Lost - Michael Robotham [78]
I point to Priory Road but Moley stares at it blankly.
“It’s near the corner of Abbot’s Place,” I explain. “I’m looking for a storm-water drain or a sewer.”
Moley scratches his neck.
Suddenly, it dawns on me—he can’t read a map. All his points of reference are below ground and he can’t equate them to crossroads or landmarks above ground.
I take an orange from my pocket and put it on the map. It rolls several times and rocks to a stop. “You can show me.”
Moley watches it intensely. “Follow the fall. Water finds the way.”
“Yes, exactly, but I need your help.”
Moley is still fixated by the orange. I hand it to him and he puts it into his pocket, zipping it closed. “You want to see where the devil lives.”
“Yes.”
“Just you.”
“Just me.”
“Tomorrow.”
“Why not today?”
“I need to see Weatherman Pete. Pete will give us the forecast.”
“What difference does it make in a sewer?”
Moley makes a whooshing sound like an express train. “You don’t want to be down there when it rains. It’s like God Himself pulled the chain.”
20
“Why are you so interested in the drains?” asks Joe. He motions me to sit with a mannered almost mechanical movement as though he’s been practicing.
It’s Monday morning and we’re in his office, a private practice just off Harley Street. It’s a Georgian house with black downspouts and white windowsills. The plaque on the door has a string of initials after his name, including a small round smiley face designed to make patients feel less intimidated.
“It’s just a theory. The ransom was supposed to float.”
“Is that all?”
“Ray Murphy used to work in the sewers. Now he’s missing.”
Joe’s left arm jerks in his lap. There’s a book lying open on his desk: Reversing Memory Loss.
“How’s the leg?”
“Getting stronger.”
He wants to ask me about the morphine but changes his mind. For a few seconds the silence spreads out like thick oil. Joe stands and sways for a moment, fighting for balance. Then he begins a slow, deliberate walk around the room, each step containing a struggle. Occasionally, he drifts to the right and has to straighten.
Glancing around his office, I notice that things are slightly askew—the books on the shelves and files on the filing cabinet. He must be finding it harder to keep things tidy.
“Do you remember Jessica Lynch?” he asks.
“The U.S. soldier captured in Iraq.”
“When they rescued her she had no recollection of any events from the time of the ambush until she awoke in an Iraqi hospital. Even months afterward, despite all the debriefings and mental evaluations, she still couldn’t remember. The doctors called it a memory trace, which is completely different from amnesia. Amnesia means you have a memory but something traumatic happens and you suddenly forget. In Jessica’s case her brain never allowed her to collect memories. It was like she was sleepwalking.”
“So you’re saying I might never remember everything that happened?”
“You might never have remembered. It didn’t register.”
He lets the news sink in while I try desperately to push it away. I don’t want to accept an outcome like that. I am going to remember.
“Have you ever been involved in a ransom drop?” he asks.
“About fifteen years ago I helped run an operation to catch an extortionist. He threatened to contaminate baby food.”
“So what do you plan for?”
“There are two types of drop—the long haul or the quick intervention. The long haul involves a complex set of instructions, making the courier jump through hoops, moving him around from A to B to C, stretching the resources of the police.”
“And the alternative?”
“Well it starts off the same way, sending the courier back and forth between public phone boxes, on or off buses, swapping directions … then suddenly, somewhere along the way, something happens. They strike hard and fast, radically changing the plan.”
“For example?”
“Back in the eighties a fellow called Michael Sams kidnapped a young estate agent, Stephanie Slater, and demanded a ransom. Stephanie’s boss was the courier. It was a dark, foggy night in an isolated part of South