I hang up and flick backward through the diary, skimming over final reminders for unpaid bills and dental appointments. There must be other clues. One name stands out—Rachel Carlyle. I met her six times in the ten days prior to the shooting. Hope rises in me like a wave.
Going farther back through the pages, I look at the previous month. On the second Thursday in August I wrote a name: Sarah Jordan—the girl who waited on the front steps for Mickey to arrive. I don't remember meeting Sarah. How old would she be now—twelve, maybe thirteen?
Ali is upstairs trying to pack some clothes for me. “Do you have any spare sheets?” she calls.
“Yeah. I'll get them.”
The linen cupboard is in the hallway near the laundry. I lean my walking stick against the door and reach up with both hands.
A sports bag is jammed at the back of the shelf. I pull it out and drop it to the floor until I find the sheets. Only then does it dawn on me. I stare down at the bag. I know there's a lot I have forgotten but I can't recall owning such a bag.
Easing myself onto one knee, I peel back the zipper. Inside there are four bright-orange packages. My hands are steady as I tear open the tape and peel back the plastic. A second layer is underneath and inside there is a black velvet pouch. Diamonds spill out onto my hand, tumbling into the crevices between my fingers.
Ali is coming down the stairs. “Did you find those sheets?”
There's no time to react. I look up at her, unable to explain. My voice sounds hoarse.
“Diamonds! It must be the ransom!”
Ali's hands are steady as she breaks ice from the freezer and drops it into my glass of whiskey. She makes herself a cup of coffee and slides onto the bench seat opposite me, waiting for an explanation.
I don't have one. I feel as if I'm lost in a strange place, surrounded by countries on the map I can't even name.
“They must be worth a fortune.”
“Two million pounds,” I whisper.
“How do you know that?”
“I have no idea. They belong to Aleksei Kuznet.”
Fear clouds her eyes like the onset of fever. She knows the stories. I can imagine them being told after lights-out at probationer training.
Again I notice the scraps of plastic on the floor and dusting of foam. I wrapped the packages here; four identical bundles, each lined with polystyrene and wrapped in fluorescent plastic. They were meant to float.
Diamonds are easy to smuggle and hard to trace. They can't be picked up by sniffer dogs or tracked with serial numbers. Selling them isn't a problem. There are plenty of buyers in Antwerp or New York who deal in “blood” diamonds from dubious places like Angola, Sierra Leone and the Congo.
Ali leans forward, resting her forearms on the table. “What's the ransom doing here?”
“I don't know.” What was it that Aleksei said to me at the hospitaclass="underline" “I want my daughter or I want my diamonds.”
“We have to hand them in,” insists Ali.
The trailing silence goes on too long.
“You can't be serious! You're not going to keep them!”
“Of course not.”
Ali is staring at me. I hate the way I look in her eyes—diminished, undermined. She turns her head away, as though she doesn't want to see the mess I've made of my life. Is this why Keebal wanted a search warrant and the “fireman” tried to kill me?
The doorbell rings. Both of us jump.
Ali is on her feet. “Quick! Hide them! Hide them!”
“Calm down, you get the door.”
There are certain rules in policing that I learned very early on. The first is never to search a dark warehouse with an armed cop whose nickname is “Boom-Boom.” And the second is to take your own pulse first.
Using my forearm I scoop the bundles into the bag and notice beads of moisture left on the smooth surface of the table. The packages have been in water.
I hear Keebal's voice! He's standing in the front hall, silhouetted against the light. Ali turns back toward me, her eyes wide with alarm.
“I bought a cake,” he announces, holding up a shopping bag.
“You better come in then.”
With her back to him, Ali looks at me incredulously.
“Will you put the kettle on please, Ali,” I say, putting my hand on the small of her back and guiding her across to the sink.
“What are you doing?” she whispers, but I'm already turning back to Keebal.
“How do you take your tea?”
“Just a splash of milk.”
“We have none, I'm afraid.”
He holds up a carton of long-life milk. “I think of everything.”
Ali sets out the cups, keeping out of the way because her hands are shaking. Keebal finds a sports bag sitting on a chair.
“Just toss it on the floor,” I say.
He picks up the handles and swings the bag beneath his feet. Ali's hands are suspended over the teacups, frozen there.
“So what do you think happened, Ruiz? Even if you're telling the truth and you can't remember, you must have a theory.”
“Nothing as concrete as a theory.”
Keebal glances at his shoes, which are resting on the sports bag. He leans down and brushes a speck of dirt from one polished toe.
“You want my theory,” I say, attracting his attention. “I think this has something to do with Mickey Carlyle.”
“She died three years ago.”
“We didn't find her body.”
“A man went to prison for her murder. That makes her dead. Case closed. You resurrect her and you better be God Almighty because otherwise you're in big trouble.”
“But what if Howard is innocent.”
Keebal laughs at me. “Is that your theory! What do you want to do—set a pedophile free from prison? You sound like his defense lawyer. Remember what you're paid to do—protect and serve. You're doing just the opposite if you let Howard Wavell walk out of prison.”
A few token rays of sunshine have settled on the paving stones in the garden. We sit in silence for a while, finishing our tea and leaving the cake uneaten. Eventually, Keebal rises to his feet and puts the sports bag on the chair where he found it. He glances around the kitchen and then at the ceiling as if trying to penetrate the wood and plaster with X-ray vision.
“You think your memory is going to come back?” he asks.
“I'll keep you posted.”
“Do that.”
After he's gone Ali lowers her head onto the table in a mixture of relief and despair. She's scared, but not in a cowardly way. She doesn't understand what's happening.
I take the bag and drop it beside the front door.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“We can't leave it here.”
“But it almost got you killed,” she says without flinching.
Right now I can't think of a better plan. I have to keep going. My only way out is to gather the pieces.
“What if you don't remember?” she whispers.
I don't answer. When I contemplate failure every scenario finishes with the same unpalatable truth. I put men in prison. I don't go there.
9
My clothes are in a suitcase in the trunk of Ali's car along with the shopping bag full of the unopened mail. The diamonds are there, too. I have never had two million pounds. I've never had a Ferrari either or a wife who could tie knots in cherry stems with her tongue. Maybe I should be more impressed.
The Professor is right, I have to follow the trail—the invoices, phone calls and diary appointments. I have to retrace my steps until I find the ransom letters and the proof of life. I wouldn't have delivered a single stone without them.
Sarah Jordan lives around the corner from Dolphin Mansions. Her mother answers the door and remembers me. Behind her Mr. Jordan is double-parked on the sofa with the Racing Post on his stomach and the TV blaring.