The moment I phoned for backup, somebody put in a separate call, tipping off Aleksei. How else did the sniper know where to find Brandt? It's the only logical explanation.
A dozen police officers walk in single file down the ramp, peering between their polished boots at the cobblestones and sodden leaves. A handful of Camden Council workers watch the proceedings as though they're going to be tested on it later.
This whole business reeks of a setup. The guilty are gunned down and innocent people get caught in the crossfire. Howard might be one of them. I still can't figure out where he fits into all this, but I can picture him, lying on his prison bunk, planning his first days of freedom.
Child molesters sleep the sleep of the damned in prison. They listen to their names being whispered from cell to cell, turning to a chant as the noise rises and becomes a frightening symphony that must open and close their sphincters like the wings of a butterfly.
The SOCO team, dressed in white overalls, has set up arc lights on mobile gantries, casting grotesque shadows against the walls. Noonan is in charge, shouting into a tape recorder: “I'm looking at a well-developed, well-nourished white male. A light purple contusion is visible on the left forehead and another over the bridge of the nose. He may have fallen after the shooting or someone hit him in the face prior to the shooting . . .”
“New Boy” Dave hands me a coffee. It tastes like tar and brings back memories of surveillance operations and endless predawn shifts.
Noonan rolls the body over and checks the pockets and lining. His hand emerges with a small foil packet wedged between his fingertips.
Dave screws up his face. “Well if you ask me, I'm glad he's dead.”
I guess that's understandable given what happened to Ali. He doesn't understand why I needed Gerry alive. Dave loosens his tie and undoes the top button of his shirt.
“They say you're trying to destroy the Howard Wavell conviction.”
“No.”
“They also say you stole diamonds from Aleksei Kuznet. They say you're bent.”
“What do you think?”
“Ali doesn't think so.”
A double-decker bus rumbles by, glowing red and yellow. Bored faces peer out from the bright interior, heads resting against the glass. London doesn't seem so exciting from this angle. The landmarks are rendered featureless by the gloom and there is no magic in the Monopoly board names.
I am under arrest. Campbell insisted on it. At least Dave hasn't bothered with handcuffs so my past must count for something. I could even handle the police officers staring at me, if one of them was Ali and she'd never been involved in this.
After SOCO has finished at the crime scene, I'm driven to the Harrow Road Police Station and taken through a back door into the charge room. I know the drill. Strands of hair are sealed in plastic. Saliva and skin cells dampen a cotton swab. My fingers are pressed in ink. Afterward I am taken to an interview room rather than a police cell.
They make me wait. I lean forward, with my elbows braced on my knees, counting the pop rivets on the side of the table. This is all part of any interrogation. Silence can be more important than the questions.
When Keebal finally arrives, he carries a large bundle of files and proceeds to shuffle through the papers. Most of them probably have nothing to do with me but he wants me to think evidence is stacking up against me. Everybody is having fun today.
Keebal likes to pretend he's a patient man but it's bullshit. Maybe it's the Rom blood in me but I can sit opposite someone all day and not say a thing. Gypsies are like Sicilians. We can share a drink and be smiling our heads off while out of sight a knife or a shotgun is pointed directly at the other guy's stomach.
Finally he turns on the tape recorder, giving the time, date and names of everybody present.
He pats his coiffed hair. “I hear you got your memory back.”
“Can we do this later? You obviously have an appointment at a beauty parlor.”
He stops touching himself and glares at me.
“At approximately 1600 hours on September 25, you were given a briefcase containing 965 one carat and above, superior-quality diamonds. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“When did you last see these diamonds?”
I feel my stomach lurch as if an internal gear has suddenly engaged. I can still picture the packages spilling from the sports bag beneath my linen cupboard. A dry thunder is pounding in my head—the beginnings of a migraine. “I don't know.”
“Did you give them to someone?”
“No.”
“What were these diamonds for?”
“You know the answer to that question.”
“For the benefit of the tape, please answer the question.”
“A ransom.”
He doesn't bat an eyelid. I'm doing just what he wants—digging myself deeper into a hole. I start at the beginning, recounting the whole story. I have nothing left to lose, but at least I'm getting it down. There'll be a record somewhere if something happens to me. I tell him about the ransom demand, the strands of hair, the bikini and my journey through the sewers.
For the next ninety minutes I relate the details. Hundreds of cumulative hours are condensed and laid out like stepping-stones for him to follow. Even so, it sounds more like a confessional than an interrogation.
Keebal looks like he should be selling used cars or life insurance. “You admit you were present on the boat when Ray Murphy died?”
“Yes.”
“And you say the diamonds were in packages on the deck?”
“Yes.”
“Was there a tracking device with the diamonds?”
“Yes.”
“When you went overboard did you take the diamonds?”
“No.”
“You were the last person to see them. I think you know where they are.”
“That's an interesting theory.”
“I think they're tucked under your mattress at home?”
“Could be.”
He studies my face, looking for the lie. It's there. He just can't see it.
“Let me help you out,” he says. “Next time you try to steal a ransom, remember to take the tracking device out. Otherwise someone might follow you and realize what you're doing.”
“How is Aleksei? How much is he paying you to recover his diamonds?”
Keebal tightens his lips and sighs through his nose like I've disappointed him.
“Tell me this,” I ask him. “A sniper put a bullet in my leg and I nearly bled to death. Eight days I lay in a coma. You think I took the diamonds. How? When?”
A sense of triumph is stenciled on his face. “I'll tell you how—they never left your house. You helped set this whole thing up—the ransom letters, the DNA tests . . . you fooled everyone. And the people who know the truth keep dying when you're around. First it was Ray Murphy and then Gerry Brandt . . .”
Keebal can't really believe any of this. It's crazy. I always had him pegged as a fanatic but the man has squirrels juggling knives in his head.
“I got shot.”
“Maybe because you tried to double-cross them.”
I'm shouting at him now. “You called Aleksei. You told him where he could find Gerry Brandt. All these years you've been persecuting honest cops and now we see your true colors—yellow right through.”
In the silence I can hear my clothes creasing. Keebal thinks he knows. He knows nothing.
The Professor collects me just after 5:00 p.m.
“How are you?”
“I still have my health.”
“That's good.”
I savor the sound of my shoes on the tarmac, pleased to be free. Keebal didn't have enough to hold me and there isn't a magistrate in the land who would deny me bail with my record of service.
Joe's office is still full of our ragtag task force, manning telephones and tapping at keyboards. They're searching electoral rolls and reverse phone directories. Someone has pinned a photograph of Mickey to the window—to remind everyone of why we're here.