Michael Robotham - Lost

“You didn't go to work on Tuesday morning?”

“No. I wanted to do something to help. I printed up a photograph of Mickey to put on a flyer.”

“In your darkroom?”

“Yes.”

“What did you do after that?”

“I did some washing.”

“This is Tuesday morning, right? Everyone else is out searching and you're doing your laundry.”

He nodded uncertainly.

“There used to be a rug on the floor in your sitting room.” I showed him a photograph—one of his own. “Where is this rug now?”

“I threw it away.”

“Why?”

“It was dirty. I couldn't get it clean.”

“Why was it dirty?”

“I spilled some potting compost on it. I was making hanging baskets.”

“When did you throw it away?”

“I don't remember.”

“Was it after Mickey disappeared?”

“I think so. Maybe.”

“Where did you throw it?”

“In a Dumpster off the Edgware Road.”

“You couldn't find one closer?”

“Dumpsters get filled up.”

“But you work for the council. There must have been dozens of trash cans you could have used.”

“I . . . I didn't think . . .”

“You see how it looks, Howard. You cleaned up your flat, you took out the rug, the place smelled of bleach—it looks like you might be hiding something.”

“No, I just cleaned up a bit. I wanted the flat to look nice.”

“Nice?”

“Yeah.”

“Have you ever seen these before, Howard?” I held up a pair of girl's panties enclosed in a plastic evidence bag. “They were found in your laundry bag.”

His voice tightened. “They belong to one of my nieces. They stay with me all the time—my nieces and nephews . . .”

“Do they sleep over?”

“In my spare room.”

“Has Mickey Carlyle ever been in your spare room?”

“Yes. No. Maybe.”

“Do you know Mrs. Carlyle very well?”

“Only to say hello when I see her on the stairs.”

“She a good mother?”

“I guess.”

“A good-looking woman.”

“She's not really my type.”

“Why's that?”

“She's kind of abrupt, you know, not very friendly. Don't tell her I said that; I don't want to hurt her feelings.”

“And you prefer?”

“Um, you know, it's not a sexual thing. I don't know really. Hard to say.”

“You got a girlfriend, Howard?”

“Not just now.”

He made it sound like he had one for breakfast with his coffee.

“Tell me about Danielle.”

“I don't know any Danielle.”

“You have photographs of a girl called Danielle—on your computer. She's wearing bikini bottoms.”

He blinked once, twice, three times. “She's the daughter of a former girlfriend.”

“She's not wearing a top. How old is she?”

“Eleven.”

“There's another girl pictured with a towel over her head, lying on a bed. She's only wearing a pair of shorts. Who is she?”

He hesitated. “Mickey and Sarah were playing a game. They were putting on a play. It was just a bit of fun.”

“Yeah, that's what I figured.” I smiled reassuringly.

Howard's hair was plastered to his head and every so often a drop of perspiration leaked into his eyes, making him blink. Opening a large yellow envelope, I pulled out a bundle of photographs and started laying them out side by side, row after row. They were all shots of Mickey—two hundred and seventy of them—pictures of her sunbathing in the garden with Sarah, others of them playing under a sprinkler, eating ice-cream cones and wrestling on his couch.

“They're just photographs,” he said defensively. “She was very photogenic.”

“You said ‘was,' Howard. Like you don't think she's still alive.”

“I didn't mean . . . you're . . . you're trying to make out I'm . . . I'm . . . a . . .”

“You take pictures, Howard, it's obvious. Some of these are very good. You're also in the church choir and you're an altar boy.”

“An altar server.”

“ And you teach Sunday school.”

“I help out.”

“By taking kids away on day trips—to the beach or to the zoo?”

“Yes.”

I made him look closely at a photograph. “She doesn't look very comfortable posing in a bikini, does she?” I put another photograph in front of him . . . then another.

“It was just a bit of fun.”

“Where did she get changed?”

“In the spare room.”

“Did you take photographs of her getting changed?”

“No.”

“Did Mickey ever stay overnight with you?”

“No.”

“Did you ever leave her alone in your flat?”

“No.”

“And you wouldn't take her outside without permission.”

“No.”

“You didn't take her to the zoo or for any day trips?”

He shook his head.

“That's good. I mean, it would have been negligent, wouldn't it, to leave such a young child alone or to let her play with photographic chemicals or with sharp implements?”

He nodded.

“And if she cut herself you might have to explain this to her mother. I'm sure Mrs. Carlyle would understand. Accidents happen. Then again, you wouldn't want her getting angry and stopping Mickey from seeing you. So maybe you wouldn't tell her. Maybe you'd keep it a secret.”

“No, I'd tell her.”

“Of course you would. If Mickey cut herself, you'd have to tell her mother.”

“Yes.”

I picked up a blue folder and slid a sheet into view, running my finger down several paragraphs and then tapping it thoughtfully with my index finger.

“That's very good, Howard, but I'm puzzled. You see we found traces of Mickey's blood on your sitting-room floor as well as in the bathroom and on one of your towels.”

Howard's jaw flapped up and down and his voice grew strident. “You think I did something—but I didn't.”

“So tell me about the blood.”

“She cut her finger. She and Sarah were making a tin-can phone but one of the cans had a sharp edge. I should have checked it first. It wasn't a deep cut. I put a Band-Aid on it. She was very brave. She didn't cry . . .”

“And did you tell her mother?”

He looked down at his hands. “I told Mickey not to. I was scared Mrs. Carlyle might stop her coming over if she thought I was negligent.”

“There was too much blood for a cut finger. You tried to clean it all up but the rug was too stained. That's why you threw it away.”

“No, not blood. Soil from the hanging baskets—I spilled some.”

“Soil?”

He nodded enthusiastically.

“You said you never took Mickey on an excursion. We found fibers from her clothes in your van.”

“No. No.”

I let the silence stretch out. Howard's eyes were filled with a mixture of fear and regret. Suddenly, he surprised me by speaking first. “You remember Mrs. Castle . . . from school? She used to take us for ballroom dancing lessons.”

I remembered her. She looked like Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music (after she left the convent) and featured in every fifth-form boy's wet dreams except perhaps for Nigel Bryant and Richard Coyle who batted for the other side.

“What about her?”

“I once saw her in the shower.”

“Getaway!”

“No, it's true. She was using the dean's shower and old Archie” (the sports master) “sent me to pick up a starter pistol from the staff quarters. She came out of the shower drying her hair and didn't see me until it was too late. She let me look. She stood there and let me watch her drying her breasts and pulling on her tights. Afterward she made me promise not to tell anyone. I would have been the most famous kid at school. All I had to do was tell that story. I could have saved myself a dozen beatings and all those taunts and jibes. I could have been a legend.”