Michael Robotham - Lost

“According to the neighbors the agency sometimes hosted private functions but mostly they hired staff out to short-term positions. The time sheets refer to cocktail waitresses, hostesses and waiters but there are no security numbers or tax records. Most were women and most had foreign-sounding names. Could be illegals.”

It smells like something else to me—cleft cheeks, dewy thighs and hollows between elastic and skin. Sex and money! No wonder Kirsten could afford the antique armor and medieval swords.

Ali retrieves her notes and sits on the sofa, massaging her feet as she reads. “I did a property search on Kirsten's flat. She bought that place for only £500,000—half the market value—from a private company called Dalmatian Investments. The major shareholder of Dalmatian Investments is Sir Douglas Carlyle.”

A frisson runs through me. “How do Kirsten and Sir Douglas know each other? And why was he so generous to her?”

“Maybe he was using her services, ” suggests Ali.

“Or she did him some other favor.”

I might have misjudged Kirsten. It always struck me as odd her friendship with Rachel. They had very little in common. Rachel seemed determined to escape from her family's money and her privileged childhood, while Kirsten was equally devoted to moving up in the world and mixing in the right circles. She moved into Dolphin Mansions only weeks after Rachel did and the two became friends. They lived in each other's pockets, shopping, socializing and sharing meals.

Sir Douglas knew about Rachel collapsing drunk on the bathroom floor and Mickey spending the night lying next to her. He had a spy, a rat in the ranks, Kirsten. Half a million pounds is a lot of money for simply keeping watch on a neighbor. It's enough to make kidnapping a possibility and could also explain why someone wants to find Kirsten.

Ali collects my coffee cup. “I know you don't agree, Sir, but I still think it's a hoax.”

“Motive?”

“Greed, revenge, getting Howard out of prison—could be any of them.”

“Where does Kirsten come into it?”

“You said yourself she had the opportunity. She knew enough about the case and was close enough to Rachel to set up a hoax.”

“But would she do it to her friend?”

“You mean the one she was spying on?”

We could argue all night and still not find an answer that fits the known facts.

“There's one more thing,” says Ali, handing me a bundle of papers. “I managed to get hold of the incident logs for the night you were shot. It can be your bedtime reading.”

The photocopied pages cover four square miles of north London between the hours of 10:00 p.m. and 3:00 a.m.

“I can tell you now there were five drug overdoses, three stolen cars, six burglaries, a carjacking, five hoax calls, a brawl at a bachelor party, a house fire, eleven complaints about ringing burglar alarms, a burst water main, minor flooding, a nurse attacked on her way home from work and an unexploded teargas shell found in a trash can.”

“ How many burglar alarms?”

“Eleven.”

“In the one street?”

“Yes. Priory Road.”

“Where was the burst water main?”

She consults the map and narrows her eyes. “On Priory Road. A row of shops got flooded.”

“Can you find me the crew who repaired the water main?”

“You want to tell me why?”

“A man's allowed to have his secrets. What if I'm wrong? I don't want to destroy your delusions of my grandeur.”

She doesn't even bother rolling her eyes. Instead she reaches past me and takes the phone.

“Who are you calling?”

“My boyfriend.”

I dream of drowning—sucking watery mud into my lungs. There's a bright light and a chaos of voices against the darkness. My chest heaves vomit and brown water that runs from my nose, mouth and ears.

A woman appears, hovering over me. Her hips rest on mine and her hands press against my chest. She bends again and her lips touch mine. A pale birthmark leaks across her throat, spilling into the hollow between her breasts.

It takes me a long while to wake. I don't want to leave the dream. Opening my eyes, I get a sense of something that hasn't happened for a long while—not like this. I raise the covers a few inches to make sure I'm not mistaken. I should be embarrassed but feel somewhat elated. Any time I manage the one-gun salute these days is cause for celebration.

My euphoria doesn't last. Instead I think of Mickey and the ransom and the shootings on the river. There are too many missing pieces. There must have been other letters. What did I do with them? I put them somewhere safe. If something happened to me on the ransom drop, I would have wanted someone to know the truth.

There was a Royal Mail receipt in my wallet when Joe looked through it yesterday. I sent a registered letter to someone. Dragging my trousers off the chair, I tip the receipts onto the bed. The ink has almost washed away and I can only make out the postcode but it's enough.

Daj answers on the first ring and yells into the phone. I don't think she understands wireless technology and imagines I'm talking into a tin can.

“It's been three weeks. You don't love me.”

“I've been in the hospital.”

“You never call.”

“I called you twice last week. You hung up on me.”

“Piffle!”

“I was shot.”

“Are you dying?”

“No.”

“See! You're such a drama queen. Your friend came to see me—that psychologist chap, Professor O'Loughlin. He was very sweet. He stayed for tea . . .”

Throughout this guilt trip, she carries on a second conversation with someone in the background. “ My other son, Luke, is a god. A beautiful boy, blond hair . . . eyes like stars. This one breaks my heart. ”

“Listen, Daj, I need to ask you a question. Did I post you something?”

“You never send me anything. My Luke is such a sweet soul . . . Maybe you could knit him something. A vest to keep him warm .”

“Come on, Daj. I want you to think really hard.”

Something resonates in her. “You sent me a letter. You told me to look after it.”

“I'm coming to see you now. Keep the letter safe.”

“Bring me some dates.”

The main building of Villawood Lodge looks like an old school, with gable roofs and gargoyles above the downspouts. The sandstone is just a façade and behind it is a seventies redbrick building, with aluminum window frames and cement roofing tiles.

Daj is waiting for me on the enclosed veranda. She accepts two kisses on each cheek and looks disappointed with only one box of dates. Her hands and fingers are moving constantly, brushing her arms as though something is crawling on her skin.

Ali tries to stay in the background but Daj looks at her suspiciously. “Who are you?”

“This is Ali,” I say, making the introductions.

“She's very dark.”

“My parents were born in India,” explains Ali.

“Hmmmphf!”

I don't know why parents must embarrass their children. Maybe it's punishment for the mewling and puking and nights of broken sleep.

“Where is the envelope, Daj?”

“No, you talk to me first. You're going to take it and run away—just like last time.” She turns to a group of elderly residents. “This is my son, Yanko! Yes, he's the policeman. The one who never comes to see me.”

I feel my cheeks redden. Daj didn't just steal a Jewish woman's name—she adopted a whole demeanor.

“What do you mean, I ran away last time?”

She turns to Ali. “You see he never listens. Not even as a baby. Head full of fluff.”

“When was I here last?”

“See! You've forgotten. It's been so long. Luke doesn't forget. Luke looks after me.”