Michael Robotham - Lost

“You said that sadists and pedophiles and sexual psychopaths aren't born whole. They're made.”

Joe nods, impressed either by my memory or by the quality of his advice.

I try to explain. “Until we found Mickey's towel, the case against Howard was more wishful thinking than hard evidence. Not a single complaint had ever been made against him by a parent or a child in his care. Nobody had ever called him creepy or suggested he be kept away from children. There were thousands of images on his computer, but only a handful of them could be classed as questionable and none of them proved he was a pedophile. He had no history of sexual offenses, yet suddenly he appeared, a full-fledged child killer.”

Joe peers at the wine bottle wrapped in raffia. “Someone can fantasize about children but never act. Their fantasy life can be rich enough to satisfy them.”

“Exactly, but I couldn't see the progression. You told me that deviant behavior could be almost plotted on the axis of a graph. Someone begins by collecting pornography and progresses up the scale. Abduction and murder are at the very end.”

“Did you find any pornography?”

“Howard owned a trailer that he claimed to have sold. We traced the location using gas and dry-cleaning receipts. It was at a campground on the South Coast. He paid the fees annually in advance. Inside there were boxes of magazines mostly from Eastern Europe and Asia. Child pornography.”

Joe leans forward. His little gray cells are humming like a hard drive.

“You're describing a classic grooming pedophile. He recognized Mickey's vulnerability. He became her friend and showered her with praise and presents, buying her toys and clothes. He took her photograph and told her how pretty she looked. Eventually, the sexual part of the ‘dance' begins, the sly touches and play wrestling. Non-sadistic pedophiles sometimes spend months and even years getting to know a child, conditioning them.”

“Exactly, they're extremely patient. So why would Howard invest all that time and effort into grooming Mickey and then suddenly snatch her off the stairs?”

Joe's arm trembles as if released from a catch. “You're right. A grooming pedophile uses slow seduction not violent abduction.”

I feel relieved. It's nice to have someone agree with me.

Joe adds a note of caution. “Psychology isn't an exact science. And even if Howard is innocent—it doesn't bring Mickey back to life. One fact doesn't automatically change the other. What happened when you told Campbell about your doubts?”

“He told me to put my badge down and act like a real person. Did I think Mickey was dead? I thought about the blood on the towel and I said yes. Everything pointed to Howard.”

“You didn't convict him—a jury did.”

Joe doesn't mean to sound patronizing but I hate people making excuses for me. He drains his glass. “This case really got to you, didn't it?”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“I think I know why.”

“Leave it alone, Professor.”

He pushes the wineglasses to one side and plants his elbow in the center of the table. He wants to arm wrestle me.

“You don't stand a chance.”

“I know.”

“So why bother?”

“It'll make you feel better.”

“How?”

“Right now you keep acting as though I'm beating up on you. Well, here's your chance to get even. Maybe you'll realize that this isn't a contest. I'm trying to help you.”

Almost immediately my heart feels stung. I notice the bitter yeasty odor of his medication and my throat constricts. Joe's hand is still waiting. He grins at me. “Shall we call it a draw?”

As much as I hate admitting it, Joe and I have a sort of kinship—a connection. Both of us are fighting against the “bastard time.” My career is coming to a close and his disease will rob him of old age. I think he also understands how it feels to be responsible, by accident or omission, for the death of another human being. This could be my last chance to make amends; to prove I'm worth something; to square up the Great Ledger.

It's dark by the time a black cab drops me at Ali's parents' place. She opens the door quickly and closes it again. A dustpan and brush rest on the floor amid broken pieces of pottery.

“I had a visitor,” she explains.

“Keebal.”

“How did you know?”

“I can smell his aftershave—Eau de Clan. Where are your parents?”

“At my Aunt Meena's house—they'll be home soon.”

Ali gets the vacuum cleaner, while I dump the broken pottery in the trash can. She's wearing a sari, which seems to own her as much as she owns it. Scents of cumin, sandalwood and jasmine escape from the folds.

“What did Keebal want?”

“I'm being charged with breaching protocols. Police officers on leave are not allowed to undertake private investigations or carry a firearm. There's going to be a hearing.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Don't worry about it.”

“No, this is my fault. I should never have asked you.”

She reacts angrily. “Listen. I'm a big girl now. I make my own decisions.”

“I think I should leave.”

“No! This is not some glorious career I'm risking. I take care of ambassadors and diplomats, driving their spoiled children to school and their wives on shopping trips to Harrods. There's more to life.”

“What else would you do?”

“I could do lots of things. I could set up a business. Maybe I'll get married . . .”

“To ‘New Boy' Dave?”

She ignores me. “It's the politics that piss me off most—and guys like Keebal who should have been weeded out years ago, but instead they get promoted. He's a racist, chauvinist prick!”

I look at the broken vase. “Did you hit him?”

“I missed.”

“Shame.”

She laughs and I want to hug her. The moment passes.

Ali puts the kettle on and opens a packet of chocolate biscuits.

“I found out some interesting stuff today,” she says, dipping a biscuit into her coffee and licking her fingers. “Aleksei Kuznet has a motor cruiser. He keeps it moored at Chelsea Harbour and uses it mainly for corporate hospitality. The skipper is Serbian. He lives on board. I could ask him some questions but I thought maybe we should tread softly.”

“Good idea.”

“There's something else. Aleksei has been selling a lot of stocks and shares in his companies. His house in Hampstead is also on the market.”

“Why?”

“A friend of mine works for the Financial Times . She says Aleksei is liquidating assets but nobody knows exactly why. He's rumored to be highly leveraged and might need to pay off debts; or he could be getting ready to take over something big.”

“Selling his house.”

“It's been listed for the past month. Maybe we can dig up the basement and see where he buried his brother.”

“I heard Sacha got disemboweled.”

“That must have been before he went in the acid bath.”

We laugh wryly, each aware of how apocryphal stories have just enough truth to keep them alive.

Ali has something else but she pauses, holding me in suspense. “I did some checking on Kirsten Fitzroy. Remember she told us she ran an employment agency in the West End? It operated from a building in Mayfair, leased by a company registered in Bermuda. The lease expired eight months ago and all the bills were paid. Since then any correspondence has been directed to a serviced office in Soho and then redirected to a Swiss law firm, which represents the beneficial owners, a Nevada-based company.”

Corporate structures like this stand out like a dog's bollocks to everyone except DTI (Department of Trade and Industry) watchdogs. The only reason for them is to hide something or avoid paying taxes or escape liability.