Lost - Michael Robotham [52]
“Hide them somewhere safe.” I glance around the room. “You seem to like elephants.”
She smiles self-consciously. “They bring good luck. That’s why their trunks are raised.”
“What about that one?” I point to the woolly mammoth, which has a lowered trunk.
“An ex-boyfriend gave that to me. He’s also extinct.”
She picks up the scraps of bandages and straightens a lace doily on the bedside table. “I had a call this morning about Rachel Carlyle.” She pauses and my hopes soar. “She suffered some sort of nervous breakdown. A night watchman found her sitting in a stolen car on some wasteland in Kilburn.”
“When was this?”
“On the morning you were pulled from the river. The police took her to the hospital—the Royal Free in Hampstead.”
Rather than joy I feel relief. Up until now I have tried not to think of who might have been on the boat. The longer Rachel remained missing, the harder this had become.
“Was she interviewed?”
“No. The police didn’t talk to her at all.”
This is Campbell’s doing. He won’t investigate anything associated with Mickey Carlyle because he’s frightened of where it might lead. It’s not a cover-up if you don’t lift the covers in the first place. Plausible deniability is a coward’s defense.
“They searched Rachel’s flat and found your messages on her answering machine. They also found a set of your clothes. They don’t want you anywhere near her—not so close to Howard’s appeal.”
“Where is Rachel now?”
“She checked out ten days ago.”
Someone close to Campbell must have told Ali these things, a detective who worked on the original investigation. It was probably “New Boy” Dave King, who has always fancied her. We call him “New Boy” because he was the newest member of the Serious Crime Group, but that was eight years ago.
“How is your boyfriend?”
She screws up her face. “That would be none of your business.”
“He’s a good lad, Dave. Very fit looking. I think he must work out.”
She doesn’t respond.
“He’s not the sharpest quill on the porcupine but you could do a lot worse.”
“He’s not really for me, Sir.”
“Why’s that?”
“Well for one thing his legs are skinnier than mine. If he can fit into my pants he can’t get into my pants.”
She keeps a completely straight face for about fifteen seconds. Poor Dave. She’s far too sharp for him.
Downstairs in the kitchen I meet Ali’s mother. She’s barely five feet tall, dressed in a bright green sari that makes her look like a bauble on a Christmas tree.
“Good morning, Inspector, welcome to our home. I trust you slept well.” Her dark eyes seem to be smiling at me and her accent is incredibly proper as though I’m someone important. She doesn’t even know me.
“Fine, thank you.”
“I have prepared you breakfast.”
“I normally eat breakfast closer to lunch.”
Her look of disappointment makes me regret the statement. She doesn’t seem bothered. She is already clearing the table from the first sitting. Some of Ali’s brothers still live at home. Two of them run a garage in Mile End, one is an accountant and the other is at university.
A toilet flushes at the rear of the house and Ali’s father appears moments later dressed in a British Rail uniform. He has a salt-and-pepper beard and a bright blue turban. Shaking my hand, he bows his head slightly.
“You are welcome, Inspector.”
Ali appears, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt. Her father swallows his disappointment.
“We’re all British now, Babba,” she says, kissing him on the forehead.
“Outside these walls, yes,” he replies. “In this house you are still my daughter. It’s bad enough that you cut your hair.”
Ali is supposed to wear a sari when she visits her parents. I saw her once, looking self-consciously beautiful, wrapped in orange-and-green silk. She was on her way to a cousin’s wedding. I felt strangely envious. Instead of being caught between two cultures she seemed to straddle them.
“Thank you for letting me stay like this,” I say, trying to change the subject.
Mr. Barba rocks his head from side to side. “That’s quite all right, Inspector. My daughter has explained