Lost - Michael Robotham [32]
I hear Keebal’s voice! He’s standing in the front hall, silhouetted against the light. Ali turns back toward me, her eyes wide with alarm.
“I bought a cake,” he announces, holding up a shopping bag.
“You better come in then.”
With her back to him, Ali looks at me incredulously.
“Will you put the kettle on please, Ali,” I say, putting my hand on the small of her back and guiding her across to the sink.
“What are you doing?” she whispers, but I’m already turning back to Keebal.
“How do you take your tea?”
“Just a splash of milk.”
“We have none, I’m afraid.”
He holds up a carton of long-life milk. “I think of everything.”
Ali sets out the cups, keeping out of the way because her hands are shaking. Keebal finds a sports bag sitting on a chair.
“Just toss it on the floor,” I say.
He picks up the handles and swings the bag beneath his feet. Ali’s hands are suspended over the teacups, frozen there.
“So what do you think happened, Ruiz? Even if you’re telling the truth and you can’t remember, you must have a theory.”
“Nothing as concrete as a theory.”
Keebal glances at his shoes, which are resting on the sports bag. He leans down and brushes a speck of dirt from one polished toe.
“You want my theory,” I say, attracting his attention. “I think this has something to do with Mickey Carlyle.”
“She died three years ago.”
“We didn’t find her body.”
“A man went to prison for her murder. That makes her dead. Case closed. You resurrect her and you better be God Almighty because otherwise you’re in big trouble.”
“But what if Howard is innocent.”
Keebal laughs at me. “Is that your theory! What do you want to do—set a pedophile free from prison? You sound like his defense lawyer. Remember what you’re paid to do—protect and serve. You’re doing just the opposite if you let Howard Wavell walk out of prison.”
A few token rays of sunshine have settled on the paving stones in the garden. We sit in silence for a while, finishing our tea and leaving the cake uneaten. Eventually, Keebal rises to his feet and puts the sports bag on the chair where he found it. He glances around the kitchen and then at the ceiling as if trying to penetrate the wood and plaster with X-ray vision.
“You think your memory is going to come back?” he asks.
“I’ll keep you posted.”
“Do that.”
After he’s gone Ali lowers her head onto the table in a mixture of relief and despair. She’s scared, but not in a cowardly way. She doesn’t understand what’s happening.
I take the bag and drop it beside the front door.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“We can’t leave it here.”
“But it almost got you killed,” she says without flinching.
Right now I can’t think of a better plan. I have to keep going. My only way out is to gather the pieces.
“What if you don’t remember?” she whispers.
I don’t answer. When I contemplate failure every scenario finishes with the same unpalatable truth. I put men in prison. I don’t go there.
9
My clothes are in a suitcase in the trunk of Ali’s car along with the shopping bag full of the unopened mail. The diamonds are there, too. I have never had two million pounds. I’ve never had a Ferrari either or a wife who could tie knots in cherry stems with her tongue. Maybe I should be more impressed.
The Professor is right, I have to follow the trail—the invoices, phone calls and diary appointments. I have to retrace my steps until I find the ransom letters and the proof of life. I wouldn’t have delivered a single stone without them.
Sarah Jordan lives around the corner from Dolphin Mansions. Her mother answers the door and remembers me. Behind her Mr. Jordan is double-parked on the sofa with the Racing Post on his stomach and the TV blaring.
“Sarah won’t be long,” she says. “She’s just gone to pick up a few things from the supermarket. Is everything all right?”
“Fine.”
“But you talked to Sarah a few weeks ago.”
“It’s just a follow-up.”
The supermarket is only around the corner. I leave Ali at the