“It was a pink-and-orange bikini, similar to the one worn by Michaela Carlyle on the day she disappeared.”
“Similar or the same one?”
“Forensic analysis couldn't produce a definitive answer.”
The Rook is circling now. He has the face of a bird and the soul of a crocodile. “How many murders have you investigated, Detective?”
I shrug. “Upward of twenty.”
“And how many missing children cases?”
“Too many.”
“Too many to remember?”
“No, Sir.” My eyes are locked on his. “I remember every last one of them.”
The power of the statement throws him slightly. He turns back to the bar table, consulting his notepad.
“There must be a degree of pressure on the officer in charge of a high-profile investigation. A young girl is missing. Parents are scared. People want to be reassured.”
“It was a thorough investigation. We didn't cut corners.”
“No, quite right.” He reads from a list. “Eight thousand interviews, 1,200 statements, more than a million man-hours . . . many of them focused on my client.”
“We followed every important lead.”
The Rook is leading me somewhere. “Were there any suspects that you didn't pursue?”
“Not if they were important.”
“What about Gerry Brandt?”
I can feel myself hesitate. “He was a person of interest for a short time.”
“And why did you discount him?”
“We made extensive inquiries—”
“You couldn't find him, isn't that the case?”
“Gerry Brandt was a known drug dealer and burglar. He had contacts within the criminal underworld who I believe helped hide him.”
“This is the same man who was photographed outside Dolphin Mansions on the day Michaela disappeared?”
“That's correct, Sir.”
He turns away from me now, addressing a wider audience. “A man with a previous conviction for sexually assaulting a minor?”
“His girlfriend.”
“A sex offender who was seen outside Dolphin Mansions but you didn't regard him as being an important enough suspect to bother finding. Instead you focused your investigation exclusively on my client, a committed Christian, who had never been in trouble with the law. And when you obtained evidence that could suggest Michaela Carlyle might still be alive you sought to hide it.”
“I made the results available to my superiors.”
“But not to his defense.”
“With all due respect, Sir, it's not my job to help defense lawyers.”
“You're absolutely right, Mr. Ruiz. Your job is to establish the truth. And in this case you sought to hide the truth. You sought to ignore evidence or at worst conceal it, just as you ignored Gerry Brandt as a suspect.”
“No.”
The Rook sways back and forth on his heels. “Was the ransom demand a hoax, Detective Inspector?”
“I don't know.”
“And are you willing to stake your career . . .” he corrects himself, “. . . your reputation and, more importantly, my client's freedom on the absolute conviction that Michaela Carlyle was murdered three years ago?”
There's a long pause. “No.”
Even the Rook is taken by surprise. He pauses to compose himself. “So you believe she may still be alive?”
“When you don't find a body there is always a chance.”
“And has that possibility become greater as a result of this ransom demand?”
“Yes.”
“No further questions.”
I don't look at Campbell or Eddie Barrett or Howard Wavell. I keep my eyes straight ahead as I walk out of the courtroom. Inside my jacket, pressed against my heart, a cell phone is vibrating.
Fumbling for the button, I take the call.
“I've just heard the news on the radio,” says Joe. “They've found a body in the river.”
“Where?”
“Somewhere near the Isle of Dogs.”
This is how it looks: a bleak Thursday afternoon, a strong wind and water slapping against the pylons of Trinity Pier. A dredger squats low in the water, with skeletal arms held aloft and black pipes snaking across the decks. Spotlights have turned brown water into a murky white. Two water-police Zodiacs made of rubberized canvas with wooden bottoms fight the outgoing tide, dropping floating plastic pontoons in their wake.
The Professor parks on a slip road that comes to a dead end where the River Lea enters the Thames estuary. The river is two hundred yards wide at this point, with the Millennium Dome silhouetted against the porridgelike sky on the distant bank.
Halfway down the sloping metal ramp “New Boy” Dave steps away from a huddle of detectives. His shoulders are shaking and he's caught between wanting to spit in my face or smash it with his fists. This is about Ali.
“Fuck off! Just fuck off!” It's almost a wail. He pushes me in the chest, forcing me backward.
I want to say I'm sorry but the lump in my throat won't move. Instead I look over Dave's shoulder at the police divers preparing their tanks and equipment. “Who did they find?” The other detectives have circled like spectators at a playground fight. None of them want me here. I'm an outsider, a maverick, worse still a traitor. Joe tries to intervene. “Ali wouldn't want this. Just tell us who you found.”
“Fuck you!”
As I try to step around Dave, he grabs me by my arm, swinging me hard into the brick-and-wire retaining wall. A kidney punch sends me down. He is standing over me looking wasted and wild. There's a trickle of blood down his chin where he's bitten his lip.
What happens next lacks a certain degree of elegance. I sink my fist into his groin and take hold. Dave groans in a high reedy voice and drops to his knees. I don't let go.
He raises his fists, wanting to pound me into the ground, but I squeeze even harder. He curls up in pain, unable to lift his head. My breath is hot on his cheek.
“Don't go bad on me, Dave,” I whisper. “You're one of the good ones.”
Letting him go, I ease myself up until I'm sitting against the wall, staring at the smooth darkness of the water. Dave drags himself alongside me, trying to get his breath back. Glancing at the other detectives, I tell them to leave us alone.
“Who did they find?”
“We don't know,” Dave says, grimacing slightly. “The dredger sliced the body in half.”
“Let me see it.”
“Unless you can recognize this poor bastard from below the waist you're no use to anyone, especially me.”
“How did he die?”
He pauses too long before he answers. “There is evidence of a gunshot wound.” In the same breath, he arches his neck and looks past me. A coroner's van has pulled alongside the wharf. The back doors open. A stretcher slides from within.
“I didn't mean for Ali to get hurt—you know that.”
He looks at his fists. “I'm sorry I hit you, Sir.”
