London's major hospitals and twenty-four-hour clinics have no record of a female shooting victim in the week after the ransom drop. Now we're ringing individual doctors and hospices.
We know more about Kirsten than we did six hours ago. She was born in Exeter in 1972, the daughter of a postman and a teaching assistant. Her two brothers still live in Devon. In 1984 she won a scholarship to Sherborne School for Girls in Dorset. She excelled in art and history. One of her sculptures was accepted in the Summer Exhibition at the Royal Academy in London. In her final year she left the school under a cloud, along with two other students. Drugs were mentioned but nothing went on file.
A year later Kirsten sat A levels and won a place to read art and history at Bristol University. After several false starts, she graduated with a first in 1995. That same year she was photographed at a polo match in Windsor by Tatler magazine with the son of a Saudi Minister. Then she seemed to disappear, surfacing again six years later as the manager of the employment agency.
“I spoke to a few people at Sotheby's,” says Rachel. “Kirsten was well known among the dealers and salesroom staff. She always wore black to auctions and talked constantly on a cell phone.”
“She was bidding for someone else?”
“Four months ago she bid £170,000 for a Turner watercolor.”
“Who was the real buyer?”
“Sotheby's wouldn't say but faxed me a photograph of the painting. I've seen it hanging in my father's study.”
Her eyes, unnaturally wide, flick back and forth between my face and Joe's. Her thoughts are moving at a terrible speed—making her whole body vibrate.
“I still can't believe she could have done this. She loved Mickey.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Ask my father.”
“Will he tell you the truth?”
“There's always a first time.”
Joe's arm twitches as he reaches for a bottle of water. “We're a long way behind. Kirsten's family and friends have been contacted. Some have been threatened. One of Kirsten's brothers was beaten senseless only an hour after he slammed the door on a man claiming to be a debt collector.”
“Do you think her family knows where she is?” I ask him.
“No.”
Rachel nods. “Kirsten wouldn't put them in danger.”
Why is Aleksei going to so much trouble? If he sat back he knows that Kirsten will turn up eventually. They always do, look at Gerry Brandt. This isn't just about the diamonds. It's more personal than that. According to the stories, Aleksei had his own brother killed for dishonoring the family. What would he do to someone who kidnapped his daughter?
Sitting opposite me, Joe continues making notes. He reminds me of my old primary-school teacher, who knew exactly how many pencils, books and paintbrushes were in the storeroom, yet would arrive at school with shaving foam on his neck, or wearing different-colored socks.
Julianne called me. She made me promise not to let Joe drive home. His Parkinson's gets worse when he's tired. She also talked to Joe and told him to look after me.
Rachel begins picking up cups and carrying them into the kitchenette. There isn't much to wash. Jean has been manically cleaning all evening.
Reaching into his pocket, Joe takes out a crumpled page of notes and smooths it on his thigh. “I've been thinking.”
“Good.”
“I want to forget about the kidnapping question and concentrate on the ransom demand. If you look at the letters there's no indication of psychological looseness or obsession. They asked for a huge ransom but it was a feasible amount for someone like Aleksei to pay or even Sir Douglas. Enough to be worth the risk.
“We know there were at least three people involved. Kirsten was the likely planner. Ray Murphy did the logistics. Intellectually Kirsten is above average. Everything about her typifies carefulness and preplanning. She must have experimented with the packages, getting the right dimensions. She was aware of tracking devices and forensic tests . . .”
The Professor is on a roll. I've seen him do this before—crawl inside someone's head until he knows what they know and feels what they feel. “The ransom plot was clever but overcomplicated. When people are faced with a complex problem they often only consider a certain number of options or scenarios. If there are too many unknowns, they get confused. That's why people plan up to a point or in sections. Sometimes they leave out the exit strategies because they don't consider failure as a possibility.
“Whoever conceived the plan worked everything out but they made it too complicated. Look at all the things that had to go right. The packaging of the ransom had to be perfect, the control of the courier, getting the diamonds to the storm-water drain, detonating the explosives, creating the flood . . . If any one of these things had gone wrong, the plan would have failed.”
“Maybe they tested the system first. The voice on the phone to Rachel said, ‘Let's do this one more time.'”
Joe nods slowly but isn't convinced. “This is the sort of operation you only mess up once. Given a second chance, you'd want to simplify things.”
He begins pacing, flourishing his hands. “Let's assume just for a moment that they did kidnap her. They took her underground, which is also how they chose to collect the ransom. They needed somewhere to hold her. Somewhere that Ray Murphy was most likely to have chosen.”
“Not in the sewers—it's too dangerous.”
“And taking her above ground meant risking recognition. Her photograph was everywhere.”
“You think they held her underground?”
“It's worth considering.”
There's someone I can ask—Weatherman Pete. I look at my watch. I'll call him in a few hours.
“What about Gerry Brandt?” asks Joe.
“He had a passport in the name of Peter Brannigan as well as a driver's license. It costs a lot of money to get a new identity and to disappear—even to a place like Thailand. You need connections.”
“You thinking drugs?”
“Maybe. According to international directory inquiries there's a beach bar called Brannigan's in Phuket.”
“Fancy that. What's the time in Thailand?”
“Time to wake them up.”
Rachel has fallen asleep on the sofa in the waiting room. I gently shake her awake. “Come on, I'll take you home.”
“But what about Mickey?”
“We'll find her. First you need to sleep. Where do you want to go?”
“Dolphin Mansions.”
“Take my car,” says Joe. “I've called a cab.”
He's still on the phone to Phuket talking to a waitress who doesn't understand English, trying to get a description of Peter Brannigan.
Outside the streets are empty except for a council sweeping machine with twirling brushes and jets of water. I open the car door and Rachel slips inside. The interior smells of pine air freshener and ancient tobacco.
Using a borrowed overcoat as a blanket, she covers her knees. I know she has questions. She wants reassurance. Maybe we're both deluding ourselves.
Headlights sweep across the interior of the car as we drive toward Maida Vale. She rests her head against the seat, watching me.
“Do you have children, Inspector?”
“I'm not a policeman anymore. Please call me Vincent.”
She waits for an answer.
“Twins. They're grown up now.”
“Do you see much of them?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“It's a long story.”
“How long can it be? They're your children.”
I'm caught now. No matter what I say to her she won't understand. She desperately wants to find her child and I don't even talk to mine. Where's the fairness in that?