A swatch of her hair, shiny black, has come loose from a bobby pin. She drops her gaze and sets her mouth defiantly. “And you found Kirsten. We should drink to that.”
She takes a sip and notices I haven't joined her. “What's wrong?”
“I'm so sorry. It was a stupid, foolish quest. I just wanted . . . I just hoped Mickey might be alive, you know. And now look! You're here and people are dead and Rachel is grieving all over again. And tomorrow Howard is going to get his retrial. It's my fault. What I've done is unforgivable.”
Ali doesn't answer. Outside the sky is tinged with pink and the streetlights are blinking on. I rock forward and stare into the glass. She reaches out and puts her hand on my shoulder to stop it shaking.
“It hurts all over,” I moan. “Why put a child on this Earth and give her seven years if you're going to allow her to be kidnapped, raped, tortured, terrified or whatever else happened?”
“There's no answer to that.”
“I don't believe in God. I don't believe in eternal life or Heaven or reincarnation. Will you ask your God for me? Ask him why.”
Ali looks at me sadly. “He doesn't work like that.”
“Well ask him for his grand plan. While he concentrates on the big picture, who looks after kids like Mickey? One child might seem petty and trivial among a few billion but he could start by saving one at a time.”
I down the rest of the whiskey, feeling the alcohol burn my throat. I'm already drunk, but not drunk enough.
A black cab drops me home. Fumbling for the keys, I stagger inside and up the stairs, where I lean over the toilet and vomit. Afterward I splash water on my face, letting it leak down my neck and chest.
Staring back from the mirror is a pallid, leering stranger. In his eyes I see Mickey standing at the bottom of the escalator and Daj behind the razor wire and Luke lying beneath the ice.
I seem to have no other memories. Missing children, abused children and dead children fill my thoughts. Babies drowned in bathtubs, toddlers shaken into comas, children sent to gas chambers or snatched from playgrounds or suffocated beneath pillows. How can I blame God when I couldn't save one little girl?
37
Opposite the Royal Courts of Justice a deliveryman is unloading naked mannequins from a truck. Male and female dummies are frozen in an orgy of plaster, some with wigs and others bare. The driver carries them two at a time, balanced across his shoulders, with his hands between each pair of buttocks to stop them from falling. I can see him laughing as cabdrivers toot their horns and office workers lean out of windows.
I stand and watch. It's good to smile.
The feeling doesn't last. Rachel Carlyle looks up as I approach along the corridor. Her gaze is not quite focused and her smile vague, as though she doesn't immediately recognize me. Light coming through high windows is broken and refracted, dissipating before it reaches the depths of the marble entrance hall.
I take her off to one side, finding an empty conference room. Making her sit down I tell her the same story that Kirsten told me, trying to leave nothing out. When I reach the point about Mickey crossing London alone, late at night, she squeezes her eyes shut, endeavoring to rid herself of the image.
“Where is Kirsten now?”
“She's battling an infection. The next forty-eight hours will be crucial.”
Rachel's face is etched with concern. Her capacity for forgiveness is beyond mine. I can imagine her saying a prayer for Kirsten or lighting a candle. She should be railing against her and against me. I raised her hopes and look at us now.
Instead she blames herself. “If I hadn't asked Aleksei for the ransom none of this would have happened.”
“No. He was punishing them for what happened to Mickey, not for anything you did.”
Her voice drops. “I just wanted her back.”
“I know.”
I look at my watch. We're due in court. Rachel pauses for a moment, drawing strength, before leaving the room. The corridors and public areas have emptied slightly. The Rook is on the stairs. Eddie Barrett is three steps above him, putting them at eye level. The Rook looks invigorated while Eddie growls and gesticulates, almost eating the air.
Rachel takes my arm to steady herself. “If Aleksei received an original ransom demand why didn't he say anything?”
“I guess he didn't want the police involved.”
“Yes, but afterward, when Mickey didn't come home, he could have said something then.”
I don't know the answer. I suspect he didn't want to advertise his mistake. He is also conceited enough to believe he could find Mickey before the police. He must have known how close she came to making it home—less than eighty-five steps. How that must have torn him apart.
Lord Connelly keeps everyone waiting. He enters the courtroom at ten minutes past ten and the room rises. Then he carefully places his walnut palm gavel to his right and his glass of water to his left.
Howard emerges from below. He is clutching a Bible with red ribbons marking the pages. His eyes look bruised but defiant. Eddie Barrett shakes his hand and Howard gives him a weary smile.
Fiona Hanley, QC, is already on her feet. “Perhaps I can expedite these proceedings a little, Your Honor. Due to information that has come to light over the weekend, the Crown does not oppose the defense application and are content for this case to be retried at the court's earliest convenience.”
There is an audible gasp. Blood surges in the air and eyes shift to Howard. I don't think he understands. Even Eddie Barrett looks amazed.
“My chambers,” Lord Connelly says. He exits stage right like a black-caped crusader.
Four of us wait in the outer office. Eddie Barrett and the Rook are whispering in one corner. The Rook is actually smiling, an expression that doesn't come naturally to him. Meanwhile, Fiona Hanley avoids my gaze, wrapping her robe around herself.
Lord Connelly's assistant, a large-breasted black woman, has a brilliant smile reserved only for His Honor. She has been with him fifteen years and we've all heard the rumors.
“He'll see you now,” she says, pointing to the door.
Eddie takes a step back and lets Miss Hanley go first, bowing slightly and showing his monklike dome.
There are only three chairs in front of the Judge's desk. I stand with my back to the bookshelves that line the walls. Lord Connelly has removed his wig. His own hair is similarly white, trimmed neatly above his ears. His voice takes on a kind of exalted public-school inflection.
“I spent four days writing up this judgment and now you spring this.” His gaze settles on Fiona.
“I apologize, Your Honor, I only learned of this late yesterday.”
“And whose bright idea was it?”
“Further information has come to light—”
“Which casts doubt on Mr. Wavell's guilt?”
She hesitates. “It creates complications.”
“I hope you're not telling me one thing and meaning something else.”
Eddie is beside himself with glee. The Judge fixes him with a glare. “And you can keep your thoughts to yourself, Mr. Barrett. I have had a bellyful of you in my courtrooms and I won't put up with it in here.”
Eddie's smile is erased.
Getting to his feet, Lord Connelly walks behind his chair and braces his hand on the backrest. His eyes settle on me. “I understand that I shouldn't refer to your rank anymore, DI Ruiz, but perhaps you can enlighten me on what is happening here.”
“The police have a new witness.”
“A witness or a suspect?”