Lost - Michael Robotham [40]
“Do you have children, Detective?”
“Twins.”
“How old are they?”
“Twenty-six.”
“You see much of them?”
“Not anymore.”
“Maybe you forget how it feels. I am thirty-six now. I have done things I am not particularly proud of but I can live with that. I sleep like a baby. But let me tell you—I don’t care how much someone has in the bank, until they have a child they have nothing of value. Nothing!”
He scratches at the scar on his cheek. “My wife turned against me a long time ago but Michaela was always going to be half mine … half of me. She was going to grow up and make up her own mind. She was going to forgive me.”
“You think she’s dead?”
“I let you convince me otherwise.”
“I must have had a good reason.”
“I hope so.”
He turns to leave.
“I’m not your enemy, Aleksei. I just want to find out what happened. What do you know about the sniper? Does he work for you?”
“Me?” He laughs.
“Where were you on the night of September 25?”
“Don’t you remember? I have an alibi. I was with you.”
He swivels and signals to the Russian who’s been waiting like a dog tied to a post. I can’t let him leave. He has to tell me about Rachel and the ransom demand. I grab his arm and twist it outward until his back arches and he drops to his knees. My walking stick clatters to the pavement.
Pedestrians and prison visitors turn to watch. It strikes me how vaguely ridiculous I must look—making an arrest with a walking stick. Vanity still matters.
“You’re under arrest for withholding information from a police investigation.”
“You’re making a big mistake,” he hisses.
“Stay down!”
A shape materializes behind me and the warm metal of a gun brushes the base of my skull. It’s the Russian, massive, filling the space like a statue. Suddenly, his attention shifts. Ali is standing with her feet apart in a half crouch and her gun pointed at his chest.
Still holding Aleksei’s arms, I put my face close to his ear.
“Is this what you want? Are we all going to shoot each other?”
“Nyet!” he says. The Russian takes a step back and slips the gun into its holster. He looks closely at Ali, memorizing her face.
I’m already steering Aleksei toward the car. Ali walks backward behind me, watching the Russian.
“Call Carlucci,” Aleksei yells. Carlucci is his lawyer.
Pushing his head down, he sits in the backseat. I slide in alongside him. My overcoat is hanging over the seat in front of us. Ali hasn’t said a word but I know her mind is working faster than ever.
“You’re going to be sorry,” mutters Aleksei, peering past me out the window. “You said no police. We had a deal.”
“Help me then! Someone shot me that night. I suffered something called transient global amnesia. I can’t remember what happened.”
His tongue rolls around his mouth like he’s sucking on the idea.
“Go to hell!”
Frank Carlucci is already at the Harrow Road Police Station when we arrive. Small, tanned and very Italian, his face is wrinkled like a walnut except for around his eyes. A surgeon has been at work.
He scuttles up the stairs beside me, demanding to speak with his client.
“You can wait your turn. He has to be processed.”
Ali has stayed in the car. I turn back toward her. “Look after my coat.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Find the Professor. Tell him I need him. Then look for Rachel. She must be somewhere.”
Ali’s face is full of questions. She’s not sure if I know what I’m doing. I try to muster a confident smile and turn back to Aleksei.
As we enter the charge room the place falls silent. I swear I can actually hear the indoor plants growing and ink drying on paper. That’s how quiet things get. These people were once my friends and colleagues. Now they avoid my eyes or ignore me completely. Maybe I died on the river and just don’t realize it yet.
I leave Aleksei in an interview room with Carlucci. My heart is pounding and I want to pull myself together. First up I call Campbell. He’s in a meeting at Scotland Yard so I leave a message on his voice mail. Twenty minutes later he comes storming through the front door looking