“A private test.”
“Yes, here it is—a DNA test. You wanted a comparison done on an earlier sample . . .” She pauses and gives a puzzled hum.
“What is it?”
“You also wanted us to analyze an envelope and a letter. You paid cash. Almost £450.”
“How long did the tests take?”
“These were done in five days. It can sometimes take six weeks. You must have been in a hurry. Is there a problem?”
“I need to see the test results again. They didn't arrive.”
“But you collected them personally. It says so right here.” She taps the computer screen.
“You must be mistaken.”
Her eyes fill with doubt. “So you want copies?”
“No. I want to speak to whoever conducted the tests.”
For the next twenty minutes I wait on a black leather sofa, reading a brochure on genetic testing. We live in suspicious times. Wives check on husbands; husbands check on wives; and parents discover if their teenage children are taking drugs or sleeping around. Some things are safer left alone.
Eventually, I'm escorted upstairs, along sterile corridors and into a white room with benches lined with microscopes and machines that hum and blink. A young woman in a white coat peels off her rubber gloves before shaking hands. Her name is Bernadette Foster and she doesn't look old enough to have done her A levels let alone mastered these surroundings.
“You wanted to ask about some tests,” she says.
“Yes, I need a fuller explanation.”
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 life. Howard could have kept the swimsuit as a souvenir or someone else could have found one similar. The details were widely publicized. There was even a photograph of Mickey wearing the bikini.
Would this be enough to convince me that Mickey was still alive? I don't know. Would it convince Rachel? Absolutely.
Stifling a groan, I try to make my brain function. My leg has started to hurt again. It doesn't feel like part of me anymore. It's like I'm dragging around someone else's limb after a failed transplant.
Miss Foster takes me downstairs.
“You should still be in the hospital,” she warns.
“I'm fine. Listen. Are there any more tests you can do . . . on the bikini?”
“What do you want to know?”
“I don't know—traces of hair dye, fibers, chemicals . . .”
“I can have another look.”
“Thank you.”
Every criminal investigation has loose ends. Most of them don't matter if you get a confession or a conviction; they're just white noise or static in the background. Now I keep going back to the original investigation looking for something we missed. All the unexplained details and unanswered questions rattle through my head when I should be sleeping.
We interviewed every resident of Dolphin Mansions. They all had an alibi except for Howard. He couldn't have known the exact contents of Mickey's money box—not unless she told him. Sarah told me she didn't know. Kirsten might have learned such a detail.
I need to see Joe again. He has the sort of brain that might be able to make sense of this. Somehow he can join random, unconnected details and make it look like dot-to-dot drawings that even a child could do.
I don't like calling him on a Saturday. For most people it's a family day. He picks up before the answering machine. I can hear Charlie laughing in the background.
“You had lunch?”
“Yeah.”
“Already?”