Michael Robotham - Lost

Rachel takes my arm to steady herself. “If Aleksei received an original ransom demand why didn't he say anything?”

“I guess he didn't want the police involved.”

“Yes, but afterward, when Mickey didn't come home, he could have said something then.”

I don't know the answer. I suspect he didn't want to advertise his mistake. He is also conceited enough to believe he could find Mickey before the police. He must have known how close she came to making it home—less than eighty-five steps. How that must have torn him apart.

Lord Connelly keeps everyone waiting. He enters the courtroom at ten minutes past ten and the room rises. Then he carefully places his walnut palm gavel to his right and his glass of water to his left.

Howard emerges from below. He is clutching a Bible with red ribbons marking the pages. His eyes look bruised but defiant. Eddie Barrett shakes his hand and Howard gives him a weary smile.

Fiona Hanley, QC, is already on her feet. “Perhaps I can expedite these proceedings a little, Your Honor. Due to information that has come to light over the weekend, the Crown does not oppose the defense application and are content for this case to be retried at the court's earliest convenience.”

There is an audible gasp. Blood surges in the air and eyes shift to Howard. I don't think he understands. Even Eddie Barrett looks amazed.

“My chambers,” Lord Connelly says. He exits stage right like a black-caped crusader.

Four of us wait in the outer office. Eddie Barrett and the Rook are whispering in one corner. The Rook is actually smiling, an expression that doesn't come naturally to him. Meanwhile, Fiona Hanley avoids my gaze, wrapping her robe around herself.

Lord Connelly's assistant, a large-breasted black woman, has a brilliant smile reserved only for His Honor. She has been with him fifteen years and we've all heard the rumors.

“He'll see you now,” she says, pointing to the door.

Eddie takes a step back and lets Miss Hanley go first, bowing slightly and showing his monklike dome.

There are only three chairs in front of the Judge's desk. I stand with my back to the bookshelves that line the walls. Lord Connelly has removed his wig. His own hair is similarly white, trimmed neatly above his ears. His voice takes on a kind of exalted public-school inflection.

“I spent four days writing up this judgment and now you spring this.” His gaze settles on Fiona.

“I apologize, Your Honor, I only learned of this late yesterday.”

“And whose bright idea was it?”

“Further information has come to light—”

“Which casts doubt on Mr. Wavell's guilt?”

She hesitates. “It creates complications.”

“I hope you're not telling me one thing and meaning something else.”

Eddie is beside himself with glee. The Judge fixes him with a glare. “And you can keep your thoughts to yourself, Mr. Barrett. I have had a bellyful of you in my courtrooms and I won't put up with it in here.”

Eddie's smile is erased.

Getting to his feet, Lord Connelly walks behind his chair and braces his hand on the backrest. His eyes settle on me. “I understand that I shouldn't refer to your rank anymore, DI Ruiz, but perhaps you can enlighten me on what is happening here.”

“The police have a new witness.”

“A witness or a suspect?”

“Both.”

“In your evidence several days ago you expressed an opinion that Michaela Carlyle might be alive. Is that still the case?”

“No, Your Honor.”

Sadness flickers in his eyes. “And this new witness has led you to question what happened?”

“She has confessed to the kidnapping of Michaela Carlyle and sending a subsequent ransom demand. She will testify that Mickey was released unharmed after three days.”

“And then what?”

“We believe she made it as far as Dolphin Mansions.”

The Judge can see where I'm going now. He grinds his teeth as though trying to wear them down. “This is ridiculous!”

Eddie interrupts. “We will be applying for bail, Your Honor.”

“ You keep your mouth shut.”

I raise my voice above both of them. “Howard Wavell is a child killer. He should stay in prison.”

“Bullshit,” mutters Eddie. “He's ugly and he's weird but last time I looked that still wasn't a crime. We can both be grateful for that.”

“You can both be quiet,” says Lord Connelly, wanting to tear strips off someone. “Next person to utter a sound gets locked up for contempt.”

He addresses me. “DI Ruiz, I hope you're going to explain to that poor girl's family what's happening.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

He turns to the others. “I am going to grant the defense leave to appeal. I am also going to make sure they have plenty of opportunity to examine this new evidence. I want a level playing field. You can make your case for bail, Mr. Raynor, but I remind you that your client has been convicted of murder and the presumption of guilt must remain—”

“Your Honor, my client is gravely ill and requires medical attention he is not receiving in prison. The humanitarian considerations outweigh . . .”

Lord Connelly wags his finger. “Now is not the time or the place. Make your case in court.”

The rest of the hearing passes in a blur of legal argument and ill temper. Leave to appeal is granted and Lord Connelly orders a retrial but refuses to release Howard from prison. Instead he orders that he be transferred to a civilian hospital under armed guard.

There is pandemonium outside the courtroom. Reporters yell into phones and jostle to get close to Rachel, shouting questions and answers, as though wanting her to agree.

Her arms are locked around my waist, her breasts against my back. It's like a rugby maul without the ball as we try to cross the gain line. Eddie Barrett, an unlikely savior, takes his briefcase and swings it from side to side like a scythe, clearing a path.

“It might be time to consider an alternative exit,” he shouts, pointing to a door marked OFFICIALS ONLY.

Eddie is an old hand at exiting courthouses through basements and back doors. He leads us down corridors, past offices and holding cells, getting deeper into the building. Eventually, we emerge into a cobblestoned courtyard where industrial trash containers await collection and wire netting is stretched above our heads to stop the pigeons from landing.

The gates slide open electronically and an ambulance pulls through them. Howard is waiting on the stone steps, head in hands, staring sullenly at the tips of his scuffed shoes. Police officers and prison guards stand on either side of him.

Eddie lights a cigarette in the hollow of his hand, inclining his head as he does so. The smoke floats past his eyes and scatters as he exhales. He offers me one and I feel an impulse toward comradeship; the solidarity of lost soldiers on a battlefield.

“You know he did it.”

“That's not what he says.”

“But what do you think?”

Eddie chuckles. “You want true confessions talk to Oprah.”

Rachel is nearby, gazing toward Howard. The paramedics have opened the rear doors and are pulling out a stretcher.

“Can I talk to him?” she asks.

Eddie doesn't think it is appropriate.

“I just want to ask how he is.”

Eddie looks at me. I shrug my shoulders.

She crosses the courtyard. The police officers step aside and she stands beside the stretcher. I can't hear what they're saying. She reaches out and puts her hand on his shoulder.

Eddie raises his face to the square of sky above. “What are you trying to do, Inspector?”

“I'm trying to get to the truth.”

He inclines his head, respectful but stubborn. “In my experience almost all truths are lies.” His features have softened and his face looks unexpectedly gentle. “You said Mickey was set free by her kidnappers. When was that?”