Letting him go, I ease myself up until I'm sitting against the wall, staring at the smooth darkness of the water. Dave drags himself alongside me, trying to get his breath back. Glancing at the other detectives, I tell them to leave us alone.
“Who did they find?”
“We don't know,” Dave says, grimacing slightly. “The dredger sliced the body in half.”
“Let me see it.”
“Unless you can recognize this poor bastard from below the waist you're no use to anyone, especially me.”
“How did he die?”
He pauses too long before he answers. “There is evidence of a gunshot wound.” In the same breath, he arches his neck and looks past me. A coroner's van has pulled alongside the wharf. The back doors open. A stretcher slides from within.
“I didn't mean for Ali to get hurt—you know that.”
He looks at his fists. “I'm sorry I hit you, Sir.”
“That's OK.”
“Campbell will go ape shit if he knows you're here.”
“So don't tell him. I'll stay out of the way.”
As the last rays of sunlight strike the towers of Canary Wharf, four divers tumble backward from the Zodiacs. Slick as seals, they disappear beneath the surface leaving barely a trace behind.
The officer in charge is short and barrel-chested, clad in a wet suit that makes him look as if he's carved from ebony. He swings an air tank into a boat and wipes both hands before offering one to me. “Sergeant Chris Kirkwood.”
“Ruiz.”
“Yeah, I know who you are.”
“You got a problem talking to me?”
“Nah.” He shakes his head. “I got other problems. Visibility is down to three feet and the current is running at four knots. Someone chained this bastard to a barrel of concrete. We're gonna need cutting gear.” He swings another air tank into the boat.
“How long has he been in the water?”
“Most bodies eventually come up. Takes about five days at this time of year, but this guy was meant to stay down there. Usually a body stays together pretty good in the Thames. None of the marine life can chew through ligaments. I reckon chummy has been down there two, maybe three weeks . . .”
As he describes the process I can picture a body swaying beneath the water, white and waxlike, moving back and forth with the tide. Involuntarily, I shudder and reach for a morphine capsule. There are none left.
The closer of the Zodiacs rocks in the wake of a passing water taxi. I notice bubbles on the surface and a masked face emerges, with an upraised fist. A police-issue handgun is clenched in his gloved fingers.
The water ripples and sways. Something else is coming up. A rope appears in a second diver's hand and is hooked onto a winch. Suddenly, it feels like a cold grasping hand has taken hold of my heart. The air has condensed into water and the current is sucking me down.
Sergeant Kirkwood catches me as I fall. He has his arms under mine, pulling me back from the edge of the wharf. A box is found and I sit down. Joe is beside me, shouting at someone to get me a glass of water. I try to turn away but he holds my face.
My vision clears and I watch the first of the Zodiacs. The divers have hauled something from the water. The outboard engine rumbles and the Zodiac swings toward the wharf. A rope is thrown into willing hands and is looped around a pylon. The Zodiac is pulled closer.
Lying on the wooden base is a bloated, discolored torso hung with fronds of weed and wrack. It is barely recognizable as being human, yet I do recognize him; I recognize his name and his face and boxer's hands. And then I remember . . .
26
Deep inside my head doors and windows suddenly open. Files blow off desks, lights go on, photocopiers hum and phones ring. A closed office has suddenly come to life and the man hunched over his desk looks up from his hands and yells, Eureka!
Single frames and snapshot memories are put in order like a film being spliced together. I can picture scenes and hear dialogue. A phone is ringing. Rachel picks it up. The prerecorded message is a single question. One sentence: “Is my pizza ready?”
The phone goes dead. Rachel stares at me in disbelief.
“Don't worry—they'll call back.”
We're sitting in my kitchen. Rachel is dressed in black jeans and a gray pullover. She has the dazed disbelieving air of a refugee who no more than an hour ago escaped over the border.
For the next three hours she doesn't move. She barely dares to breathe. Her hands are locked in a battle, each finger wrestling the others. I try to make her relax. I want her to conserve her energy.
Aleksei is nearby, waiting and watching with an animal quickness. Sometimes he wanders into my sitting room to make a call on his cell phone then he drifts back, regarding Rachel with a strange mixture of longing and disgust. The diamonds are packed and ready. They were delivered in a velvet-lined briefcase—965 stones, one carat or above, superior quality.
Aleksei is going to follow us—tracking the signals from the transmitter and a GPS beacon in Rachel's car.
“Nobody is going to know we're being followed,” I reassure her. “Aleksei has promised to stay well away unless he gets a signal. I'm going to be with you. Just relax.”
“How can I relax?”
“I know it's hard but it could be a long night.”
Outside on the street, her Renault Estate is fresh from a local garage workshop. The front passenger seat has been removed and the doors reinforced. A hands-free phone will let me hear both sides of any conversation.
“Whatever happens you must try to stay with the car. Don't let them draw you away unless you have absolutely no choice. Don't look down at me. Don't talk to me. They might be watching. If I ask you a question and the answer is yes, I want you to tap the top of the steering wheel once. If the answer is no I want you to tap it twice. Do you understand?”
She nods.
Again, I deliver the most important message. “What are you going to ask?”
“To see Mickey.”
“When are you going to hand over the ransom?”
“When I have Mickey.”
“That's right. They want you to follow blindly but you have to keep insisting on assurances that Mickey is alive. Keep asking for proof—”
“They'll say the hair and bikini prove it.”
“And you'll say they prove nothing. You just want to be sure.”
“What if they want me to drop the ransom somewhere?”
“Don't do it. Demand a straight exchange—Mickey for the diamonds.”
“And if they don't agree?”
“It's no deal.”
At 11:37 p.m. the phone rings again. The caller is male but a voice-changing device has digitally altered his vowels and flattened the pitch. He instructs Rachel to drive to the Hanger Lane Roundabout on the A40. She holds the cell phone in both hands, nodding rather than answering. She doesn't hesitate. She picks up the pizza box and walks to the door.
Aleksei follows, looking suddenly concerned. I don't know whether he wants to wish her luck or take her place. Maybe he's just worried about his diamonds. Farther down the street he opens a car door and I see the Russian behind the wheel.
Lying on the floor of Rachel's car, my shoulders are braced against the dashboard panel and my legs concertinaed toward the backseat. I can only see one side of her face. She looks straight ahead, with both hands on the wheel, as though retaking her driving test.
The caller has hung up.
“Just relax. We could put on some music.”
She taps the steering wheel once.
I flip open the vinyl case of her CD collection. “I'm fairly easy to please—anything except Neil Diamond or Barry Manilow. I have a theory that ninety percent of deaths in nursing homes are caused by Neil Diamond and Barry Manilow.”