Lost jo-2 Page 3

  I try to chase them down the corridor, hopping on one crutch, and screaming my head off. Two black orderlies hold me back, pinning my arms behind me.

  Finally, I calm down and they take me back to my room. Maggie gives me a small plastic cup of syrupy liquid and soon I'm like Alice in Wonderland shrinking into the room. The white folds of the bedclothes are an arctic wasteland.

  The dream has a whiff of strawberry lip gloss and spearmint breath—a missing girl in a pink-and-orange bikini. Her name is Mickey Carlyle and she's wedged in the rocks in my mind like a spar of driftwood, bleached white by the sun—as white as her skin and the fine hairs on her forearms. She is four feet tall, tugging at my sleeve, saying, “Why didn't you ever find me? You promised my friend Sarah that you'd find me.”

  She even says it in the same voice that Sarah used when she asked me for an ice-cream cone. “You promised me. You said I could have one if I told you what happened.”

  Mickey disappeared not far from here. You might even be able to see Randolph Avenue from the window. It's a solid, redbrick canyon of mansion blocks built as cheap Victorian housing, but now the flats cost hundreds of thousands of pounds. I could save for ten years or two hundred and never afford to buy one.

  I can still picture the lift, an old-fashioned metal cage that rattled and twanged between the landings. The stairs wrapped around the lift shaft, turning back and forth as they rose. Mickey grew up playing on those stairs, holding impromptu concerts after school because the acoustics were so good. She sang with a lisp because of the gap in her front teeth.

  Three years have passed since then. The world has tuned out her story because there are other crimes to titillate and horrify—dead beauty queens, the war on terror, sportsmen behaving badly . . . Mickey hasn't gone away. She is still here. She is like the ghost who sits opposite me at every feast and the voice inside my head when I fall asleep. I know she's alive. I know it deep down inside, where my guts are tied in knots. I know it but I can't prove it.

  It was the first week of the summer holidays, three years ago when she entered my life. Eighty-five steps and then darkness; she vanished. How can a child disappear in a building with only five floors and eleven flats?

  We searched every one of them—every room, cupboard and crawl space. I even checked the same places over and over again, somehow expecting her to suddenly be there, despite all the other searches.

  Mickey was seven years old with blond hair, blue eyes and a gap-toothed smile. She was last seen wearing a bikini, a white headband, red canvas shoes, and carrying a striped beach towel.

  Police cars had blocked the street outside and the neighbors were organizing searches. Someone had set up a trestle table with jugs of ice water and bottles of cordial. The temperature reached 30°C at nine o'clock that morning and the air smelled of hot bitumen and exhaust fumes.

  A fat guy in baggy green shorts was taking photographs. I didn't recognize him at first but I knew him from somewhere. Where?

  Then it came back to me, like it always does. Cottesloe Park—an Anglican boarding school in Warrington. His name was Howard Wavell, a baffling, unfortunate figure, who was three years behind me. My memory triumphs again.

  I knew Mickey hadn't left the building. I had a witness. Her name was Sarah Jordan and she was only nine years old but she knew what she knew. Sitting on the bottom stair, sipping from a can of lemonade, she brushed mousy brown hair from her eyes. Tiny crosses clung to her earlobes like pieces of silver foil.

  Sarah wore a blue-and-yellow swimsuit, with white shorts, brown sandals and a baseball cap. Her legs were pale and spotted with insect bites pink from her scratching. Too young to be body conscious, she swung her knees open and closed, resting her cheek against the coolness of the banister.

  “My name is Detective Inspector Ruiz,” I said, sitting next to her. “Tell me what happened again.”

  She sighed and straightened her legs. “I pressed the buzzer, like I said.”

  “Which buzzer?”

  “Eleven. Where Mickey lives.”

  “Show me which button you pressed.”

  She sighed again and walked across the foyer through the large front door. The intercom was just outside. She pointed to the top button. Pink nail varnish had been chipped off her fingernails.

  “See! I know what number eleven is.”

  “Of course, you do. What happened then?”

  “Mickey's mum said Mickey would be right down.”

  “Is that exactly what she said? Word for word?”

  Her brow furrowed in concentration. “No. First she said hello and I said hello. And I asked if Mickey could come and play. We were going to sunbathe in the garden and play under the hose. Mr. Murphy lets us use the sprinkler. He says we're helping him water the lawn at the same time.”

  “And who is Mr. Murphy?”

  “Mickey says he owns the building, but I think he's just the caretaker.”

  “Mickey didn't come down.”

  “No.”

  “How long did you wait?”

  “Ages and ages.” She fans her face with her hand. “Can I have an ice cream?”

  “In a minute . . . Did anyone come past you while you were waiting?”

  “No.”

  “And you didn't leave these steps—not even to get a drink . . .”

  She shook her head.

  “. . . or to talk to a friend, or to pat a dog?”

  “No.”

  “What happened then?”

  “Mickey's mum came down with the trash. Then she said, ‘What are you doing? Where's Mickey?' And I said, ‘I'm still waiting for her.' Then she said she came down ages ago. Only she never did because I've been here the whole time . . .”

  “What did you do then?”

  “Mickey's mum told me to wait. She said not to move, so I sat on the stairs.”

  “Did anyone come past you?”

  “Only the neighbors who helped look for Mickey.”

  “Do you know their names?”

  “Some of them.” She counted quietly on her fingers and listed them. “Is this a mystery?”

  “I guess you could call it that.”

  “Where did Mickey go?”

  “I don't know, sweetheart, but we're going to find her.”

  3

  Professor Joseph O'Loughlin has arrived to see me. I can see him walking across the hospital parking lot with his left leg swinging as if bound in a splint. His mouth is moving—smiling, wishing people good morning and making jokes about how he likes his martinis shaken not stirred. Only the Professor could make fun of Parkinson's disease.

  Joe is a clinical psychologist and looks exactly like you'd expect a shrink to look—tall and thin with a tangle of brown hair like some absentminded academic escaped from a lecture hall.

  We met a few years back during a murder investigation when I had him pegged as a possible killer until it turned out to be one of his patients. I don't think he mentions that in his lectures.

  Knocking gently on the door, he opens it and smiles awkwardly. He has one of those totally open faces with wet brown eyes, like a baby seal just before it gets clubbed.

  “I hear you're suffering memory problems.”

  “Yeah, who the fuck are you?”

  “Very good. Nice to see you haven't lost your sense of humor.”

  He turns around several times trying to decide where to put his briefcase. Then he takes a notepad and pulls up a chair, sitting with his knees touching the bed. Finally settled, he looks at me and says nothing—as though I've asked him to come because there's something on my mind.

  This is what I hate about shrinks. The way they create silences and have you questioning your sanity. This wasn't my idea. I can remember my name. I know where I live. I know where I put the car keys and parked the car. I'm tickety-boo.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Some bastard shot me.”

  Without warning his left arm jerks and trembles. Self-consciously, he holds it down
.

  “How's the Parkinson's?”

  “I've stopped ordering soup at restaurants.”

  “Very wise. Julianne?”

  “She's great.”

  “And the girls?”

  “They're growing up.”

  Swapping small talk and family stories has never been a feature of our relationship. Usually, I invite myself around to Joe's place for dinner, drink his wine, flirt with his wife and shamelessly milk him for ideas about unsolved cases. Joe knows this, of course—not because he's so bloody clever but because I'm so transparent.

  I like him. He's a privately educated, middle-class pseud but that's OK. And I like Julianne, his wife, who for some reason thinks she can marry me off again because my track record shouldn't be held against me.

  “I take it you met my boss.”

  “The Chief Superintendent.”

  “What did you make of him?”

  Joe shrugs. “He seems very professional.”

  “Come on, Prof, you can do better than that. Tell me what you really think.”

  Joe makes a little “Tsh” sound like a cymbal. He knows I'm challenging him.

  Clearing his throat, he glances at his hands. “The Chief Superintendent is a well-spoken career police officer, who is self-conscious about his double chins and colors his hair. He is asthmatic. He wears Calvin Klein aftershave. He is married with three daughters, who have him so tightly wrapped around their little fingers he should be dipped in silver and engraved. They are vegetarians and won't let him eat meat at home so he eats meals at the station canteen. He reads P. D. James novels and likes to think of himself as Adam Dalgleish, although he doesn't write poetry and he's not particularly perceptive. And he has a very irritating habit of lecturing rather than listening to people.”

  I let out a low, admiring whistle. “Have you been stalking this guy?”

  Joe suddenly looks embarrassed. Some people would make it sound like a party trick but he always seems genuinely surprised that he knows even half this stuff. And it's not like he plucks details out of the air. I could ask him to justify every statement and he'd rattle off the answers. He will have seen Campbell's asthma puffer, recognized his aftershave, watched him eat and seen the photographs of his children . . .

  This is what frightens me about Joe. It's as if he can crack open someone's head and read the contents like tea leaves. You don't want to get too close to someone like that because one day they might hold up a mirror and let you see what the world sees.

  Joe is thumbing through my medical notes, looking at the results of the CT and MRI scans. He closes the folder. “So what happened?”

  “A rifle, a bullet, usual story.”

  “What's the first thing you do recall?”

  “Waking up in here.”

  “And the last thing?”

  I don't answer him. I've been wracking my brain for two days—ever since I woke up—and all I can come up with is pizza.

  “How do you feel now?”

  “Frustrated. Angry.”

  “Because you can't remember?”

  “Nobody knows what I was doing on the river. It wasn't a police operation. I acted alone. I'm not a maverick. I don't go off half-cocked like some punk kid with ‘Born to Lose' tattooed on my chest . . . They're treating me like a criminal.”

  “The doctors?”

  “The police.”

  “You could be reacting to not being able to remember. You feel excluded. You think everyone knows the secret except you.”

  “You think I'm paranoid.”

  “It's a common symptom of amnesia. You think people are holding out on you.”

  Yeah, well that doesn't explain Keebal. He's visited me three times already, making false charges and outrageous claims. The more I refuse to talk, the harder he bullies.

  Joe rolls his pen over his knuckles. “I once had a patient, thirty-five years old, with no history of neurological or psychiatric disorders. He slipped on an icy pavement and hit his head. He didn't lose consciousness or anything like that. He bounced straight up onto his feet and kept walking—”

  “Is there a point to this story?”

  “He didn't remember falling over. And he no longer knew where he was going. He had totally forgotten what happened in the previous twelve hours, yet he knew his name and recognized his wife and kids. It's called transient global amnesia. Minutes, hours or days disappear. Self-identification is still possible and sufferers behave normally otherwise but they can't remember a particular event or a missing period of time.”

  “But the memories come back, right?”

  “Not always.”

  “What happened to your patient?”

  “At first we thought he'd only forgotten the fall, but other memories had also gone missing. He didn't remember his earlier marriage, or a house he'd once built. And he had no knowledge of John Major ever being Prime Minister.”

  “It wasn't all bad then.”

  Joe smiles. “It's too early to say if your memory loss is permanent. Head trauma is only one possibility. Most recorded cases have been preceded by physical and emotional stress. Getting shot would qualify. Sexual intercourse and diving into cold water have also triggered attacks.”

  “I'll remember not to shag in the plunge pool.”

  My sarcasm falls flat. Joe carries on. “During traumatic events our brains radically alter the balance of our hormones and neurochemicals. This is like our survival mode—our fight-or-flight response. Sometimes when the threat ends, our brains stay in survival mode for a while—just in case. We have to convince your brain it can let go.”

  “How do we do that?”

  “We talk. We investigate. We use diaries and photographs to prompt recollections.”

  “When did you last see me?” I ask him suddenly.

  He thinks for a moment. “We had dinner about four months ago. Julianne wanted you to meet one of her friends.”

  “The publishing editor.”

  “That's the one. Why do you ask?”

  “I've been asking everyone. I call them up and say, ‘Hey, what's new? That's great. Listen, when did you last see me? Yeah, it's been too long. We should get together.'”

  “And what have you discovered?”

  “I'm lousy at keeping in touch with people.”

  “OK, but that's the right idea. We have to find the missing pieces.”

  “Can't you just hypnotize me?”

  “No. And a blow on the head doesn't help either.”

  Reaching for his briefcase, his left arm trembles. He retrieves a folder and takes out a small square piece of cardboard, frayed at the edges.

  “They found this in your pocket. It's water damaged.”

  He turns his hand. Spit dries on my lips.

  It's a photograph of Mickey Carlyle. She's wearing her school uniform and grinning at the camera with her gappy smile like she's laughing at something we can't see.

  Instead of confusion I feel an overwhelming sense of relief. I'm not going mad. This does have something to do with Mickey.

  “You're not surprised.”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “You're going to think I'm crazy, but I've been having these dreams.”

  Already I can see the psychologist in him turning my statements into symptoms.

  “You remember the investigation and trial?”

  “Yes.”

  “Howard Wavell went to prison for her murder.”

  “Yes.”

  “You don't think he killed her?”

  “I don't think she's dead.”

  Now I get a reaction. He's not such a poker face after all.

  “What about the evidence?”

  I raise my hands. My bandaged hand could be a white flag. I know all the arguments. I helped put the case together. All of the evidence pointed to Howard, including the fibers, bloodstains and his lack of an alibi. The jury did its job and justice prevailed; justice polled on one day in the hearts of twelve people.


  The law ruled a line through Mickey's name and put a full stop after Howard's. Logic agrees but my heart can't accept it. I simply cannot conceive of a world that Mickey isn't a part of.

  Joe glances at the photograph again. “Do you remember putting this in your wallet?”

  “No.”

  “Can you think why?”

  I shake my head but in the back of my mind I wonder if perhaps I wanted to be able to recognize her. “What else was I carrying?”

  Joe reads from a list. “A shoulder holster, a wallet, keys and a pocketknife . . . You used your belt as a tourniquet to slow the bleeding.”

  “I don't remember.”

  “Don't worry. We're going to go back. We're going to follow the clues you left behind—receipts, invoices, appointments, diaries. We'll retrace your steps.”

  “And I'll remember.”

  “Or learn to remember.”

  He turns toward the window and glances at the sky as though planning a picnic. “Do you fancy a day out?”

  “I don't think I'm allowed.”

  He takes a letter from his jacket pocket. “Don't worry—I booked ahead.”

  Joe waits while I dress, struggling with the buttons on my shirt because of my bandaged hand.

  “Do you want some help?”

  “No.” I say it too harshly. “I have to learn.”

  Keebal watches me as I cross the foyer, giving me a look like I'm dating his sister. I resist the urge to salute him.

  Outside, I raise my face to the sunshine and take a deep breath. Planting the points of my crutches carefully, I move across the parking lot and see a familiar figure waiting in an unmarked police car. Detective Constable Alisha Kaur Barba (everyone calls her Ali) is studying a textbook for her sergeant's exam. Anybody who commits half that stuff to memory deserves to make Chief Constable.

  Smiling at me nervously, she opens the car door. Indian women have such wonderful skin and dark wet eyes. She's wearing tailored trousers and a white blouse that highlights the small gold medallion around her neck.

  Ali used to be the youngest member of the Serious Crime Group. We worked on the Mickey Carlyle case together, and she had the makings of a great detective until Campbell refused to promote her.

  Nowadays she works with the DPG (Diplomatic Protection Group), looking after ambassadors and diplomats, and protecting witnesses. Perhaps that's why she's here now—to protect me.