“It's no deal.”
Her voice is as fragile as spun glass. “What if they don't bring Mickey? What if they want the diamonds first?”
“You say no.”
“They'll kill her.”
“No! They'll claim that she's alone or hungry or running out of air or water. They'll try to frighten and bully you—”
“But what if . . .” her voice catches, “. . . what if they hurt her?”
I can almost see the penny dropping.
She sobs. “They're going to kill her, aren't they? They'll never let her go because she can identify them . . .”
I cover her hands with mine and make her look at me. “Stop! Pull yourself together. Right now Mickey is their most valuable asset.”
“And afterward?”
“That's why we have to dictate the terms and you have to be ready.”
On my feet now, I stand behind her. “OK, let's practice what you're going to say.” I pull out my cell phone and dial. The phone in front of her begins to ring. I nod toward it.
Uneasily she flips open the receiver. “Hello?”
“DITCH THE FUCKING WIRE!”
She looks up at me and stutters, “What . . . what . . . do you mean?”
“NOW, BITCH! DITCH THE WIRE OR I KILL MICKEY. RIGHT NOW.”
“I'm not . . . I'm not wearing a wire.”
“DON'T LIE TO ME. Dump it out the window.”
“No.”
“SHE'S DEAD. YOU HAD YOUR CHANCE.”
“I'll do whatever you say. Anything. Please. I'm doing it . . .”
Rachel is shaking. I take the phone from her hands and terminate the call.
“OK, he didn't know you had a wire. He bluffed you. You should have called his bluff.”
Rachel nods and takes a deep breath.
We go through the rehearsal again. I want her to be polite and forceful without being confrontational. Disagree but don't challenge. Delay.
“Tell them you're scared. You're new to this. You're nervous. They want control so let them think you're vulnerable.”
For the next two hours we practice, going through the various scenarios. Realistically, I can only instill a handful of ideas. Over and over I repeat the same question. “What are you going to ask?”
“To
“When are you going to hand over the ransom?”
“When I
“That's right. When you're holding her by the hand.”
I look into her eyes, hoping to see the same resolve that I witnessed at the first press conference after Mickey had gone missing when Rachel refused to break down or cry. I saw the same determination on the courthouse steps after the verdict when she read from a prepared statement.
“You don't have to go through with this,” I remind her. Rachel doesn't blink or even breathe. Her fingers flutter against the buckles of the satchel.
On the edge of consciousness I hear a phone ringing. Joe leans across his desk and diverts the call. He looks at me expectantly, his left arm jerking like a broken fire hose.
“You remembered something.”
I feel my stomach heave and settle again. “Not enough.”
His arm has stopped shaking. His face assumes a pale blankness except for the brightness in his eyes. Life is one big mystery to him, an ever-shifting puzzle. Most people don't stop to think. Joe can't stop himself from thinking.
21
Ali has had her phone turned off all evening. Finally she calls me.
“Where have you been?”
“Working. I'm coming home now.”
“Not on my account.”
“I've been
Twenty minutes later she comes through the door, looking different. They say you can tell when a woman has had sex. Maybe I never did it well enough.
Ali has something for me. The Police National Computer confirmed that Gerry Brandt shared a prison cell with Tony Murphy four years ago. Brandt was released on parole two months before Mickey disappeared.
“And how's this for another coincidence,” she says. “Tony Murphy got paroled six months ago—just in time to be involved in all this.”
“How is ‘New Boy' Dave?”
With just a hint of a smile: “He's a very happy bunny.”
Although tired, she sits and goes through her notes. Gerry Brandt disappeared off radar screens the same month that Mickey went missing. Since then there have been no tax returns, social security payments, traffic fines, police cautions or overdue library books . . . He popped up again three months ago when he applied for welfare.
“So tell me, my clever young thing, does Mr. Brandt have a current location?”
“As a matter of fact he does,” she says, holding up her hand. Between her fingers is a small piece of folded paper—an address in South London.
Bermondsey is one of those areas that has been raped twice—once by the Luftwaffe and then by architects in the seventies who put up Stalinesque tower blocks and concrete council estates. It's like seeing a set of healthy teeth riddled with fillings.
We pull up outside a big old white place, veiled in foliage. Beneath a pelmet of ivy, I see a small balcony supported by ornate brackets and above that a steep slate roof as dark and wet as a washed blackboard.
I look at my watch. It's just gone seven in the morning.
“Rise and shine, Princess.”
A girl of about nineteen with tousled hair peers from the partially opened door. She's wearing a rugby sweater and a pair of cotton briefs. A tattoo peeps from beneath the waistband.
She looks at Ali's badge and unlocks the chain. Then we follow her down the hallway to the living room. Ali admonishes me silently for checking out the swaying arse.
Two more girls are asleep on the floor wrapped in each other's arms. Someone else of indeterminate sex is cocooned in a bedspread on the sofa. The air stinks of hash and stale cigarette smoke.
“Heavy night?”
“Not me, I don't drink,” she says.
“We're looking for Gerry Brandt.”
“He's upstairs.”
She sits on a dining chair and rests her bare foot on the table to pick at a scab on her knee.
“Well maybe you'd like to go and tell him that we'd like a word,” Ali replies.
The girl ponders this and then slides her foot off the table. She makes the stairs seem very steep. The dining room is plastered with cheap flyers for pub bands and there is a padded bench in the corner beneath a bar and weights. Through the door in the kitchen I see last night's takeout curry spilling out of the trash can.
