Lost - Michael Robotham [9]
“See! I know what number eleven is.”
“Of course, you do. What happened then?”
“Mickey’s mum said Mickey would be right down.”
“Is that exactly what she said? Word for word?”
Her brow furrowed in concentration. “No. First she said hello and I said hello. And I asked if Mickey could come and play. We were going to sunbathe in the garden and play under the hose. Mr. Murphy lets us use the sprinkler. He says we’re helping him water the lawn at the same time.”
“And who is Mr. Murphy?”
“Mickey says he owns the building, but I think he’s just the caretaker.”
“Mickey didn’t come down.”
“No.”
“How long did you wait?”
“Ages and ages.” She fans her face with her hand. “Can I have an ice cream?”
“In a minute … Did anyone come past you while you were waiting?”
“No.”
“And you didn’t leave these steps—not even to get a drink …”
She shook her head.
“… or to talk to a friend, or to pat a dog?”
“No.”
“What happened then?”
“Mickey’s mum came down with the trash. Then she said, ‘What are you doing? Where’s Mickey?’ And I said, ‘I’m still waiting for her.’ Then she said she came down ages ago. Only she never did because I’ve been here the whole time …”
“What did you do then?”
“Mickey’s mum told me to wait. She said not to move, so I sat on the stairs.”
“Did anyone come past you?”
“Only the neighbors who helped look for Mickey.”
“Do you know their names?”
“Some of them.” She counted quietly on her fingers and listed them. “Is this a mystery?”
“I guess you could call it that.”
“Where did Mickey go?”
“I don’t know, sweetheart, but we’re going to find her.”
3
Professor Joseph O’Loughlin has arrived to see me. I can see him walking across the hospital parking lot with his left leg swinging as if bound in a splint. His mouth is moving—smiling, wishing people good morning and making jokes about how he likes his martinis shaken not stirred. Only the Professor could make fun of Parkinson’s disease.
Joe is a clinical psychologist and looks exactly like you’d expect a shrink to look—tall and thin with a tangle of brown hair like some absentminded academic escaped from a lecture hall.
We met a few years back during a murder investigation when I had him pegged as a possible killer until it turned out to be one of his patients. I don’t think he mentions that in his lectures.
Knocking gently on the door, he opens it and smiles awkwardly. He has one of those totally open faces with wet brown eyes, like a baby seal just before it gets clubbed.
“I hear you’re suffering memory problems.”
“Yeah, who the fuck are you?”
“Very good. Nice to see you haven’t lost your sense of humor.”
He turns around several times trying to decide where to put his briefcase. Then he takes a notepad and pulls up a chair, sitting with his knees touching the bed. Finally settled, he looks at me and says nothing—as though I’ve asked him to come because there’s something on my mind.
This is what I hate about shrinks. The way they create silences and have you questioning your sanity. This wasn’t my idea. I can remember my name. I know where I live. I know where I put the car keys and parked the car. I’m tickety-boo.
“How are you feeling?”
“Some bastard shot me.”
Without warning his left arm jerks and trembles. Self-consciously, he holds it down.
“How’s the Parkinson’s?”
“I’ve stopped ordering soup at restaurants.”
“Very wise. Julianne?”
“She’s great.”
“And the girls?”
“They’re growing up.”
Swapping small talk and family stories has never been a feature of our relationship. Usually, I invite myself around to Joe’s place for dinner, drink his wine, flirt with his wife and shamelessly milk him for ideas about unsolved cases. Joe knows this, of course—not because he’s so bloody clever but because I’m so transparent.
I like him. He’s a privately educated, middle-class pseud but that’s OK. And I like Julianne, his wife, who for some reason thinks she can marry me off again because