Michael Robotham - Lost

“No, quite right.” He reads from a list. “Eight thousand interviews, 1,200 statements, more than a million man-hours . . . many of them focused on my client.”

“We followed every important lead.”

The Rook is leading me somewhere. “Were there any suspects that you didn't pursue?”

“Not if they were important.”

“What about Gerry Brandt?”

I can feel myself hesitate. “He was a person of interest for a short time.”

“And why did you discount him?”

“We made extensive inquiries—”

“You couldn't find him, isn't that the case?”

“Gerry Brandt was a known drug dealer and burglar. He had contacts within the criminal underworld who I believe helped hide him.”

“This is the same man who was photographed outside Dolphin Mansions on the day Michaela disappeared?”

“That's correct, Sir.”

He turns away from me now, addressing a wider audience. “A man with a previous conviction for sexually assaulting a minor?”

“His girlfriend.”

“A sex offender who was seen outside Dolphin Mansions but you didn't regard him as being an important enough suspect to bother finding. Instead you focused your investigation exclusively on my client, a committed Christian, who had never been in trouble with the law. And when you obtained evidence that could suggest Michaela Carlyle might still be alive you sought to hide it.”

“I made the results available to my superiors.”

“But not to his defense.”

“With all due respect, Sir, it's not my job to help defense lawyers.”

“You're absolutely right, Mr. Ruiz. Your job is to establish the truth. And in this case you sought to hide the truth. You sought to ignore evidence or at worst conceal it, just as you ignored Gerry Brandt as a suspect.”

“No.”

The Rook sways back and forth on his heels. “Was the ransom demand a hoax, Detective Inspector?”

“I don't know.”

“And are you willing to stake your career . . .” he corrects himself, “. . . your reputation and, more importantly, my client's freedom on the absolute conviction that Michaela Carlyle was murdered three years ago?”

There's a long pause. “No.”

Even the Rook is taken by surprise. He pauses to compose himself. “So you believe she may still be alive?”

“When you don't find a body there is always a chance.”

“And has that possibility become greater as a result of this ransom demand?”

“Yes.”

“No further questions.”

I don't look at Campbell or Eddie Barrett or Howard Wavell. I keep my eyes straight ahead as I walk out of the courtroom. Inside my jacket, pressed against my heart, a cell phone is vibrating.

Fumbling for the button, I take the call.

“I've just heard the news on the radio,” says Joe. “They've found a body in the river.”

“Where?”

“Somewhere near the Isle of Dogs.”

This is how it looks: a bleak Thursday afternoon, a strong wind and water slapping against the pylons of Trinity Pier. A dredger squats low in the water, with skeletal arms held aloft and black pipes snaking across the decks. Spotlights have turned brown water into a murky white. Two water-police Zodiacs made of rubberized canvas with wooden bottoms fight the outgoing tide, dropping floating plastic pontoons in their wake.

The Professor parks on a slip road that comes to a dead end where the River Lea enters the Thames estuary. The river is two hundred yards wide at this point, with the Millennium Dome silhouetted against the porridgelike sky on the distant bank.

Halfway down the sloping metal ramp “New Boy” Dave steps away from a huddle of detectives. His shoulders are shaking and he's caught between wanting to spit in my face or smash it with his fists. This is about Ali.

“Fuck off! Just fuck off!” It's almost a wail. He pushes me in the chest, forcing me backward.

I want to say I'm sorry but the lump in my throat won't move. Instead I look over Dave's shoulder at the police divers preparing their tanks and equipment. “Who did they find?” The other detectives have circled like spectators at a playground fight. None of them want me here. I'm an outsider, a maverick, worse still a traitor. Joe tries to intervene. “Ali wouldn't want this. Just tell us who you found.”

“Fuck you!”

As I try to step around Dave, he grabs me by my arm, swinging me hard into the brick-and-wire retaining wall. A kidney punch sends me down. He is standing over me looking wasted and wild. There's a trickle of blood down his chin where he's bitten his lip.

What happens next lacks a certain degree of elegance. I sink my fist into his groin and take hold. Dave groans in a high reedy voice and drops to his knees. I don't let go.

He raises his fists, wanting to pound me into the ground, but I squeeze even harder. He curls up in pain, unable to lift his head. My breath is hot on his cheek.

“Don't go bad on me, Dave,” I whisper. “You're one of the good ones.”

Letting him go, I ease myself up until I'm sitting against the wall, staring at the smooth darkness of the water. Dave drags himself alongside me, trying to get his breath back. Glancing at the other detectives, I tell them to leave us alone.

“Who did they find?”

“We don't know,” Dave says, grimacing slightly. “The dredger sliced the body in half.”

“Let me see it.”

“Unless you can recognize this poor bastard from below the waist you're no use to anyone, especially me.”

“How did he die?”

He pauses too long before he answers. “There is evidence of a gunshot wound.” In the same breath, he arches his neck and looks past me. A coroner's van has pulled alongside the wharf. The back doors open. A stretcher slides from within.

“I didn't mean for Ali to get hurt—you know that.”

He looks at his fists. “I'm sorry I hit you, Sir.”

“That's OK.”

“Campbell will go ape shit if he knows you're here.”

“So don't tell him. I'll stay out of the way.”

As the last rays of sunlight strike the towers of Canary Wharf, four divers tumble backward from the Zodiacs. Slick as seals, they disappear beneath the surface leaving barely a trace behind.

The officer in charge is short and barrel-chested, clad in a wet suit that makes him look as if he's carved from ebony. He swings an air tank into a boat and wipes both hands before offering one to me. “Sergeant Chris Kirkwood.”

“Ruiz.”

“Yeah, I know who you are.”

“You got a problem talking to me?”

“Nah.” He shakes his head. “I got other problems. Visibility is down to three feet and the current is running at four knots. Someone chained this bastard to a barrel of concrete. We're gonna need cutting gear.” He swings another air tank into the boat.

“How long has he been in the water?”

“Most bodies eventually come up. Takes about five days at this time of year, but this guy was meant to stay down there. Usually a body stays together pretty good in the Thames. None of the marine life can chew through ligaments. I reckon chummy has been down there two, maybe three weeks . . .”

As he describes the process I can picture a body swaying beneath the water, white and waxlike, moving back and forth with the tide. Involuntarily, I shudder and reach for a morphine capsule. There are none left.

The closer of the Zodiacs rocks in the wake of a passing water taxi. I notice bubbles on the surface and a masked face emerges, with an upraised fist. A police-issue handgun is clenched in his gloved fingers.

The water ripples and sways. Something else is coming up. A rope appears in a second diver's hand and is hooked onto a winch. Suddenly, it feels like a cold grasping hand has taken hold of my heart. The air has condensed into water and the current is sucking me down.