Michael Robotham - Lost

“When did you last see Kirsten Fitzroy?”

“About two months ago; she said she was going abroad.”

“Did she say where?”

“America or South America; she had some brochures. It might have been Argentina. She was going to send me postcards but I didn't receive a thing. What's happened? Is she in trouble?”

“You met at Dolphin Mansions.”

“Yes.”

“Did Kirsten ever meet your father?”

“No, I don't think so.”

“Are you sure?”

“Please tell me what she's supposed to have done.”

“Your father paid her rent at Dolphin Mansions. Later he helped her buy her flat in Notting Hill.”

Rachel doesn't react. I can't tell if she's shocked or if she suspected it all along.

“She was keeping watch on you. Sir Douglas wanted custody of Mickey. He had his lawyers preparing an application. They were going to argue you were unfit to care for a child because of your drinking. The application was withdrawn after you joined AA.”

“I can't believe any of this,” she whispers.

There's more. I don't know how much to tell her.

“On the night of the ransom drop, I followed the diamonds through the sewers. I washed up in the Thames. Kirsten saved my life.”

“What was she doing there?”

“She and Ray Murphy were waiting for the diamonds. They organized the whole thing—the ransom demand, the locks of hair, the bikini. Kirsten knew everything about you and Mickey. She counted the money in Mickey's money box. She knew exactly what buttons to press.”

Rachel shakes her head. “But the bikini . . . it belonged to Mickey.”

“And they took it from her.”

Suddenly, she realizes what I'm saying. The sense of alarm spreads through her before the instant of comprehension.

At that moment a door swings open somewhere in the house and the air pressure changes. Sir Douglas comes storming through the main hall, yelling at Thomas to call the police. The butler must have phoned him the moment I arrived.

I lose sight of him for a few seconds and then he appears in the doorway of the kitchen carrying a shotgun. His face is like a warning light.

“You stay here! Don't go anywhere. You're under arrest.”

“Calm down.”

“You're trespassing on my property.”

“Put the gun down, Daddy.”

He waves the gun at me. “Stay away from him.”

“Please put that down.”

Rachel is watching him with a you-must-be-crazy look. She takes a step toward him, distracting him for a moment. He doesn't see me close the final two paces. I seize the gun, twisting it out of his hands and drop him with a punch just below his ribs. I look at Rachel apologetically. I didn't want to hit him.

Sir Douglas takes a long staggering breath. He tries to talk, telling me to get out. I'm already leaving after emptying the cartridges and tossing the gun toward Thomas. Rachel follows, pleading with me to explain. “Why would they do that? Why would they take Mickey?”

Turning back, I blink at her sadly. “I don't know. Ask your father.”

I don't want to give her false hopes. I'm not even sure if I'm talking sense. I've been wrong so often lately.

Out of the front door and down the steps, I crunch along the gravel drive. Rachel watches from the steps.

“What about Mickey?” she yells.

“I don't think Howard killed her.”

At first she doesn't react. Maybe she's given up hope or she's shackled to the past. This is only for a moment and then she's running toward me. I have given her a choice between hating, forgiving and believing. She wants to believe.

“Where are we going?” asks Rachel.

“You'll see. It's right up here.”

We pull up outside a cottage in Hampstead; there is an arbor over the front gate and neatly pruned rosebushes along the path. Making a dash through the light rain, we squeeze beneath the overhang until the doorbell is answered.

Esmerelda Bird, a matronly woman in a skirt and cardigan, leaves us waiting in the sitting room while she gets her husband. We perch on the edge of sofas looking at a room full of crocheted cushion covers, lace doilies and photographs of overweight grandchildren. This is how sitting rooms used to look before people started buying up warehouses full of lacquered pine from Scandinavia.

I met the Birds three years ago, during the original investigation. Retired pensioners, they're the sort of couple who clip their vowels when addressing a police officer and have special voices for the telephone.

Mrs. Bird returns. She's done something to her hair, tied it back or perhaps just brushed it a different way. And she's changed into a different cardigan and put on her pearl earrings.

“I'm just making a pot of tea.”

“That really won't be necessary.”

She doesn't hear me. “I have a cake.”

Brian Bird hobbles into view, a slow-motion cadaver who has a completely bald head and a face as wrinkled as crushed cellophane. He rocks forward on a walking stick and takes what seems like an hour to lower himself into a chair.

Nothing is said as the tea is brewed, poured, strained and sweetened. Slices of cake are offered around.

“Do you remember when I last came to see you?”

“Yes. It was about that missing girl—the one we saw on the station platform.”

Rachel looks from Mrs. Bird's face to mine and back again.

“That's right. You thought you saw Michaela Carlyle. This is her mother, Rachel.”

The couple give her sad smiles.

“I want you to tell Mrs. Carlyle what you saw that night.”

“Yes, of course,” says Mrs. Bird, “but I think we must have been mistaken. That dreadful man went to prison. I can't think of his name.” She looks to her husband who stares at her blankly.

Rachel finds her voice. “Please tell me what you saw.”

“On the platform, yes . . . let me see. It was . . . a Wednesday evening. We'd been to see Les Miserables at the Queens Theatre. I've been to see Les Miz more than thirty times. Brian missed out on some shows because of his heart bypass operation. Isn't that right, Brian?”

Brian nods.

“What makes you think it was Mickey?” I ask.

“Her picture had been in all the papers. We were just going down the escalator. She was loitering at the bottom.”

“Loitering?”

“Yes. She seemed a little lost.”

“What was she wearing?”

“Well, let me think. It's so long ago now, dear. What did I tell you then?”

“Trousers and a jacket,” I prompt.

“Oh, yes, although Brian thought she was wearing a pair of those tracksuit bottoms that zipped up over her shoes. And she definitely had a hood.”

“And this hood was up?”

“Up.”

“So you didn't see her hair—if it was long or short?”

“I couldn't tell.”

“What about the color?”

“Light brown.”

“How close did you get to her?”

“Brian couldn't move very quickly on account of his legs. I was ahead of him. We were maybe ten feet away. I didn't recognize her at first. I said to her, ‘Can I help you, dear? Are you lost?' But she just ran off.”

“Where?”

“Along the platform.” Her hand points the way, past Rachel's shoulder, and she nods resolutely. Then she leans forward with her teacup, using her other hand to find the saucer and bring both together.

“I think I talked to you back then about your glasses, do you remember?”

She touches the bridge of her nose self-consciously. “Yes.”

“You weren't wearing them?”

“No. I normally don't forget.”

“Did she have pierced ears?”

“I can't remember. She ran off too quickly.”

“But you did say she had a gap in her teeth and freckles. She was also carrying something. Could it have been a towel?”