Lost - Michael Robotham [141]
“Your Honor, my client is gravely ill and requires medical attention he is not receiving in prison. The humanitarian considerations outweigh …”
Lord Connelly wags his finger. “Now is not the time or the place. Make your case in court.”
The rest of the hearing passes in a blur of legal argument and ill temper. Leave to appeal is granted and Lord Connelly orders a retrial but refuses to release Howard from prison. Instead he orders that he be transferred to a civilian hospital under armed guard.
There is pandemonium outside the courtroom. Reporters yell into phones and jostle to get close to Rachel, shouting questions and answers, as though wanting her to agree.
Her arms are locked around my waist, her breasts against my back. It’s like a rugby maul without the ball as we try to cross the gain line. Eddie Barrett, an unlikely savior, takes his briefcase and swings it from side to side like a scythe, clearing a path.
“It might be time to consider an alternative exit,” he shouts, pointing to a door marked OFFICIALS ONLY.
Eddie is an old hand at exiting courthouses through basements and back doors. He leads us down corridors, past offices and holding cells, getting deeper into the building. Eventually, we emerge into a cobblestoned courtyard where industrial trash containers await collection and wire netting is stretched above our heads to stop the pigeons from landing.
The gates slide open electronically and an ambulance pulls through them. Howard is waiting on the stone steps, head in hands, staring sullenly at the tips of his scuffed shoes. Police officers and prison guards stand on either side of him.
Eddie lights a cigarette in the hollow of his hand, inclining his head as he does so. The smoke floats past his eyes and scatters as he exhales. He offers me one and I feel an impulse toward comradeship; the solidarity of lost soldiers on a battlefield.
“You know he did it.”
“That’s not what he says.”
“But what do you think?”
Eddie chuckles. “You want true confessions talk to Oprah.”
Rachel is nearby, gazing toward Howard. The paramedics have opened the rear doors and are pulling out a stretcher.
“Can I talk to him?” she asks.
Eddie doesn’t think it is appropriate.
“I just want to ask how he is.”
Eddie looks at me. I shrug my shoulders.
She crosses the courtyard. The police officers step aside and she stands beside the stretcher. I can’t hear what they’re saying. She reaches out and puts her hand on his shoulder.
Eddie raises his face to the square of sky above. “What are you trying to do, Inspector?”
“I’m trying to get to the truth.”
He inclines his head, respectful but stubborn. “In my experience almost all truths are lies.” His features have softened and his face looks unexpectedly gentle. “You said Mickey was set free by her kidnappers. When was that?”
“Wednesday night.”
He nods.
I remember that night. I watched Rachel being interviewed on News at Ten. That’s why she wasn’t there when Mickey arrived home. A detective was posted at her flat but Mickey didn’t get a chance to press the buzzer. My mind puts everyone where they should have been. Mentally I lift off the roof of Dolphin Mansions and put people inside or take them out. It’s like playing with dolls in a dollhouse. Mrs. Swingler, Kirsten, Ray Murphy … I put Mickey outside, walking up the steps.
A piece is missing. Turning away from Eddie I walk across the courtyard toward Howard. The paramedics have strapped him to a gurney and are lifting him into the ambulance.
“What did you do on Wednesday evenings, Howard?”
He looks at me blankly.
“Before you went to prison. What did you do?”
He clears his throat. “Choir practice. I never missed a choir practice—not in seven years.”
There is a pause for the information to sink in—barely a heartbeat, even less, the pause between heartbeats. I have been a fool. I have spent so much time concentrating on finding Kirsten that