Michael Robotham - Lost

“Nah, it's too fast.” I look at my watch. “The printing presses are just starting to run at Wapping. Some of those newspaper trucks drive all the way to Cornwall.”

Bon voyage!

Condensation drips steadily down the dormer window creating rainbow patterns on the windowsill. What day is it? Thursday. No, it's Friday. Lying in bed, I listen to the delivery trucks, pneumatic drills and workmen shouting to each other. This is London's dawn chorus.

Against my better judgment I let Ali bring me here last night—to her parents' house in Millwall. We couldn't stay at her flat—not after what happened.

Ali's parents were both asleep when we arrived and exhaustion drove me to bed soon afterward. Ali showed me the spare room and left a fresh towel and cake of soap on the end of the bed like at some fancy B & B.

This must be Ali's old room. The shelves and tops of bookcases are crammed with elephants of all description, ranging from tiny blown-glass figurines to a large furry mammoth guarding the wooden chest at the end of the bed.

There's a light knock on the door. “I brought you a cup of tea,” says Ali, pushing the door open with her hip. “I also have to change the dressing on your leg.”

She's wearing a dressing gown with a frayed cord and an elephant sewn into the pocket. Her bare feet are out-turned slightly, which splays her knees and puts me in mind of a penguin, which is strange considering she moves so gracefully.

“How did you sleep?”

“Great.”

She knows I'm lying. Sitting next to me, she sets out scissors, bandages and surgical tape. For the next fifteen minutes I watch her unwrapping and rewrapping my thigh.

“These stitches are nearly ready to come out.”

“Where did you learn first aid?”

“I have four brothers.”

“I thought most Indian lads were pretty peaceful.”

“They don't start the fights.”

She cuts off the last strip of tape and wraps it around my leg. “Does it hurt, today?”

“Not so much.”

She wants to ask about the morphine but changes her mind. As she leans forward to retrieve the scissors, her dressing gown falls open and I glimpse her breasts beneath a T-shirt. The nipples are dark, sharp peaks. Immediately, I feel guilty and look away.

“So what are you going to do with the diamonds?” she asks.

“Hide them somewhere safe.” I glance around the room. “You seem to like elephants.”

She smiles self-consciously. “They bring good luck. That's why their trunks are raised.”

“What about that one?” I point to the woolly mammoth, which has a lowered trunk.

“An ex-boyfriend gave that to me. He's also extinct.”

She picks up the scraps of bandages and straightens a lace doily on the bedside table. “I had a call this morning about Rachel Carlyle.” She pauses and my hopes soar. “She suffered some sort of nervous breakdown. A night watchman found her sitting in a stolen car on some wasteland in Kilburn.”

“When was this?”

“On the morning you were pulled from the river. The police took her to the hospital—the Royal Free in Hampstead.”

Rather than joy I feel relief. Up until now I have tried not to think of who might have been on the boat. The longer Rachel remained missing, the harder this had become.

“Was she interviewed?”

“No. The police didn't talk to her at all.”

This is Campbell's doing. He won't investigate anything associated with Mickey Carlyle because he's frightened of where it might lead. It's not a cover-up if you don't lift the covers in the first place. Plausible deniability is a coward's defense.

“They searched Rachel's flat and found your messages on her answering machine. They also found a set of your clothes. They don't want you anywhere near her—not so close to Howard's appeal.”

“Where is Rachel now?”

“She checked out ten days ago.”

Someone close to Campbell must have told Ali these things, a detective who worked on the original investigation. It was probably “New Boy” Dave King, who has always fancied her. We call him “New Boy” because he was the newest member of the Serious Crime Group, but that was eight years ago.

“How is your boyfriend?”

She screws up her face. “That would be none of your business.”

“He's a good lad, Dave. Very fit looking. I think he must work out.”

She doesn't respond.

“He's not the sharpest quill on the porcupine but you could do a lot worse.”

“He's not really for me, Sir.”

“Why's that?”

“Well for one thing his legs are skinnier than mine. If he can fit into my pants he can't get into my pants.”

She keeps a completely straight face for about fifteen seconds. Poor Dave. She's far too sharp for him.

Downstairs in the kitchen I meet Ali's mother. She's barely five feet tall, dressed in a bright green sari that makes her look like a bauble on a Christmas tree.

“Good morning, Inspector, welcome to our home. I trust you slept well.” Her dark eyes seem to be smiling at me and her accent is incredibly proper as though I'm someone important. She doesn't even know me.

“Fine, thank you.”

“I have prepared you breakfast.”

“I normally eat breakfast closer to lunch.”

Her look of disappointment makes me regret the statement. She doesn't seem bothered. She is already clearing the table from the first sitting. Some of Ali's brothers still live at home. Two of them run a garage in Mile End, one is an accountant and the other is at university.

A toilet flushes at the rear of the house and Ali's father appears moments later dressed in a British Rail uniform. He has a salt-and-pepper beard and a bright blue turban. Shaking my hand, he bows his head slightly.

“You are welcome, Inspector.”

Ali appears, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt. Her father swallows his disappointment.

“We're all British now, Babba,” she says, kissing him on the forehead.

“Outside these walls, yes,” he replies. “In this house you are still my daughter. It's bad enough that you cut your hair.”

Ali is supposed to wear a sari when she visits her parents. I saw her once, looking self-consciously beautiful, wrapped in orange-and-green silk. She was on her way to a cousin's wedding. I felt strangely envious. Instead of being caught between two cultures she seemed to straddle them.

“Thank you for letting me stay like this,” I say, trying to change the subject.

Mr. Barba rocks his head from side to side. “That's quite all right, Inspector. My daughter has explained everything . . .”

Somehow I doubt that.

“You are very welcome. Sit. Eat. I must apologize for leaving.”

He takes a lunch box and thermos from the kitchen bench. Mrs. Barba walks him to the front door and kisses his cheek. Whistling steam billows from the kettle and Ali begins making a fresh pot of tea.

“You'll have to forgive my parents,” she says. “And I should warn you about the questions.”

“Questions?”

“My mother is very nosey.”

A voice answers from the hallway. “I heard that.”

“She also has ears like a bat,” whispers Ali.

“I heard that, too.” Mrs. Barba appears again. “I'm sure you don't talk to your mother like this, Inspector.”

I feel a stab of guilt. “She's in a retirement home.”

“And I'm sure it's very nice.”

Does that mean expensive?

Mrs. Barba puts her arms around Ali's waist. “My daughter thinks I spy on her just because I come to clean her house once a week.”

“I don't need you to clean.”

“Oh, yes! And if you are Queen and I am Queen, who is to fetch the water?”