Lost - Michael Robotham [64]
Sliding off a high stool, she opens a filing cabinet and produces a bright-green folder.
“From memory the results were self-explanatory. I extracted DNA from strands of hair and compared this with earlier tests done by the Forensic Science Service, which I assume you provided.”
“Yes.”
“Both samples—new and old—belonged to a girl called Michaela Carlyle.”
“Could the test be wrong?”
“Thirteen markers were the same. You’re looking at one chance in ten billion.”
Even though I’m expecting the news, I suddenly feel unsteady on my feet. Both samples were the same. This doesn’t breathe air into Mickey’s lungs or pump blood through her veins but it does prove that at some point, however long ago, the hair fell across her shoulders or brushed against her forehead.
Miss Foster looks up from her notes. “If you don’t mind me asking, why did you ask us to do the test? We don’t usually do police work.”
“It was a private request from the girl’s mother.”
“But you’re a detective.”
“Yes.”
She looks at me expectantly but then realizes I’m not going to explain. Referring back to the folder, she takes out several photographs. “Head hairs are usually the longest and have a uniform diameter. Uncut hair appears tapered but in this case you can see the cut tip from a hairdresser’s scissors or clippers.” She points to a photograph. “This hair hadn’t been dyed or permed.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“Can you tell her age?”
“No.”
“Could she be alive?”
The question sounds too hopeful but she doesn’t appear to notice. Instead she points to another highly magnified image. “When hair originates from a body in a state of decomposition a dark ring can sometimes appear near the root. It’s called a postmortem root band.”
“I can’t see it.”
“That makes two of us.”
A second set of photographs show the postcard. The wording is just as I remember, with large block letters and completely straight lines.
“The envelope and card didn’t tell us much. Whoever sent this didn’t lick the stamp. And we didn’t find any fingerprints.” She shuffles through the photographs. “Why is everyone so interested in this case all of a sudden?”
“What do you mean?”
“We had a lawyer phone last week. He asked about forensic tests relating to Michaela Carlyle.”
“Did he give his name?”
“No.”
“What did you say?”
“I told him we couldn’t comment. Our tests are confidential.”
It may have been Howard’s lawyer, which begs the question how did he know. Miss Foster returns the file to the cabinet. I seem to have exhausted my questions.
“Don’t you want to know about the other package?” she asks.
My confusion lasts a fraction of a second—long enough to give myself away.
“You don’t remember, do you?”
I feel a wave of heat down my neck.
“I’m sorry. I had an accident. I was shot.” I motion to my leg. “I have no memory of what happened.”
“Transient global amnesia.”
“Yes. That’s why I’m here—putting the pieces together. You have to help me. What was in the package?”
Opening a cupboard beneath the bench, she takes out a hard plastic box. Reaching inside she produces a transparent ziplock bag. It holds several triangles of pink-and-orange polyester. A bikini!
She turns it around in her fingers. “I did a little research. Michaela Carlyle was wearing a bikini like this when she disappeared, which I assume is why you asked us to analyze this.”
“I assume so, too.” My mouth is suddenly dry.
“Where did you get this?”
“I don’t remember.”
She hums knowingly. “So you can’t tell me what’s going on?”
“I can’t, I’m sorry.”
Reading something in my eyes, she accepts this.
“Is it Mickey’s bikini?”
“We couldn’t extract any DNA materials but we did find slight traces of urine and feces. Unfortunately, there isn’t enough to analyze. I did, however, discover that it was part of a batch manufactured in Tunisia and sold through shops and catalogs in the spring of 2001. Three thousand units were imported and sold in the U.K.; five hundred were size seven.”
Rapidly I try to process the information. A few triangles of polyester weave, size seven, don’t constitute proof of