but in this case you can see the cut tip from a hairdresser's scissors or clippers.” She points to a photograph. “This hair hadn't been dyed or permed.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“Can you tell her age?”
“No.”
“Could she be alive?”
The question sounds too hopeful but she doesn't appear to notice. Instead she points to another highly magnified image. “When hair originates from a body in a state of decomposition a dark ring can sometimes appear near the root. It's called a postmortem root band.”
“I can't see it.”
“That makes two of us.”
A second set of photographs show the postcard. The wording is just as I remember, with large block letters and completely straight lines.
“The envelope and card didn't tell us much. Whoever sent this didn't lick the stamp. And we didn't find any fingerprints.” She shuffles through the photographs. “Why is everyone so interested in this case all of a sudden?”
“What do you mean?”
“We had a lawyer phone last week. He asked about forensic tests relating to Michaela Carlyle.”
“Did he give his name?”
“No.”
“What did you say?”
“I told him we couldn't comment. Our tests are confidential.”
It may have been Howard's lawyer, which begs the question how did he know. Miss Foster returns the file to the cabinet. I seem to have exhausted my questions.
“Don't you want to know about the other package?” she asks.
My confusion lasts a fraction of a second—long enough to give myself away.
“You don't remember, do you?”
I feel a wave of heat down my neck.
“I'm sorry. I had an accident. I was shot.” I motion to my leg. “I have no memory of what happened.”
“Transient global amnesia.”
“Yes. That's why I'm here—putting the pieces together. You have to help me. What was in the package?”
