“You really can't stay,” says the nursing sister. “Come back in the morning and she'll be awake.”
The corridors of the hospital are almost deserted. I walk to the visitors lounge and take a seat, closing my eyes. I wish I could have made Aleksei understand but his hatred has blinded him. He doesn't believe Mickey is still alive. Instead, he thinks people have taken advantage of him because of his weakness—his family.
I think of Luke and wonder if maybe he's right. Daj is still grieving about her lost family. I'm still fretting about Claire and Michael, wondering what went wrong. Not caring would be so much easier.
My muscles ache and my whole body seems to be fighting against itself. Dreamlike images fill my head; bodies lowered into rivers or washed down sewers. Kirsten's turn is coming.
Darkness presses against the window. I gaze at the street below and feel nostalgic for the countryside. The rhythms of a city are set by pneumatic drills, traffic lights and train timetables. I barely notice the seasons.
A reflection appears in the window beside me.
“I thought I might find you here,” says Joe, taking a seat and propping his legs on the low table. “How did it go with Aleksei?”
“He wouldn't listen.”
Joe nods. “You should get some sleep.”
“So should you.”
“You're long enough dead.”
“My stepfather used to say that. He's getting plenty of sleep now.”
Joe motions to the sofa opposite. “I've been thinking.”
“Yeah.”
“I figure maybe I know why this means so much to you. When you told me what happened to Luke you didn't tell me the whole story.”
I feel a lump forming in my throat. I couldn't talk if I wanted to.
“You said he was riding the toboggan on his own. Your stepfather had gone to town, your mother was dyeing the bedsheets. You said you couldn't remember what you were doing but that's not true. You didn't forget. You were with Luke.”
I can see the day. Snow lay thick on the ground. From the top of Hill Field you could see the entire farm, all the way to Telegraph Point on the river and the wind socks on the aerodrome.
“You were looking after him.”
He had biscuit on his breath. He sat between my knees, rugged up in one of my hand-me-down jackets. He was so small that my chin rested on his head. He wore an old flying cap, lined with wool that flapped from his ears and made him look like a Labrador puppy.
Joe explains. “When we were in the pub, before we found Rachel's car, I started describing a dream to you. It was your dream. I said you fantasized about saving Luke; you imagined being there, riding the toboggan down the hill, driving your boots into the snow to stop him before he reached the pond. That's when I should have realized. It wasn't a dream—it was the truth.”
The bumps threw the toboggan in the air and Luke squealed with laughter. “Faster, Yanko! Faster!” He hugged my knees, leaning back against my chest. The track leveled off toward the end where the mesh fence sagged between posts. We were traveling faster than normal because of the extra weight. I put my boots down to stop but we hit the fence too fast. One moment he was in my arms and the next I clutched at air.
The ice broke beneath him. It split into diamonds and triangles; shapes without curves. I waded in, screaming for him. I went under and under. If I could just feel his hair, if I could just grab his collar, he'd be OK. I could save him. But it was too cold and the pond was too deep.
My stepfather came. He used a spotlight powered by the tractor engine and laid planks across the pond to crawl out. He hammered on the ice with an ax and reached down with his hands, feeling for the bottom. I watched from the bedroom window, praying that somehow Luke would be all right. Nobody said anything. They didn't have to. It was my fault. I killed him.
“You were twelve years old. It was an accident.”
“I lost him.”
Wiping wetness from my cheeks, I shake my head and curse him. What do other people know of guilt?
Joe is standing, offering his hand. “Come on, let's go.”
I don't look diminished in his eyes but it will never be the same between us. I wish he could have left Luke alone.
On the drive to his office nothing is said. Rachel greets us at the door. She's been working all night.
“I might have found something,” she explains as we climb the stairs. “I remember something Kirsten told me during Howard's trial. We were talking about giving evidence in court and she said that she once got called as a character witness for a friend who was facing charges.”
“Do you know what sort of charges?”
“No. And she didn't mention a name.”
I pick up the phone. I'm not owed any favors but maybe “New Boy” Dave will grant me one for Ali's sake.
“Sorry to wake you.”
I hear him groan.
“I need your help. I want to cross-reference police and court records for Kirsten Fitzroy.”
“It's been done.”
“Yes, but you've been treating her as the subject. She might have been a witness.”
He doesn't reply. I know he's debating whether to hang up on me. There is no reason to help and a dozen reasons to say no.
“Can it wait till proper morning?”
“No.”
There's another long pause. “Meet me at Otto's at six.”
Otto's is a café between a betting shop and a launderette at the western end of Elgin Avenue. The Sunday-morning clientele are mainly cabbies and delivery drivers, priming themselves with coffee and carbohydrates for the day ahead.
I wait by the window. “New Boy” Dave is on time, dodging the dog shit and puddles, before ducking inside. His shirt is creased and hair uncombed.
He orders a coffee and pulls a scrap of paper from his pocket, holding it out of reach. “First, you can answer some questions for me. Gerry Brandt had a fake passport and driver's license in the name of Peter Brannigan. For the last three years he's been running a bar in Thailand. The guy's a scrote—where did he get that sort of money?”
“Drugs.”
“That's what I figured, but the DEA and Interpol have nothing on him.”
“He came back into the country three months ago. According to his uncle he was looking for investors. Ray Murphy's pub was also struggling.”
“So that explains the ransom demand. It also got them killed. Ballistics has matched the bullet from Brandt with the one found in Ray Murphy's body. Same rifle.”
Dave looks at his watch. “I got to get to the hospital. I want to be there when Ali wakes up.”
He hands over the scrap of paper. “Six years ago Kirsten Fitzroy gave evidence at a soliciting trial at Southwark Crown Court. She was a character witness for a Heather Wilde, who was convicted of running an illegal brothel and living off immoral earnings.”
I remember that case. Heather ran a swinging club from a house in Brixton. She had a Web site, Wilde Times, but claimed that no money changed hands so it wasn't prostitution.
Where in Brixton? Dumbarton Road.
My memory triumphs again. It's a curse.
35
The single door is set in a whitewashed brick wall with no number or mailbox. Rising three floors, the façade has maybe a dozen windows, each divided by vertical bars and gray with dirt.
I don't know if Kirsten is inside. The place looks empty. I want to be sure but this time I won't be calling the police—not after what happened to Gerry Brandt.
Rain has beaded the hoods of cars parked down either side of the street. Walking along the pavement, I pass bicycles chained to the railing fence and trash cans waiting for collection.
I knock and wait. Bolts slide and a barrel lock turns, before the door opens no more than a crack. An unsmiling, fifty-plus face appears looking me up and down.