Michael Robotham - Lost

Well, there is more than one way to skin a cat. There are three according to the Professor and he should know—he's been to medical school.

Nearly a decade ago in the battle over the Newbury bypass a man lived in a hole no wider than his shoulders for sixteen days. We had to dig him out but he could tunnel faster with his bare hands than a dozen men with picks and shovels.

Back then he called himself an eco-warrior, fighting the “earth rapists.” The tabloids nicknamed him “Moley.”

It takes Ali three hours and fifty quid in bribes to find his last known address—an abandoned warehouse in Hackney in one of those run-down areas that are hard to find unless you have a can of spray paint or need a “fix.”

Driving slowly between soot-blackened factories and boarded-up shops, we pull up opposite a wasteland where kids have marked out football goals with their puffer jackets. Our arrival is noted. The message will be telegraphed through the neighborhood on whatever grapevine reaches under rocks and into holes.

“Maybe I should stay with the car,” suggests Ali, “while it still has four wheels.”

Ahead of us, a disused factory has soaked up layers of graffiti until one forms an undercoat for the next. To the right is a raised loading dock and large shutters. It includes a regulation doorway that has been covered with a sheet of corrugated iron. Levering it open, I step inside. Shafts of light slant through windows high up on the walls turning floating cobwebs into silver threads.

The ground floor is mostly empty, apart from discarded crates and boxes. Climbing to the second floor, I find a series of former offices, with broken plasterboard panels and exposed wires. One particular room, barely six feet square, has a narrow shelf with a blanket and a mattress stuffed with clothes. A pair of trousers hangs from a nail and cans of food are lined up on a beam. Resting on a box in the center of the room is a tin plate and a mug with a Batman logo.

I trip over an oil lamp on the floor and catch it before it breaks. The glass is warm. He must have heard me coming.

Around me the walls are plastered with sheets of newspaper and old election posters, forming a collage of faces from the news—Saddam Hussein, Tony Blair, Yasser Arafat and David Beckham. George W. Bush is dressed in desert fatigues holding a Thanksgiving turkey.

Another page has a picture of Art Carney along with an obituary. I didn't know Art Carney had died. I always remember him in The Honeymooners with Jackie Gleason. He was the neighbor upstairs. In this one episode he and Jackie are trying to learn golf from a book and Jackie says to him, “First you must address the ball.” So Art gives it a wave and says, “Helloooo ball!”

At precisely that moment my fist punches through the newspaper and closes around a clump of filthy, matted hair. Dragging my arm forward, the paper shreds and a squealing, feral creature squirms at my feet.

“I didn't do it! It wasn't me!” cries Moley, as he rolls into a ball. “Don't hurt me! Don't hurt me!”

“Nobody is going to hurt you. I'm the police.”

“Trespassing. You're trespassing. You got no right! You can't just come in here—you can't.”

“You're squatting illegally, Moley, I don't think you have many rights.”

He looks up at me with pale eyes in a paler face. His hair has been twisted into dreadlocks that hang down his neck like rattails. He's wearing cargo pants and a camouflage jacket with metal buckles and handles that look like ripcords for a nonexistent parachute.

Having coaxed him to sit on a packing case, he watches me suspiciously. I marvel at his makeshift furniture.

“I like your place.”

“Keeps the rain off,” he says, with no hint of sarcasm. His sideburns make him look like a badger. He scratches his neck and under his arms. Christ, I hope it's not contagious.

“I need to go into the sewers.”

“Not allowed.”

“But you can show me.”

He shakes his head and nods at the same time. “No. No. No. Not allowed.”

“I told you, Moley, I'm a police officer.”

I light the oil lamp and set it on a box. Then I spread a map on the floor, smoothing the creases. “Do you know this place?”

I point to Priory Road but Moley stares at it blankly.

“It's near the corner of Abbot's Place,” I explain. “I'm looking for a storm-water drain or a sewer.”

Moley scratches his neck.

Suddenly, it dawns on me—he can't read a map. All his points of reference are below ground and he can't equate them to crossroads or landmarks above ground.

I take an orange from my pocket and put it on the map. It rolls several times and rocks to a stop. “You can show me.”

Moley watches it intensely. “Follow the fall. Water finds the way.”

“Yes, exactly, but I need your help.”

Moley is still fixated by the orange. I hand it to him and he puts it into his pocket, zipping it closed. “You want to see where the devil lives.”

“Yes.”

“Just you.”

“Just me.”

“Tomorrow.”

“Why not today?”

“I need to see Weatherman Pete. Pete will give us the forecast.”

“What difference does it make in a sewer?”

Moley makes a whooshing sound like an express train. “You don't want to be down there when it rains. It's like God Himself pulled the chain.”

“Why are you so interested in the drains?” asks Joe. He motions me to sit with a mannered almost mechanical movement as though he's been practicing.

It's Monday morning and we're in his office, a private practice just off Harley Street. It's a Georgian house with black downspouts and white windowsills. The plaque on the door has a string of initials after his name, including a small round smiley face designed to make patients feel less intimidated.

“It's just a theory. The ransom was supposed to float.”

“Is that all?”

“Ray Murphy used to work in the sewers. Now he's missing.”

Joe's left arm jerks in his lap. There's a book lying open on his desk: Reversing Memory Loss .

“How's the leg?”

“Getting stronger.”

He wants to ask me about the morphine but changes his mind. For a few seconds the silence spreads out like thick oil. Joe stands and sways for a moment, fighting for balance. Then he begins a slow, deliberate walk around the room, each step containing a struggle. Occasionally, he drifts to the right and has to straighten.

Glancing around his office, I notice that things are slightly askew—the books on the shelves and files on the filing cabinet. He must be finding it harder to keep things tidy.

“Do you remember Jessica Lynch?” he asks.

“The U.S. soldier captured in Iraq.”

“When they rescued her she had no recollection of any events from the time of the ambush until she awoke in an Iraqi hospital. Even months afterward, despite all the debriefings and mental evaluations, she still couldn't remember. The doctors called it a memory trace, which is completely different from amnesia. Amnesia means you have a memory but something traumatic happens and you suddenly forget. In Jessica's case her brain never allowed her to collect memories. It was like she was sleepwalking.”

“So you're saying I might never remember everything that happened?”

“You might never have remembered. It didn't register.”

He lets the news sink in while I try desperately to push it away. I don't want to accept an outcome like that. I am going to remember.

“Have you ever been involved in a ransom drop?” he asks.

“About fifteen years ago I helped run an operation to catch an extortionist. He threatened to contaminate baby food.”