Lost

On the drive to New Scotland Yard my hands begin to shake. Maybe it's obvious to Joe what I'm going through—the headaches, stomach cramps, the constant churning in my guts. If he does recognize the withdrawal symptoms he doesn't say anything.

At the Yard we are made to wait like any other members of the public. My request to see the Commissioner is sent via the public affairs department through various branches of bureaucracy, only to be rejected. I ask to see the Assistant Commissioner. Again the request goes upstairs and is passed around like a problem that nobody wants. Eventually, I'm directed back to Campbell Smith.

We cross the city and cool our heels for another hour downstairs at the Harrow Road Police Station. Joe spends his time studying the missing persons posters as if he's at the National Portrait Gallery. Receptionists, secretaries and uniforms ignore us. A month ago I used to run this place. I gave it my life.

Eventually, Campbell agrees to see us.

Joe limps alongside me down the corridor, our footsteps echoing on the shiny floor. At the far end of the incident room civilian operators sit at a bank of computer screens. The flurry of their keystrokes sounds like rain falling on plastic. Some wear headsets, talking to officers in the field, running checks on names, addresses and license plates.

There's a new head of the Serious Crime Group—DI John Meldrum. He spies me. “Hey, we once had a guy who looked just like you working here. I think he might be dead.”

“But not buried,” I yell back. “Congratulations on the promotion.”

I try to sound genuine but it doesn't work. Instead I feel a juvenile rush of anger and jealousy. Meldrum is in my office. His jacket is hanging over my chair.

Campbell makes us wait again outside his office. Joe doesn't understand the politics involved. It's not actually politics—it's spite.

Finally we are summoned. I let the Professor walk ahead of me. Campbell shakes his hand and gives him the no-brand smile. Then he studies me for a moment and motions to a chair. Meldrum slides his chair back a few inches, taking himself outside the circle. He's here to watch and witness.

I should be addressing a task force. There should be detectives sitting on chairs and corners of desks—men in gray suits with Father's Day ties and women with sensible hairstyles and minimal makeup. Instead I have to argue my case in front of a Chief Superintendent who thinks I betrayed my fellow officers and jeopardized a murder conviction.

Using a whiteboard, I explain what happened on the river. I write four names across the top: Ray Murphy, Kirsten Fitzroy, Gerry Brandt and Aleksei Kuznet. Ray Murphy is dead. Kirsten and Gerry Brandt are missing.

Taking out the brown envelope, I show him the ransom letters and the DNA reports, before describing the ransom drop and my trip through the sewers.

“I know it sounds far-fetched but I've been down there. I've followed the trail. They were waiting at the other end. Ray Murphy was the caretaker at Dolphin Mansions when Mickey Carlyle disappeared. I saw him shot and killed on the Charmaine. They'll match the blood and the bullets to the boat.”

“Who killed him?”

“A sniper.”

Meldrum leans closer. “And this is the same sniper who tried to kill you?”

“I got in the way.”

Campbell hasn't said a word but I know he's struggling to remain composed.

“Kirsten Fitzroy lived at Dolphin Mansions when Mickey disappeared. She was Rachel Carlyle's best friend. I saw her shot on the Charmaine. She suffered a stomach wound and went over the side. I don't know if she survived.”

“Her flat was burgled,” says Meldrum.

“Not burgled. It was searched. I think Aleksei Kuznet is looking for Kirsten. He wants to punish the people who sent the ransom demand. I believe they're the same people who kidnapped his daughter.”

Campbell scoffs angrily. “Howard Wavell killed Mickey Carlyle.”

“Even if you believe that—you have to accept that someone else sent the ransom demand. They included a lock of Mickey's hair and the bikini.”

“Neither of which prove she's alive.”

“No. But Ray Murphy is dead and Kirsten is in danger. Aleksei Kuznet was never going to let anyone steal two million pounds from him. He organized an execution. Now he's looking for Kirsten and Gerry Brandt—to finish the job.”

I make a decision not to mention Sir Douglas Carlyle. Campbell is already on the edge. My only chance of persuading him to investigate is to let him believe the ransom was a hoax. I still can't prove otherwise.

“What does Gerry Brandt have to do with this?”

“He was on the Charmaine. I saw him go over the side.”

I wait. I don't know if I've done enough.

Campbell has assumed a perfect proprietary air. “Let me get this straight. So far you have mentioned a kidnapping, a revenge killing, a shooting and a ransom demand. I'll add a few to the list: dereliction of duty, crippling a fellow police officer, withholding information and disobeying orders . . .”

A sense of alarm spreads through me. He doesn't understand. He can't see past Howard Wavell.

“We have to find Kirsten before Aleksei does. If she survived she would have needed medical help. We have to search local hospitals and ask doctors to go back through their files. We have to check her bank, telephone and travel records. We need to know her last known movements, possible associations and favorite haunts.”

Campbell's look is piercing. “You're using the word ‘we' a lot. For some reason you seem to be under the misapprehension that you're still a serving member of the Metropolitan Police.”

I'm so angry my vision blurs.

Joe tries to calm things down. “It seems to me, gentlemen, that we're all seeking the truth. DI Meldrum here is investigating the shootings on the river. DI Ruiz is a witness. He's offering to make a statement. He won't interfere with the investigation.”

Meldrum nods. Satisfied.

Campbell points his finger at me. “I want you to know one thing, Ruiz. I know the truth.”

“Sure you do,” I say.

Campbell gives me a triumphant smile. “You're right about Aleksei Kuznet. He's not the sort of man who lets someone take two million pounds from him. He claims you stole his diamonds and he's made an official complaint. We're drawing up a warrant for your arrest. If I were you—I'd get myself a lawyer.”

Rage quickens my footsteps. Joe struggles to keep up with me as I stride down the corridor and punch through the swinging glass doors.

On the pavement a voice hits me like a cold wind. “Did you shoot him?”

Tony Murphy is asking the question with his entire body. “I had to go to the morgue to identify him. You ever seen a body like that . . . in pieces. And white like a candle melted into a puddle. The police say someone shot him. They got a witness. Is it you?”

“Yes.”

He chews the inside of his cheek. “Did you shoot him?”

“No.”

“Do you know who did?”

“I don't know who pulled the trigger but I saw him go down. I couldn't help him.”

He swallows a lump in his throat. “So I'm looking after Mum and Stevie now. The pub is all we got left.”

“I'm sorry.”

He wants to do something more but can only stand there, imprisoned by his own misery.

“Go home, Tony. I'll sort this out.”

29