“Piffle!”
“I was shot.”
“Are you dying?”
“No.”
“See! You're such a drama queen. Your friend came to see me—that psychologist chap, Professor O'Loughlin. He was very sweet. He stayed for tea . . .”
Throughout this guilt trip, she carries on a second conversation with someone in the background. “My other son, Luke, is a god. A beautiful boy, blond hair . . . eyes like stars. This one breaks my heart.”
“Listen, Daj, I need to ask you a question. Did I post you something?”
“You never send me anything. My Luke is such a sweet soul . . . Maybe you could knit him something. A vest to keep him warm.”
“Come on, Daj. I want you to think really hard.”
Something resonates in her. “You sent me a letter. You told me to look after it.”
“I'm coming to see you now. Keep the letter safe.”
“Bring me some dates.”
The main building of Villawood Lodge looks like an old school, with gable roofs and gargoyles above the downspouts. The sandstone is just a façade and behind it is a seventies redbrick building, with aluminum window frames and cement roofing tiles.
Daj is waiting for me on the enclosed veranda. She accepts two kisses on each cheek and looks disappointed with only one box of dates. Her hands and fingers are moving constantly, brushing her arms as though something is crawling on her skin.
Ali tries to stay in the background but Daj looks at her suspiciously. “Who are you?”
“This is Ali,” I say, making the introductions.
“She's very dark.”
“My parents were born in India,” explains Ali.
“Hmmmphf!”
I don't know why parents must embarrass their children. Maybe it's punishment for the mewling and puking and nights of broken sleep.
“Where is the envelope, Daj?”
“No, you talk to me first. You're going to take it and run away—just like last time.” She turns to a group of elderly residents. “This is my son, Yanko! Yes, he's the policeman. The one who never comes to see me.”
I feel my cheeks redden. Daj didn't just steal a Jewish woman's name—she adopted a whole demeanor.
“What do you mean, I ran away last time?”
She turns to Ali. “You see he never listens. Not even as a baby. Head full of fluff.”
“When was I here last?”
“See! You've forgotten. It's been so long. Luke doesn't forget. Luke looks after me.”
“Luke is dead, Daj. What day did I come?”
“Hmmphf! It was a Sunday. You had the newspapers and you were waiting for a call.”
“How do you know?”
“The mother of that missing girl called you. She must have been very upset. You were telling her to be patient and wait for the call.”
She returns to brushing her arms with her hands.
“I need to see that envelope.”
“You won't find it unless I tell you where it is.”
“I don't have time for this.”
“You never have time. I want you to take me for a walk.”
She's wearing her walking shoes and a warm coat. I take her arm and we shuffle along the white gravel path, moving in slow motion as her feet struggle to keep up with mine. A handful of residents are doing tai chi on the lawn. Elsewhere the gardeners are planting bulbs for the spring.
“How is the food?”
“They're trying to poison me.”
“Have you been playing bridge?”
“Some of them cheat.”
Even the half deaf can hear her.
“You really should make an effort, Daj.”
“Why? We're all just waiting to die.”
“It's not like that.”
I stop and button up the top of her coat. Spidery wrinkles radiate from her lips but her eyes haven't aged. From a distance we are mother and son sharing an intimate moment. Up close we are a stuttering monosyllabic tragicomedy played out over fifty years.
“Can I have the envelope now?”
“After morning tea.”
Inside we sit in the dining room and go through the ritual of stilted conversation served with jam and cream. The manager is wandering between the tables.
“Hello there! How lovely to see you. Isn't it nice to have your son here, Mrs. Ruiz? Maybe he'd like to come and hear Mr. Wilson's lecture on trekking in the Andes.”
I'd rather be strung up and dunked headfirst into a vat of cold porridge.
Daj announces in a loud voice, “Yanko was always the strongest baby. I needed both hands to pull him away from the bottle. He didn't want the breast.”
“Nobody wants to know that, Daj.”
Louder this time: “His father was a Nazi, you know. Like Arnold Schwarzenegger's father.” I feel my cheeks redden. She's on a roll. “I don't know if he looks like his father. There were so many of them. Maybe all their sperm got mixed up inside me.”
The manager almost chokes and quickly makes her excuses before escaping. Her parting look reminds me of those my teachers used to give me when Daj came to Open Day.
With the tea grown cold and a token scone left on the plate, I go back to Daj's room and collect the envelope. On my way out I drop into the manager's office and write a check.
“You must love your mother very much,” the secretary says.
I look at her impassively. “No. She's my mother.”
Back in the car I open the large padded envelope. Inside are copies of the original postcard and envelope, along with the DNA tests and analysis of the ink, stationery and hair samples.
There is another letter in a plain plastic sleeve. Slipping my hand inside, I withdraw the note, blowing it open with my breath.
Dear Mrs. Carlyle,
Your daughter is alive. She will remain so if you cooperate. Any mistakes and she will die. Her life is in your hands.
We require two million pounds worth of superior quality cut diamonds, with no stone smaller than a carat. You will separate these stones into four velvet pouches. Each pouch must be taped to a square of quarter-inch-thick polystyrene foam and then double sealed in fluorescent plastic. Each package must be no more than 6 inches long, 21⁄2 inches wide and 3⁄4 inch deep. They are to be placed inside a 20-inch pizza box.
Three days from now you will place an advertisement in The Sunday Times travel classifieds seeking to rent a Tuscan cottage. This will contain a cell-phone number for further communications.
You must always answer the phone, Mrs. Carlyle. Only you. Anyone else picks up and Michaela dies.
No negotiation will be possible. No excuses are acceptable. If the police are involved, you know the outcome. YOU HAVE ONE CHANCE.
The letter is neatly typed and appears to have been laser printed. Although there is no attempt at childish handwriting this time, the emotional blackmail is just as great.
I placed the advertisement. I obtained the cell phone. I must have believed Mickey was still alive. Maybe it was the weight of evidence rather than conclusive proof that convinced me. We convicted Howard on circumstantial evidence and perhaps I resurrected Mickey on anecdotes and inferences.
“At least it's confirmation,” says Ali, reading the DNA report.
“But it doesn't change the story. Campbell won't reopen the investigation or admit mistakes were made. The forensic experts, lawyers, police witnesses and politicians aren't going to backtrack on Howard's conviction.”
“Do you blame them? Do you really want to set him free?”
“No.”
“Well, why are we doing this, Sir?”
“Because I don't believe the ransom was a hoax. I think she's alive! Why else would I have risked everything?”
I stare across the road at a bus shelter where a young girl, barely twelve, looks longingly down the street for the 11:15 that won't arrive until 11:35.