Michael Robotham - Lost

Joe has turned his chair slightly away from me, so his gaze fixes me off center. Whenever I pause or falter, he finds a new question. It's like painting by numbers, working inward from the edges.

“Why would someone wait three years to post a ransom demand?”

“Maybe they didn't kidnap her for ransom—not at first.”

“Why kidnap her then?”

I'm struggling now. According to Rachel, until Mickey disappeared nobody in England knew that Aleksei was her father. Sir Douglas Carlyle obviously did, but if he kidnapped Mickey he's hardly likely to send a ransom demand.

“So someone else took Mickey and we go back to the same question: Why wait three years?” says Joe.

Again, I don't know the answer. I'm guessing. “Either they didn't have her or they wanted to keep her.”

“Why give her up now?”

I see where he's going now. The ransom makes no sense. What do I really imagine: that Mickey has been chained to a radiator for the past three years? It's not credible. She isn't sitting in a waiting room, rocking her legs beneath a chair, expecting to be rescued.

Joe is still talking. “There's another issue. If Mickey is still alive, we have to consider whether she wants to come home. Three years is a long time at the age of seven. She could have formed attachments, found a new family.”

“But she wrote a letter!”

“What letter?”

The realization is like a sharp gust of wind. I remember this! A postcard in a child's hand—written in capital letters! I can recite the text:

DEAR MUMMY,I MISS YOU VERY MUCH AND I WANT TO COME HOME. I SAY MY PRAYERS EVERY NIGHT AND ASK FOR THE SAME THING. THEY SAY THEY WILL LET ME GO IF YOU SEND THEM SOMETHING. I THINK THEY WANT MONEY. I HAVE £25 AND SOME GOLD COINS IN MY MONEY BOX UNDER MY BED. PLEASE HURRY. I CAN SEE YOU AGAIN SOON BUT ONLY IF YOU DON'T CALL THE POLICE.

LOVE,

MICKEY

P.S. I HAVE BOTH MY FRONT TEETH NOW.

For a moment I feel like I might hug Joe. God, it's good to remember. It's better than morphine.

“What did you do with the postcard?” he asks.

“I had it analyzed.”

“Where?”

“A private lab.”

I can picture the postcard flattened under glass, being scanned by some sort of machine—a video spectral comparator. It can tell if any letters have been altered and what inks have been used.

“It looked like a child's handwriting.”

“You don't sound certain.”

“I'm not.”

I remember a handwriting expert explaining to me how most children tend to write “R”s with the extender coming down from the intersection of the vertical line and the loop. This didn't happen on the postcard. And children also draw the capital “E” with a center line the same length as the upper and lower lines. And they cross their capital “J”s, whereas adults drop the line.

But the main clue came from the lines. Children have difficulty writing on blank paper. They tend to slew their writing down to the lower right corner. And they have trouble judging how much space words will use so they run out of room on the right-hand margin.

The ransom letter was perfectly straight.

“So it wasn't written by a child?” asks Joe.

“No.”

My heart suddenly aches.

Joe tries to keep me focused. “What about the strands of hair?”

“There were six of them.”

“Any instructions for the ransom?”

“No.”

“So there must have been more letters . . . or phone calls.”

“That makes sense.”

Joe is still drawing on his pad, creating a spiral with a dark center. “The ransom packages were waterproof and designed to float. The orange plastic made them easier to see in the dark. Why were there four identical bundles?”

“I don't know. Maybe there were four kidnappers.”

“They could have divided the diamonds themselves.”

“You have a theory.”

“I think the packages had to fit into something . . . or float through something.”

“Like a drain.”

“Yes.”

I'm exhausted but exhilarated. It feels like my eyes have been partially opened and light is filtering inside.

“You can relax now,” he says. “You did very well.”

“I remembered the postcard.”

“Yes.”

“It mentioned Mickey's money box. It even gave a specific amount. Only someone very close to Mickey and Rachel would know something like that.”

“A verifiable detail.”

“It's not enough.”

“Give it time.”

London has three private laboratories that do genetic testing. The biggest is Genetech Corporation on Harley Street. Although it's late Friday afternoon, the place is still open. The reception area has a granite counter, leather chairs and a framed poster that reads, PEACE OF MIND PATERNITY KITS. Isn't that an oxymoron?

The receptionist is a tall pale girl with straggly hair and a vacant face. She's wearing pearl earrings and has a plastic cigarette lighter tucked under her bra strap.

“Welcome to Genetech, how can I help you?”

“Do you remember me?”

She blinks slowly. “Um, well, I don't think so. Have you been here before?”

“I was hoping you might be able to tell me. My name is Detective Inspector Vincent Ruiz. I might have been here about a month ago.”

“Did you order a test?”

“I believe so.”

She doesn't bat an eyelid. I could be asking for a paternity test on Prince William and she'd act like it happens every day. She jots down my details and flicks at the keys of a computer. “Was it a police matter?”

“A private test.”

“Yes, here it is—a DNA test. You wanted a comparison done on an earlier sample . . .” She pauses and gives a puzzled hum.

“What is it?”

“You also wanted us to analyze an envelope and a letter. You paid cash. Almost £450.”

“How long did the tests take?”

“These were done in five days. It can sometimes take six weeks. You must have been in a hurry. Is there a problem?”

“I need to see the test results again. They didn't arrive.”

“But you collected them personally. It says so right here.” She taps the computer screen.

“You must be mistaken.”

Her eyes fill with doubt. “So you want copies?”

“No. I want to speak to whoever conducted the tests.”

For the next twenty minutes I wait on a black leather sofa, reading a brochure on genetic testing. We live in suspicious times. Wives check on husbands; husbands check on wives; and parents discover if their teenage children are taking drugs or sleeping around. Some things are safer left alone.

Eventually, I'm escorted upstairs, along sterile corridors and into a white room with benches lined with microscopes and machines that hum and blink. A young woman in a white coat peels off her rubber gloves before shaking hands. Her name is Bernadette Foster and she doesn't look old enough to have done her A levels let alone mastered these surroundings.

“You wanted to ask about some tests,” she says.

“Yes, I need a fuller explanation.”

Sliding off a high stool, she opens a filing cabinet and produces a bright-green folder.

“From memory the results were self-explanatory. I extracted DNA from strands of hair and compared this with earlier tests done by the Forensic Science Service, which I assume you provided.”

“Yes.”

“Both samples—new and old—belonged to a girl called Michaela Carlyle.”

“Could the test be wrong?”

“Thirteen markers were the same. You're looking at one chance in ten billion.”

Even though I'm expecting the news, I suddenly feel unsteady on my feet. Both samples were the same. This doesn't breathe air into Mickey's lungs or pump blood through her veins but it does prove that at some point, however long ago, the hair fell across her shoulders or brushed against her forehead.