He doesn't reply. “My daughter was a very good athlete as a teenager. A sprinter. I once asked her why she wanted to run so fast. She said she was trying to catch up with the future—to see what sort of woman she was going to become.” He smiles.
“You should be proud of her,” I say.
He nods and shakes his head at the same time.
Moving past him, I slip into the toilet and douse my face with cold water. Taking off my shirt, I rub water under my arms, feeling it leak down to the belt of my trousers. Shutting the cubicle door, I lower the toilet lid and sit down.
This is my fault. I should have gone upstairs to find Gerry Brandt. I should have caught him before he escaped over the back fence. I can still see the look on his face as he held Ali's legs and fell backward, breaking her body against the wall. He knew what he was doing. Now I'm going to find him. I'm going to bring him in. And maybe, if I'm lucky, he might resist arrest.
The next moment my body jerks awake. I have fallen asleep in a toilet cubicle with my head against the wall. The knots in my neck feel like fists as I drag myself upward.
What day is it—Tuesday, no, Wednesday morning? It must be morning but it's dark. I don't even look at my watch.
My head starts to clear as I make it outside to the waiting room. My hair is matted on my forehead and my nose is crusted and dry.
The consultant is talking to Ali's family. Sick with fear I cross the room, zigzagging through rows of plastic chairs. Gloom seems to grow under the harsh strip lighting.
I hesitate for a moment, unsure whether to intrude, but the need to know is too great. As I reach the cluster of people, nobody looks up. The consultant is still talking.
“She has fractured two vertebrae and dislocated them, squeezing her spine like toothpaste in a tube. Until the bruising goes down we won't know for certain the extent of the paralysis or whether it's permanent. I have another patient, a jockey, who has similar injuries. He was thrown off a horse and landed on the running rail. He's doing very well and should walk again.”
Sweat chills on my skin and the long empty corridors drop away in every direction.
“She's zonked out on painkillers but you can see her,” he says, scratching his unshaved chin. “Try not to upset her.” At that same moment his beeper sounds and concusses in my ears. He looks at Ali's parents apologetically and leaves in a clatter of shoes along the corridor.
I wait my turn outside Ali's room. I can't look at her parents' faces as they leave. Her mother has been crying and her brothers want someone to blame. There's nowhere to hide.
A wave of nausea ebbs inside me as I push open the door, taking several steps into the semidarkness. Ali is lying flat on her back, staring upward. A skeletal steel frame holds her neck and head in place, preventing her from turning.
I don't get too close, hoping to spare her my stench and ugliness. It's too late. She sees me in the mirror above her head and says, “Morning.”
“Morning.”
I glance about the room and take a chair. Gold bars of light leak through the curtains, falling across her bed.
“How are you feeling?” I ask.
“Right now I'm flying with Lucy and her diamonds. I don't feel a thing.” She takes a breath, which is half a groan, and manages a smile. Tear trails have dried on either side of her eyes. “They say I need an operation on my spine. I'm going to get them to add a few inches. I've always wanted to be six feet tall.”
She wants me to laugh but I can't manage more than a smile. Ali has gone quiet. Her eyes are closed. Silently, I stand to leave, but her hand reaches out and grabs my wrist.
“What did the doctor tell you?”
“They won't know for a few days.”
Choking on the words: “Will I be able to walk?”
“They think so.”
Her eyes squeeze shut and tears form in the delta of wrinkles.
“You'll be fine,” I say, trying to sound convincing. “You'll be back at work in no time—all six feet of you.”
Ali wants me to stay. I watch her sleeping until a nurse shoos me outside. It's almost midday. A dozen calls are waiting in my message bank—most of them from Campbell Smith.
Calling the operating room, I try to get the latest on Gerry Brandt, who is still missing. Nobody will talk to me. Finally I get through to the Senior Investigating Officer, who takes pity on me. There were three hundred Ecstasy tablets beneath the floorboards in Gerry Brandt's bedroom, as well as traces of speed in the S-bend of the upstairs toilet. Is that why he ran?
I arrive at the Harrow Road Police Station just before 2:00 p.m. and pass through a crowded front office where two motorists with bloodstained shirts are yelling about a traffic accident.
Campbell shuts the office door behind me. He looks every inch a chief-constable-in-waiting, with his arms behind him and a face stiffer than shirt cardboard.
“Jesus Christ, Ruiz! Two fractured vertebrae, broken ribs and a ruptured spleen—she could finish in a wheelchair. And where were you? Being run over by a fucking milk truck . . .”
I can hear them laughing down the hall. The worst of the jokes haven't started yet but that's only because Ali is so sick.
Campbell opens his top drawer and produces a sheet of typed paper. “I warned you. I told you to stay out of this.”
He hands me a resignation letter. Mine. I am to retire immediately on health grounds.
“Sign this.”
“What are you doing to find Gerry Brandt?”
“That's not your concern. Sign the letter.”
“I want to help you find him. I'll sign the letter if you let me help find him.”
Campbell grows indignant, huffing and puffing like a pantomime wolf. I can't see his eyes. They are hidden beneath eyebrows that crawl across his forehead, fleeing toward his ears.
I tell him about the ransom letters and the DNA tests, recounting what I've managed to piece together about the ransom drop. I know it sounds far-fetched but I'm getting closer. I just need help to follow the trail. Gerry Brandt had something to do with it.
Campbell shakes his head in disbelief. “You should hear yourself. You're obsessed.”
“You're not listening. Someone kidnapped Mickey. I don't think Howard Wavell killed her. She's alive!”
“No! You listen to me. This is bullshit. Mickey Carlyle died three years ago. Answer me something—if someone kidnapped her, why did they wait three years before sending a ransom demand? It doesn't make sense because it isn't true.”
He pushes my resignation letter back at me. “You should have retired when I gave you the chance. You're getting divorced. You hardly see your kids. You live alone. Look at you! Christ, you're a mess! I used to tell young detectives to model themselves on you, but now you're an embarrassment. You stayed on too long, Vincent—”
“No, don't ask me.”
“You're over the hill.”
“What hill? I didn't see any hill!”
“Sign the letter.”
Turning my face to one side, I squeeze my eyes shut, blinking away the bitterness. The more I think about it, the angrier it makes me. I can feel it stirring in my guts, churning around like the pistons of a steam engine.
Campbell takes back the fountain pen and returns it to his drawer. “You give me no option. I regret to inform you that your commission with the London Metropolitan Police has been withdrawn. The Commissioner has decided you are a liability. He won't let you give evidence under the label of a serving officer.”
“What do you mean give evidence?”
Campbell takes another letter from his desk drawer. This one is a subpoena.
“At ten o'clock this morning lawyers for Howard Wavell subpoenaed you to give evidence at his appeal
