Michael Robotham - Lost

Sergeant Kirkwood catches me as I fall. He has his arms under mine, pulling me back from the edge of the wharf. A box is found and I sit down. Joe is beside me, shouting at someone to get me a glass of water. I try to turn away but he holds my face.

My vision clears and I watch the first of the Zodiacs. The divers have hauled something from the water. The outboard engine rumbles and the Zodiac swings toward the wharf. A rope is thrown into willing hands and is looped around a pylon. The Zodiac is pulled closer.

Lying on the wooden base is a bloated, discolored torso hung with fronds of weed and wrack. It is barely recognizable as being human, yet I do recognize him; I recognize his name and his face and boxer's hands. And then I remember . . .

Deep inside my head doors and windows suddenly open. Files blow off desks, lights go on, photocopiers hum and phones ring. A closed office has suddenly come to life and the man hunched over his desk looks up from his hands and yells, Eureka!

Single frames and snapshot memories are put in order like a film being spliced together. I can picture scenes and hear dialogue. A phone is ringing. Rachel picks it up. The prerecorded message is a single question. One sentence: “Is my pizza ready?”

The phone goes dead. Rachel stares at me in disbelief.

“Don't worry—they'll call back.”

We're sitting in my kitchen. Rachel is dressed in black jeans and a gray pullover. She has the dazed disbelieving air of a refugee who no more than an hour ago escaped over the border.

For the next three hours she doesn't move. She barely dares to breathe. Her hands are locked in a battle, each finger wrestling the others. I try to make her relax. I want her to conserve her energy.

Aleksei is nearby, waiting and watching with an animal quickness. Sometimes he wanders into my sitting room to make a call on his cell phone then he drifts back, regarding Rachel with a strange mixture of longing and disgust. The diamonds are packed and ready. They were delivered in a velvet-lined briefcase—965 stones, one carat or above, superior quality.

Aleksei is going to follow us—tracking the signals from the transmitter and a GPS beacon in Rachel's car.

“Nobody is going to know we're being followed,” I reassure her. “Aleksei has promised to stay well away unless he gets a signal. I'm going to be with you. Just relax.”

“How can I relax?”

“I know it's hard but it could be a long night.”

Outside on the street, her Renault Estate is fresh from a local garage workshop. The front passenger seat has been removed and the doors reinforced. A hands-free phone will let me hear both sides of any conversation.

“Whatever happens you must try to stay with the car. Don't let them draw you away unless you have absolutely no choice. Don't look down at me. Don't talk to me. They might be watching. If I ask you a question and the answer is yes, I want you to tap the top of the steering wheel once. If the answer is no I want you to tap it twice. Do you understand?”

She nods.

Again, I deliver the most important message. “What are you going to ask?”

“To see Mickey.”

“When are you going to hand over the ransom?”

“When I have Mickey.”

“That's right. They want you to follow blindly but you have to keep insisting on assurances that Mickey is alive. Keep asking for proof—”

“They'll say the hair and bikini prove it.”

“And you'll say they prove nothing. You just want to be sure.”

“What if they want me to drop the ransom somewhere?”

“Don't do it. Demand a straight exchange—Mickey for the diamonds.”

“And if they don't agree?”

“It's no deal.”

At 11:37 p.m. the phone rings again. The caller is male but a voice-changing device has digitally altered his vowels and flattened the pitch. He instructs Rachel to drive to the Hanger Lane Roundabout on the A40. She holds the cell phone in both hands, nodding rather than answering. She doesn't hesitate. She picks up the pizza box and walks to the door.

Aleksei follows, looking suddenly concerned. I don't know whether he wants to wish her luck or take her place. Maybe he's just worried about his diamonds. Farther down the street he opens a car door and I see the Russian behind the wheel.

Lying on the floor of Rachel's car, my shoulders are braced against the dashboard panel and my legs concertinaed toward the backseat. I can only see one side of her face. She looks straight ahead, with both hands on the wheel, as though retaking her driving test.

The caller has hung up.

“Just relax. We could put on some music.”

She taps the steering wheel once.

I flip open the vinyl case of her CD collection. “I'm fairly easy to please—anything except Neil Diamond or Barry Manilow. I have a theory that ninety percent of deaths in nursing homes are caused by Neil Diamond and Barry Manilow.”

She smiles.

I have a walkie-talkie clipped to my top pocket and a Glock 17 self-loading pistol in a holster under my left arm. The radio receiver tucked into my right ear is tuned to the same frequency as a handset in Aleksei's car.

I also have a dark blanket I can drag over myself at traffic lights or when vehicles pull alongside us.

“Remember not to look at me. If you have to park somewhere, try to avoid streetlights. Choose somewhere darker.”

She taps the steering wheel once.

The cell phone rings again. She reaches down and presses the speaker button.

In the background a girl is crying. The male voice, still heavily distorted, screams at her to be quiet. Rachel flinches.

“You called the police, Mrs. Carlyle.”

“No.”

“Don't lie to me. Never lie to me. A detective visited you at work five days ago.”

“Yes but I didn't invite him. I told him to leave.”

“What else did you tell him?”

“Nothing.”

“Don't insult my intelligence.”

“I'm telling the truth. I swear. I have the ransom.” Rachel's voice is shaking but she doesn't waver.

If this were a police operation we would be tracing the call, narrowing down the signal to the nearest transmitting tower. Then again, he's probably moving and he won't stay on the line for more than a few minutes at a time.

“I just need some assurance. I want to see Mickey,” says Rachel. “I need to know she's OK, otherwise I don't think I can get through this—”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP! Don't try to bargain, Mrs. Carlyle.”

“I'm not trying to be unreasonable. I just need to know she's—”

“Alive? Can't you hear her?”

“Yes, but . . . how do I know . . . ?”

“Well, let me see, I could cut out one of her big brown eyes and post it to you. Then again, maybe I should just run a knife across her pale pretty throat and send her head in a box. Then you can put it on the mantelpiece as a reminder of what a STUPID COW YOU ARE!”

Everything reels. I can see Rachel's chest heaving. For a long while she can't speak.

“Mrs. Carlyle?”

“I'm here.”

“Are we clear?”

“Yes. Just don't hurt her.”

“Listen very carefully. You get one chance at this. Disobey my instructions and I hang up. Argue with me and I hang up. You mess up and you won't hear from me again. You know what that means?”

“Yes.”

“OK, let's do this one more time.”

What does he mean by “one more time”? Has he done this before? Everything about his vocal tone and pace of his speech suggests he's not a first-timer. A cold draft of fear settles over me. Mickey's not coming home tonight. She's never coming home. And these people won't balk at killing Rachel. What was I thinking? It's too dangerous!