“It's her. I know my daughter. I know how she walks and holds her head.”
Nine times out of ten I would not believe it was anything more than a mother's desperate desire to believe her daughter is alive. That's why I didn't show Rachel the tape three years ago. It risked derailing the entire investigation, sending dozens of officers off on a tangent and diverting public attention instead of focusing it.
Now I believe Rachel. I know there isn't a judge or a jury in the land who would accept beyond doubt that Mickey is the person on the tape but that doesn't matter. The person who knows her best is sure. On Wednesday, July 24—two days after she disappeared—Mickey was still alive.
31
The only other person in Joe's waiting room is a middle-aged man in a cheap suit that bunches at his shoulders when he folds his arms. He picks at his teeth with a matchstick and watches me take a seat.
“The secretary went to get coffee,” he says. “The Professor has a patient.”
I nod and notice him watching me. Finally, he asks, “Do we know each other?”
“I don't think so. Are you a copper?”
“Yeah. DS Roger Casey. They call me the Dodger.” He moves a few seats closer and thrusts out his hand, at the same time eyeing up Rachel.
“So where are you working, Roger?”
“Vice out of Holborn.”
He's sitting close, feeling a sense of camaraderie. I should probably remember his face but a lot of guys his age have left the service in the past ten years.
“You heard this one,” he asks. “How many coppers does it take to throw a man down the stairs?”
“I don't know. How many?”
“None. He fell.”
Roger laughs and I offer him a chiseled smile. He lifts an eyebrow and goes quiet.
The Professor's secretary arrives back, carrying takeout coffee and a brown paper bag stained by a pastry. She looks barely out of school and blinks through wire-frame glasses as though she should have known we were coming.
“I'm DI Ruiz. Could you tell the Professor we're here?”
She sighs, “Join the queue.”
At that moment the inner door opens and a young woman emerges with red-rimmed eyes.
Joe is behind her.
“So I'll see you next week, Christine. Remember, it's not immodest to wear culottes and it doesn't make you less feminine.”
She nods and keeps her eyes down. Everyone in the room does the same apart from Roger who starts giggling. The poor woman flees down the corridor.
Joe gives him an angry stare and is about to say something when he sees me sitting with Rachel. “Come inside, you two.”
“The Detective Sergeant was here first,” I suggest.
Joe shakes his head and sighs. “Oh dear . . . and you were doing so well, Roger.” He turns to his secretary. “For future reference, Philippa, DI Ruiz is a real police officer. Not everyone who comes in here claiming to be a detective is a fantasist.”
Philippa's cheeks redden and Rachel starts to giggle.
“I'm sorry about Roger,” says Joe, as we're ushered into his office. “He pretends to be a police officer and tricks prostitutes into giving him free sex.”
“Does it work?”
“Apparently.”
“He's a freak!”
Joe looks at me awkwardly. “Well, he's part of our team.”
There's a promising start!
Joe has spent the morning calling in favors. So far we have thirteen volunteers including two of my old rugby mates and a snitch called “Dicko” who has a nose for trouble and no sense of smell at all, which unfortunately means his personal hygiene leaves a lot to be desired.
Over the next hour the rest of the “team” arrives. Joe has managed to recruit his brother-in-law Eric and his younger sister, Rebecca, who works for the United Nations. Julianne is coming after she picks up Charlie from school. There are also several patients, including Margaret, who is nursing a torpedo-shaped life preserver, and another woman, Jean, who keeps disinfecting the phones with wet wipes.
Margaret sidles up to me. “I hear you almost drowned. Don't trust bridges.” She taps her orange torpedo reassuringly.
When the last of the stragglers arrive, I gather them in the waiting room. It is the strangest collection of “detectives” I have ever commanded.
Pinning two photographs to a corkboard, I clear my throat and introduce myself—not as a Detective Inspector but as a member of the public.
“The two people in these photographs are missing. Their names are Kirsten Fitzroy and Gerry Brandt. We hope to find them.”
“What did they do?” asks Margaret.
“I believe they kidnapped a young girl.”
A murmur goes around the room.
“We need to discover how they're linked—when they met, where they talked, what they have in common—but most importantly we have to locate them. Each of you will be given a task. You won't be asked to do anything illegal, but this is detective work and has to remain confidential.”
“Why don't we just ask the police to find them?” asks Eric, perched on the edge of a desk.
“The police aren't looking hard enough.”
“But you're a policeman!”
“Not anymore.”
Moving on, I explain that Kirsten was last seen going over the side of the Charmaine. “She suffered a stomach wound and may not have survived her injuries or the river but we're going to assume she's still alive. Gerry Brandt is a known drug dealer, pimp and armed robber. Nobody is to approach him.”
I glance at Dicko. The flesh around his mouth seems to be moving but no sound comes out.
Addressing him directly, I say, “I want you to talk to anyone who knows him—suppliers, junkies, mules, friends . . . He used to hang out in a pub on Pentonville Road. See if anyone remembers him.”
After a few seconds of clicking his teeth, he says, “Might need some readies.”
“If I catch you drinking I'll drill a hole in your head.”
The women peel their eyebrows off their hairlines.
“Maybe I should go with him,” suggests Roger.
“Fine. Remember what I said. Under no circumstances do you approach Gerry Brandt.”
Roger gives me a casual salute.
“Philippa, Margaret and Jean, I want you to ring the hospitals, clinics and doctors' surgeries. Make up a story. Say you're looking for a missing friend. Rachel and the Professor will contact Kirsten's family and any former employers. She grew up in the West Country.”
“What are you going to do?” asks Joe.
“Gerry Brandt had a former girlfriend, a skinny thing with bleeding gums and blond streaks. I'm hoping she might know where he's hiding.”
Hell's Half Mile is a road behind Kings Cross Station where the curbs get crawled and prostitutes hunt in packs. Some of these girls are barely sixteen but there's no way of telling. Even without the scars and bruises, a year on the streets adds five years to the faces.
Very few prostitutes work the streets anymore because the police have chased them indoors. Now they work for escort agencies and massage parlors, or they move around following the political conferences, trade shows and exhibitions. Become a prostitute and see the world!
The walk-up places are open doorways leading to upstairs flats with signs in the windows announcing BUSTY YOUNG MODEL or something similar. Most have a maid, usually an older woman, who takes the money and a small tip.
Apart from the passing trade, they advertise with cards in phone boxes or rely on the patron saint of the horny—the London cabbie.
Cruising the street slowly I try to recognize any of the girls. A pixie with a pageboy cut and a padded bra saunters over.
“You want to ask me something?”
“Yeah, what was on Sesame Street this morning?”