“For the benefit of the tape, please answer the question.”
“A ransom.”
He doesn't bat an eyelid. I'm doing just what he wants—digging myself deeper into a hole. I start at the beginning, recounting the whole story. I have nothing left to lose, but at least I'm getting it down. There'll be a record somewhere if something happens to me. I tell him about the ransom demand, the strands of hair, the bikini and my journey through the sewers.
For the next ninety minutes I relate the details. Hundreds of cumulative hours are condensed and laid out like stepping-stones for him to follow. Even so, it sounds more like a confessional than an interrogation.
Keebal looks like he should be selling used cars or life insurance. “You admit you were present on the boat when Ray Murphy died?”
“Yes.”
“And you say the diamonds were in packages on the deck?”
“Yes.”
“Was there a tracking device with the diamonds?”
“Yes.”
“When you went overboard did you take the diamonds?”
“No.”
“You were the last person to see them. I think you know where they are.”
“That's an interesting theory.”
“I think they're tucked under your mattress at home?”
“Could be.”
He studies my face, looking for the lie. It's there. He just can't see it.
“Let me help you out,” he says. “Next time you try to steal a ransom, remember to take the tracking device out. Otherwise someone might follow you and realize what you're doing.”
“How is Aleksei? How much is he paying you to recover his diamonds?”
Keebal tightens his lips and sighs through his nose like I've disappointed him.
“Tell me this,” I ask him. “A sniper put a bullet in my leg and I nearly bled to death. Eight days I lay in a coma. You think I took the diamonds. How? When?”
A sense of triumph is stenciled on his face. “I'll tell you how—they never left your house. You helped set this whole thing up—the ransom letters, the DNA tests . . . you fooled everyone. And the people who know the truth keep dying when you're around. First it was Ray Murphy and then Gerry Brandt . . .”
Keebal can't really believe any of this. It's crazy. I always had him pegged as a fanatic but the man has squirrels juggling knives in his head.
“I got shot.”
“Maybe because you tried to double-cross them.”
I'm shouting at him now. “You called Aleksei. You told him where he could find Gerry Brandt. All these years you've been persecuting honest cops and now we see your true colors—yellow right through.”
In the silence I can hear my clothes creasing. Keebal thinks he knows. He knows nothing.
The Professor collects me just after 5:00 p.m.
“How are you?”
“I still have my health.”
“That's good.”
I savor the sound of my shoes on the tarmac, pleased to be free. Keebal didn't have enough to hold me and there isn't a magistrate in the land who would deny me bail with my record of service.
Joe's office is still full of our ragtag task force, manning telephones and tapping at keyboards. They're searching electoral rolls and reverse phone directories. Someone has pinned a photograph of Mickey to the window—to remind everyone of why we're here.
The familiar faces acknowledge me—Roger, Margaret, Jean, Eric and Rebecca—along with a few new ones, two of Ali's brothers.
“How long have they been here?”
“Since lunchtime,” says Joe.
Ali will have called them. She is out of surgery and must have heard about Gerry Brandt.
Rachel spies me from across the room. She looks at me hopefully, her hands fidgeting with her collar.
“Did you talk to him? I mean . . . did he say anything?”
“He said he let Mickey go.”
A breath snags in her throat. “What happened to her?”
“I don't know. He didn't get to tell me.” I turn to the others and let them all hear. “It's now even more imperative that we find Kirsten Fitzroy. She may be the only one left who knows what happened to Mickey.”
Gathering the chairs in a circle, we hold a “kitchen cabinet” meeting.
Margaret and Jean have managed to find a dozen of Kirsten's ex-employees. All are women aged between twenty-two and thirty-four, many of them with foreign-sounding names. They were nervous about talking—sex work isn't something you advertise. None of them has seen Kirsten since the agency closed down.
Meanwhile, Roger visited the old offices. The managing agent had kept two boxes of files that had been left behind when the agency vacated the premises. Among the documents were invoices from a pathology lab. The girls were being tested for STDs.
Another file contained encoded credit card details and initials. Kirsten probably had a diary with names matching the initials. I run my finger down the page searching for Sir Douglas's initials. Nothing.
“So far we've called more than four hundred clinics and surgeries,” says Rachel. “Nobody has reported treating a gunshot victim but a pharmacy in Southwark had a break-in on September 26. Someone stole bandages and painkillers.”
“Call the pharmacist back. Ask him if the police pulled any fingerprints.”
Margaret hands me a coffee. Jean takes it away and washes the cup before I can take a sip. Someone gets sandwiches and soft drinks. I feel like something a lot stronger, something warm and yeasty and golden.
Joe finds me sitting alone on the stairs and takes a seat beside me. “You haven't mentioned the diamonds. What did you do with them?”
“Put them somewhere safe.”
I can picture the velvet pouches stitched inside a woolly mammoth in Ali's old room. I should probably tell Joe. If something happens to me, nobody will know where to find them. Then again, I don't want to put anyone else in danger.
“Did you know that elephants with their trunks raised are meant to symbolize good luck?”
“No.”
“Ali told me. She's got a thing about elephants. I don't know how much good luck it's brought her.”
My mouth has gone dry. I stand and slip my arms through my jacket.
“You're going to see Aleksei, aren't you?” asks Joe. I swear to God he can read minds.
My silence responds eloquently.
“You know that's crazy,” he says.
“I have to stop this.”
I know it sounds foolishly old-fashioned but I'm stuck with this idea that there is something dignified and noble about facing your enemy and looking him squarely in the eye—before you thrust a saber in his heart.
“You can't go alone.”
“He won't see me otherwise. I'll make an appointment. People don't get killed when they make an appointment.”
Joe considers this. “I'll come with you.”
“No, but thanks for the offer.”
I don't know why people keep trying to help me like this. They should be heading for the hills. Ali says I inspire loyalty but I seem to be taking kindnesses that I can never hope to repay. I am not a perfect human being. I'm a cynic and a pessimist and sometimes I feel as though I'm locked into this life by an accident of birth. But at times like this, a random act of kindness or the touch of another human being makes me believe I can be different,
