Lost - Michael Robotham [41]
He finds me in the corridor.
“ARE YOU COMPLETELY INSANE?”
I put this down as a rhetorical question. “Would you mind keeping your voice down?”
“What?”
“Please keep your voice down. I have a suspect in the interview room.”
Calmer this time: “You arrested Aleksei Kuznet.”
“He knows about the ransom demand. He’s withholding information.”
“I told you to stay away from this.”
“People were shot. Mickey Carlyle might still be alive!”
“I’ve heard enough of this. I want you back in the hospital.”
“No, Sir!”
He lets out a deep growl like a bear coming out of a cave. “Surrender your badge, Detective. You’re suspended!”
Along the corridor a door opens and Frank Carlucci emerges followed by Aleksei. Carlucci yells and points at finger at me. “I want that officer charged.”
“Fuck you! You want a piece of me? Outside!”
It’s like someone hits a panic button inside me and I’m consumed by a bloodred rage. Campbell has to hold me back. I’m fighting at his arms.
Aleksei turns slowly and smiles. His physical smoothness is remarkable.
“You have something of mine. Like I said, I don’t pay for things twice.”
11
I have been sitting in silence in an interview room, having finished my tea and eaten the ginger-nut biscuits. The room smells of fear and loathing. Maybe it’s me.
Given a choice, Campbell would have had me arrested. Instead he wants me taken back to the hospital because he can’t guarantee my safety. In reality, he wants me out of the way.
Almost instinctively my fingers find the morphine capsules. My leg is hurting again but maybe it’s my pride. I don’t want to think about anything for a while. I want to forget and float away. Amnesia isn’t such a bad thing.
This is where I interviewed Howard Wavell for the first time. He had been holed up in his flat for three days with people buzzing on the intercom and the media camped outside. Most people would have disappeared by then—gone to stay with friends or family—but Howard wouldn’t risk bringing the circus with him.
I remember him standing at the front counter, arguing with the desk sergeant. He rocked from one foot to the other, glancing over his shoulder. The short sleeves of his shirt stretched tight over his biceps and the buttons pulled across his stomach.
“They put dog shit through my mailbox,” he said, incredulously. “And someone threw eggs at my windows. You have to stop them.”
The desk sergeant regarded him with an exhausted authority. “Are you reporting a crime, Sir?”
“I’m being threatened.”
“And who exactly is threatening you?”
“Vigilantes! Vandals!”
The sergeant pulled an incident pad from beneath the counter and slid it across the bench top. Then he took a cheap pen and placed it on the pad. “Write it down.”
Howard looked almost relieved when I made an appearance.
“They attacked my flat.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll send someone over to stand guard. Why don’t you come and sit down.”
He followed me along the corridor to the interview room and I pulled his chair nearer to the air-conditioning unit, offering him a bottle of water.
“I’m glad you’re here. We haven’t really had a chance to catch up. It’s been a long time.”
“I guess,” he said, sipping at the water.
Acting like we were old friends I started reminiscing about school and some of the teachers. With a little prompting, Howard added his own stories. There is a theory about interrogations that once suspects begin talking easily about any particular topic it is harder for them to stop talking about other topics that you raise or for them to suddenly start lying.
“So tell me, Howard, what do you think happened to Mickey Carlyle? You must have given it some thought. Everyone else seems to be trying to figure it out. Do you think she just walked out of the front door without anyone seeing her or was she abducted? Maybe you think aliens whisked her away. I’ve heard every bizarre theory you can imagine over the past seven days.”
Howard frowned and moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue. A pigeon landed on the ledge outside, beside the air-conditioning unit. Howard gazed at the