Michael Robotham - Lost

“Where's he gone?”

He shrugs.

Ray Murphy provided Kirsten with her alibi on the morning Mickey disappeared. According to both their statements, he was fixing her shower. A small man, slung low to the ground like a dachshund, I remember seeing Murphy fight at Wembley—top of the bill for the British bantamweight title. That must have been the early eighties.

I interviewed him twice during the original investigation. I thought he might have some ideas on how Mickey got out of the building.

“Same way as everyone else,” he told me. “Through the front door.”

“You think maybe her friend Sarah missed her.”

“Kids don't always do what you want.”

He was speaking from experience. His eldest boy, Tony, was in Brixton prison, doing five years for armed robbery.

Turning away from Stevie, I knock three times on the pub door. A chair scrapes and the door opens a few inches. A large woman with nicotine-colored hair, lacquered to concrete, regards me suspiciously. She is wearing a furry yellow pullover and black leggings that make her look like an oversize duckling.

“Mrs. Murphy?”

“You found him yet?”

“Excuse me?”

“You found my Ray? What slut is he shagging?”

Ali tries to sort out the confusion. “Are you saying that you haven't seen your husband?”

“No, shit, Miss Marple!”

She turns away from the door and waddles to her chair. The remains of breakfast cover the table and a TV perched on the counter is broadcasting images of a couple on a sofa, looking cheery and bright.

“I remember you,” she says, not looking away from the screen. “You're that copper who looked for that little girl.”

“Mickey Carlyle.”

She gestures with her hand. “Stevie remembers. He doesn't forget things.”

“Mickey ficky sticky licky,” says Stevie, playing with the rhyme.

“Don't you be disgusting,” scolds Mrs. Murphy. Stevie flinches and avoids her slap. He steps back and swivels his hips in an oddly adult dance.

The kitchen is small and cluttered. A strange collection of souvenirs and bric-a-brac decorates the mantelpiece, including a Donald Duck salt and pepper set, a boxing trophy and a signed photograph of Henry Cooper.

Stevie is still dancing while Mrs. Murphy has her eyes glued to the TV. I could be eighty before I get her undivided attention. I hit the standby button on the TV remote and Mrs. Murphy looks at me like I've turned off her life support.

“When did you last see Ray?”

“It's like I told them—September 24.”

“Who did you tell?”

“The police! Twice I been down to see them, but they never believed me. They figured Ray had just taken off like before.”

“Before?”

She wipes her eyes and glances at Stevie. Ali picks up on the signal.

“Perhaps we should go outside,” she suggests. Stevie grins and hugs her around the waist.

“Just make sure he keeps his hands off you,” says his mother, glancing forlornly at the blank TV.

When the door closes, Mrs. Murphy continues, “Ray could never keep his trousers buttoned. But ever since we got the pub he stayed home. He loved the White Horse . . .” The statement trails off.

“Being a caretaker must have paid pretty well to afford this place.”

She bristles. “We bought it fair and square. An uncle left Ray some money.”

“You ever meet this uncle?”

“He worked in Saudi Arabia. You don't pay taxes in Saudi Arabia. And Ray deserved it. He worked down them sewers for twenty years as a flusher. You know what that means? He shoveled shit. He worked knee-deep in the stuff, in the dark, with the rats. He used to come across huge nests of them, writhing like worms in a bucket.”

“I thought he used to work on flood management.”

“Yeah, later, but that's only after his back gave out. He helped Thames Water Board draw up plans in case a surge tide flooded London. People forget the Thames is a tidal river. Always was, always will be.”

Her voice takes on a bitter tone. “When they built the Thames Flood Barrier they said surge tides weren't a problem no more. They got rid of Ray. He said they were idiots! Sea levels are rising and the southeast of England is sinking. You do the maths.”

“What made him choose a pub?”

“You show me a man who doesn't want to own one.”

“Most of them drink away the profits.”

“Not my Ray—he hasn't touched a drop in sixteen years. He loved this place. Things were going OK, you know, until that bleedin' theme pub opened up the street. The Frog and Lettuce. What sort of name is that for a pub, eh? We were gonna do this place up and put on darts tournaments. Our Tony was going to arrange it. He knows lots of them professional players.”

“How is Tony?”

She goes quiet.

“I was hoping to have a word with him.”

“He's not here.”

The answer is too abrupt. I glance toward the ceiling. The woman is like a fortune-telling ball—shake her up and the answer is written all over her face.

“He's done nothing wrong, my Tony. He's been a good boy.”

“When did he get out?”

“Six months ago.”

“You ever hear Ray mention Kirsten Fitzroy?”

The name slowly rings a bell.

“She was that uppity bird who lived in Dolphin Mansions. Had that scar on her neck . . .”

“A birthmark.”

“Whatever,” she says dismissively.

“She ever visit or telephone?”

“Ray wouldn't be shagging her. She's too skinny. He likes his women with some meat on their bones. That's where he'll be now—screwing some tart. He'll come home soon enough. Always does.”

A car engine splutters and snarls outside. Stevie is peering under the hood while Ali sits behind the wheel, working the throttle. Somewhere on the floor above me a sash window opens and a string of invective fills the air, telling them to be quiet.

“Now that Tony is awake . . .” I say, maximizing her discomfort.

She plants both hands flat on the table, rises to her feet and clumps wearily up the stairs.

A few minutes later Tony emerges, wiry and loose-limbed in a dressing gown. He has shaved his head until only one tuft of hair remains, cut into a circle above the nape of his neck. With the tattoos on his forearms and ears that stick out like satellite dishes, he looks like an extra from an episode of Star Trek .

Like his father, Tony had been a promising fighter until he tried to apply some elements of the World Wrestling Federation to his boxing. The pageantry and phoney feuds might have been OK but when he started fixing fights he got into trouble. He came unstuck again when he tried to fix a darts tournament. He broke the fingers of a player who miscounted and won a game he was supposed to lose.

Tony opens the fridge and drinks from a carton of orange juice. Wiping his lips, he sits down. “I don't have to answer nothing. I don't even have to get out of bed for you.”

“I appreciate you making the effort.” The sarcasm is lost on him. “When did you last see your father?”

“Do I look like I keep a fucking diary?”

Reaching quickly across the table, avoiding the soggy cereal, I pin his forearm in my fist. “Listen you vicious little scumbag! You're still on parole. You want to go back inside? Fine. I'll make sure you're sharing a cell with the biggest, meanest faggot in the place. You won't have to get out of bed at all, Tony. He'll let you stay there all day.”

I can see him eyeing a butter knife on the table but it's only a fleeting thought.

“It was about three weeks ago. I gave him a lift into South London and picked him up that afternoon.”

“What was he doing?”

“I dunno. He wouldn't talk about it.” Tony's voice rises. “None of this involves me, you know. Not a fucking thing.”