Lost - Michael Robotham [115]
Now I believe Rachel. I know there isn’t a judge or a jury in the land who would accept beyond doubt that Mickey is the person on the tape but that doesn’t matter. The person who knows her best is sure. On Wednesday, July 24—two days after she disappeared—Mickey was still alive.
31
The only other person in Joe’s waiting room is a middle-aged man in a cheap suit that bunches at his shoulders when he folds his arms. He picks at his teeth with a matchstick and watches me take a seat.
“The secretary went to get coffee,” he says. “The Professor has a patient.”
I nod and notice him watching me. Finally, he asks, “Do we know each other?”
“I don’t think so. Are you a copper?”
“Yeah. DS Roger Casey. They call me the Dodger.” He moves a few seats closer and thrusts out his hand, at the same time eyeing up Rachel.
“So where are you working, Roger?”
“Vice out of Holborn.”
He’s sitting close, feeling a sense of camaraderie. I should probably remember his face but a lot of guys his age have left the service in the past ten years.
“You heard this one,” he asks. “How many coppers does it take to throw a man down the stairs?”
“I don’t know. How many?”
“None. He fell.”
Roger laughs and I offer him a chiseled smile. He lifts an eyebrow and goes quiet.
The Professor’s secretary arrives back, carrying takeout coffee and a brown paper bag stained by a pastry. She looks barely out of school and blinks through wire-frame glasses as though she should have known we were coming.
“I’m DI Ruiz. Could you tell the Professor we’re here?”
She sighs, “Join the queue.”
At that moment the inner door opens and a young woman emerges with red-rimmed eyes.
Joe is behind her.
“So I’ll see you next week, Christine. Remember, it’s not immodest to wear culottes and it doesn’t make you less feminine.”
She nods and keeps her eyes down. Everyone in the room does the same apart from Roger who starts giggling. The poor woman flees down the corridor.
Joe gives him an angry stare and is about to say something when he sees me sitting with Rachel. “Come inside, you two.”
“The Detective Sergeant was here first,” I suggest.
Joe shakes his head and sighs. “Oh dear … and you were doing so well, Roger.” He turns to his secretary. “For future reference, Philippa, DI Ruiz is a real police officer. Not everyone who comes in here claiming to be a detective is a fantasist.”
Philippa’s cheeks redden and Rachel starts to giggle.
“I’m sorry about Roger,” says Joe, as we’re ushered into his office. “He pretends to be a police officer and tricks prostitutes into giving him free sex.”
“Does it work?”
“Apparently.”
“He’s a freak!”
Joe looks at me awkwardly. “Well, he’s part of our team.”
There’s a promising start!
Joe has spent the morning calling in favors. So far we have thirteen volunteers including two of my old rugby mates and a snitch called “Dicko” who has a nose for trouble and no sense of smell at all, which unfortunately means his personal hygiene leaves a lot to be desired.
Over the next hour the rest of the “team” arrives. Joe has managed to recruit his brother-in-law Eric and his younger sister, Rebecca, who works for the United Nations. Julianne is coming after she picks up Charlie from school. There are also several patients, including Margaret, who is nursing a torpedo-shaped life preserver, and another woman, Jean, who keeps disinfecting the phones with wet wipes.
Margaret sidles up to me. “I hear you almost drowned. Don’t trust bridges.” She taps her orange torpedo reassuringly.
When the last of the stragglers arrive, I gather them in the waiting room. It is the strangest collection of “detectives” I have ever commanded.
Pinning two photographs to a corkboard, I clear my throat and introduce myself—not as a Detective Inspector but as a member of the public.
“The two people