Lost - Michael Robotham [68]
Joe peers at the wine bottle wrapped in raffia. “Someone can fantasize about children but never act. Their fantasy life can be rich enough to satisfy them.”
“Exactly, but I couldn’t see the progression. You told me that deviant behavior could be almost plotted on the axis of a graph. Someone begins by collecting pornography and progresses up the scale. Abduction and murder are at the very end.”
“Did you find any pornography?”
“Howard owned a trailer that he claimed to have sold. We traced the location using gas and dry-cleaning receipts. It was at a campground on the South Coast. He paid the fees annually in advance. Inside there were boxes of magazines mostly from Eastern Europe and Asia. Child pornography.”
Joe leans forward. His little gray cells are humming like a hard drive.
“You’re describing a classic grooming pedophile. He recognized Mickey’s vulnerability. He became her friend and showered her with praise and presents, buying her toys and clothes. He took her photograph and told her how pretty she looked. Eventually, the sexual part of the ‘dance’ begins, the sly touches and play wrestling. Non-sadistic pedophiles sometimes spend months and even years getting to know a child, conditioning them.”
“Exactly, they’re extremely patient. So why would Howard invest all that time and effort into grooming Mickey and then suddenly snatch her off the stairs?”
Joe’s arm trembles as if released from a catch. “You’re right. A grooming pedophile uses slow seduction not violent abduction.”
I feel relieved. It’s nice to have someone agree with me.
Joe adds a note of caution. “Psychology isn’t an exact science. And even if Howard is innocent—it doesn’t bring Mickey back to life. One fact doesn’t automatically change the other. What happened when you told Campbell about your doubts?”
“He told me to put my badge down and act like a real person. Did I think Mickey was dead? I thought about the blood on the towel and I said yes. Everything pointed to Howard.”
“You didn’t convict him—a jury did.”
Joe doesn’t mean to sound patronizing but I hate people making excuses for me. He drains his glass. “This case really got to you, didn’t it?”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“I think I know why.”
“Leave it alone, Professor.”
He pushes the wineglasses to one side and plants his elbow in the center of the table. He wants to arm wrestle me.
“You don’t stand a chance.”
“I know.”
“So why bother?”
“It’ll make you feel better.”
“How?”
“Right now you keep acting as though I’m beating up on you. Well, here’s your chance to get even. Maybe you’ll realize that this isn’t a contest. I’m trying to help you.”
Almost immediately my heart feels stung. I notice the bitter yeasty odor of his medication and my throat constricts. Joe’s hand is still waiting. He grins at me. “Shall we call it a draw?”
As much as I hate admitting it, Joe and I have a sort of kinship—a connection. Both of us are fighting against the “bastard time.” My career is coming to a close and his disease will rob him of old age. I think he also understands how it feels to be responsible, by accident or omission, for the death of another human being. This could be my last chance to make amends; to prove I’m worth something; to square up the Great Ledger.
17
It’s dark by the time a black cab drops me at Ali’s parents’ place. She opens the door quickly and closes it again. A dustpan and brush rest on the floor amid broken pieces of pottery.
“I had a visitor,” she explains.
“Keebal.”
“How did you know?”
“I can smell his aftershave—Eau de Clan. Where are your parents?”
“At my Aunt Meena’s house—they’ll be home soon.”
Ali gets the vacuum cleaner, while I dump the broken pottery in the trash can. She’s wearing a sari, which seems to own her as much as she owns it. Scents of cumin, sandalwood and jasmine escape from the folds.
“What did Keebal want?”
“I’m being charged with breaching protocols. Police officers on leave are not allowed to undertake private investigations or carry a firearm. There’s going to be a hearing.”