“Her flat was burgled,” says Meldrum.
“Not burgled. It was searched. I think Aleksei Kuznet is looking for Kirsten. He wants to punish the people who sent the ransom demand. I believe they're the same people who kidnapped his daughter.”
Campbell scoffs angrily. “Howard Wavell killed Mickey Carlyle.”
“Even if you believe that—you have to accept that someone else sent the ransom demand. They included a lock of Mickey's hair and the bikini.”
“Neither of which prove she's alive.”
“No. But Ray Murphy is dead and Kirsten is in danger. Aleksei Kuznet was never going to let anyone steal two million pounds from him. He organized an execution. Now he's looking for Kirsten and Gerry Brandt—to finish the job.”
I make a decision not to mention Sir Douglas Carlyle. Campbell is already on the edge. My only chance of persuading him to investigate is to let him believe the ransom was a hoax. I still can't prove otherwise.
“What does Gerry Brandt have to do with this?”
“He was on the Charmaine. I saw him go over the side.”
I wait. I don't know if I've done enough.
Campbell has assumed a perfect proprietary air. “Let me get this straight. So far you have mentioned a kidnapping, a revenge killing, a shooting and a ransom demand. I'll add a few to the list: dereliction of duty, crippling a fellow police officer, withholding information and disobeying orders . . .”
A sense of alarm spreads through me. He doesn't understand. He can't see past Howard Wavell.
“We have to find Kirsten before Aleksei does. If she survived she would have needed medical help. We have to search local hospitals and ask doctors to go back through their files. We have to check her bank, telephone and travel records. We need to know her last known movements, possible associations and favorite haunts.”
Campbell's look is piercing. “You're using the word ‘we' a lot. For some reason you seem to be under the misapprehension that you're still a serving member of the Metropolitan Police.”
I'm so angry my vision blurs.
Joe tries to calm things down. “It seems to me, gentlemen, that we're all seeking the truth. DI Meldrum here is investigating the shootings on the river. DI Ruiz is a witness. He's offering to make a statement. He won't interfere with the investigation.”
Meldrum nods. Satisfied.
Campbell points his finger at me. “I want you to know one thing, Ruiz. I know the truth.”
“Sure you do,” I say.
Campbell gives me a triumphant smile. “You're right about Aleksei Kuznet. He's not the sort of man who lets someone take two million pounds from him. He claims you stole his diamonds and he's made an official complaint. We're drawing up a warrant for your arrest. If I were you—I'd get myself a lawyer.”
Rage quickens my footsteps. Joe struggles to keep up with me as I stride down the corridor and punch through the swinging glass doors.
On the pavement a voice hits me like a cold wind. “Did you shoot him?”
Tony Murphy is asking the question with his entire body. “I had to go to the morgue to identify him. You ever seen a body like that . . . in pieces. And white like a candle melted into a puddle. The police say someone shot him. They got a witness. Is it you?”
“Yes.”
He chews the inside of his cheek. “Did you shoot him?”
“No.”
“Do you know who did?”
“I don't know who pulled the trigger but I saw him go down. I couldn't help him.”
He swallows a lump in his throat. “So I'm looking after Mum and Stevie now. The pub is all we got left.”
“I'm sorry.”
He wants to do something more but can only stand there, imprisoned by his own misery.
“Go home, Tony. I'll sort this out.”
29
Joe is waiting for me to say something. His dark brown eyes are staring at me with a vague sadness and the certainty that he can't help me. Meanwhile, I keep considering what should have happened. Campbell should have set up a task force. There should be two dozen detectives looking for Kirsten and Gerry Brandt. We should have Aleksei under surveillance and be searching his boat.
For one cool precise hour I want to know what to do. I want every decision to be the right one.
We're driving along Euston Road, past Regent's Park.
“So what are you going to do?” he asks.
“Find them.”
“You can't do it alone.”
“I have no choice.”
Joe looks like a man with a plan. “What if we got some volunteers? We could call friends and family. How many people do you need?”
“I don't know. We need to contact the hospitals and doctors' surgeries and clinics. One of them must have treated Kirsten.”
“We can use my office,” says Joe. “It's not very big but there's the waiting room and the storeroom and a kitchen. There are six phone lines and a fax. We could get some more handsets. I'll get my secretary, Philippa, to start calling people.”
We pull up outside his office. “What are you going to do?”
There's a small invisible shock in the air. A decision is made.
“One way or another I'm going to see Rachel Carlyle.”
There will be no tennis today. Puddles cover the court and fat drops hang on the net like glass beads. It must be autumn—the rain is colder.
Parked in front of the Carlyle house, I watch the driveway and listen to the radio. Ray Murphy's name has been released but there's no mention of Kirsten during the news bulletin. Campbell won't allow it.
Glancing up at the house, I watch a dark Mercedes glide through the front gates and pause before turning left. Sir Douglas and Tottie are going out.
I give them a few minutes and then approach the house. Soggy mounds of leaves have gathered along the drive, trapped by the hedges. Some have clogged the fountain and the water spills over the side, flooding the footings.
Avoiding the front door, I skirt the building and use a set of stone steps at the right-hand side of the house. I knock four times before it opens. Thomas stands there.
“I need to speak to Rachel.”
“Miss Rachel isn't here, Sir.”
He's lying.
“You don't have to protect her. I don't want to cause any trouble. If she doesn't want to speak to me I'll leave.”
He looks past me into the garden. “I don't think Sir Douglas would approve.”
“Just ask her.”
He contemplates this and agrees, leaving me waiting on the steps. A fire is smoldering somewhere, turning the air the color of dirty water.
Thomas appears again. “Miss Carlyle will see you in the kitchen.”
He leads the way. We pass along hallways lined with paintings of foxhounds, horses and pheasants. The frames are so dark they blend into the walls and the animals appear to be suspended, set in aspic. Above the stairs there are English landscapes of lakes and rivers.
At first I don't realize that Rachel is already in the kitchen. She stands with the stillness of a photograph, tall and dark, with her hair drawn back.
“Your father said I couldn't see you,” I say.
“He didn't ask me.”
She is wearing jeans and a raw-silk shirt. Her wedge-shaped face is softened by the cut of her hair, which is shorter than I remember, loosely brushing her shoulders.
“I hear you couldn't remember what happened that night.”
“Yes, for a while.”
She bites her bottom lip and weighs whether to believe me. “You didn't forget about me.”
“No. I didn't know what happened to you. I only discovered a few days ago.”