Michael Robotham - Lost

I glance around the Professor's office at the dozen people who are manning phones and staring at screens. They have all answered the call again—leaving work or taking time off. It almost feels like a proper incident room, full of energy and expectation.

Roger is talking to the harbormaster at Oostende. There were six adults on board the motor yacht, including Aleksei, but no sign of a child. The launch is now moored at the Royal Yacht Club, the largest marina in Oostende, in the heart of the city. We have a list of names for the crew. Margaret and Jean are ringing the local hotels. Others are calling car rental companies, travel agents and ticket offices for rail and ferry services. Unfortunately, the possibilities appear endless. Aleksei could already have disappeared into Europe.

Without a warrant or a court order, we can't access his bank accounts, post boxes or telephone records. There is no way of tracing regular overseas payments and I doubt if the money would lead us to Mickey. Aleksei is too clever for that. His fortune will be spread around the world in offshore tax havens like the Caymans, Bermuda and Gibraltar. Experts could spend the next twenty years trying to follow that paper trail.

I look at my watch. Every minute puts him farther away.

Grabbing my coat, I give Joe a nod. “Come on, let's go.”

“Where to?”

“We're going to look at a house.”

Contrary to popular belief, the most powerful man in the cut-flower industry doesn't possess a green thumb or even a greenhouse. The gardens surrounding Aleksei's mansion are rather rustic and overgrown with cedar trees and an orchard.

The electronic gates are open and we pull directly into the driveway, gravel snapping under the tires. The house looks closed up. Turrets of dark slate stand out solidly against the sky as though turning their backs on the city and choosing to gaze instead across Hampstead Heath.

Stepping out of the car, I try to take in the building, swiveling my head upward through the floors.

“OK, we're not doing anything illegal, are we?” asks Joe.

“Not yet.”

“I'm serious.”

“So am I.”

Walking slowly around the house, I marvel at the security. There are bars on the windows, security lights and sensor alarms attached to the exterior walls. A large converted stable block is garage to a dozen cars covered by cloth sheets.

At the back of the house, I notice smoke rising from an incinerator. A gardener with a solid build and a mustache like a hula skirt above his top lip looks up as we approach. He's wearing a tweed coat and trousers tucked into Wellingtons.

“Good afternoon.”

He takes off his cap. “Good afternoon to you.”

“You work here?”

“I do, Sir.”

“Where is everyone?”

“Gone. The place is up for sale. I'm just keeping the gardens tidy.”

I notice boxes of leaves and grass clippings.

“What's your name?”

“Harold.”

“Did you ever meet the owner, Mr. Kuznet?”

“Oh, yes, Sir. I used to clean his motors. He was very particular about what wax and polish I used, with no abrasives. He knows the difference between a wax and a polish—not many people do.”

“Was he a good boss?”

“Better 'n most, I reckon.”

“A lot of people were scared of him.”

“Yeah, but I can't see why. You hear stories, don't you? 'Bout him killing his brother, burying bodies in the basement and doing them other terrible things. But I say it like I see it. He was always good to me.”

“Did you ever see a young girl around here?”

Harold scratches his chin. “Can't say I remember any children. Good house for a kiddie—look at them grounds—my grandkids would love this place.”

Joe has wandered off, staring upward at the eaves, as though looking for nesting pigeons. He drifts sideways and almost falls over a sprinkler head.

“What's wrong with your mate—he got the shakes?”

“Parkinson's.”

Harold nods. “My uncle had that.”

He sweeps more leaves into a mound.

“If you're thinking of buying the place you missed the agent. She was here earlier showing the police around. I thought you were another copper.”

“Not anymore. Do you think we could have a look inside?”

“I'm not allowed.”

“But you have a key?”

“Yeah, well, I know where she keeps them.”

I take a tin of hard candies from my pocket and remove the lid, offering him one.

“Listen, Harold, I don't have much time. There's a little girl who we're trying to find. She went missing a long time ago. It's important I look inside. Nobody is going to know.”

“A little girl, you say.”

“Yes.”

He contemplates this for a moment while sucking on a candy. Having made a decision, he puts down the rake and starts walking up the gentle slope toward the house. The ground levels out on a boggy croquet lawn in front of the conservatory. Joe catches up with us, trying not to get his shoes wet.

The side door of the house opens into a small entrance hall with a stone floor and room to hang coats and deposit boots and umbrellas. The laundry must be close by. I can smell detergent and spray starch.

Harold unlocks the next door and we emerge into a large kitchen, with a central bench and brushed-steel appliances. It opens out through an arch into the conservatory, where the breakfast table could seat a dozen people.

Joe has wandered away from us again. This time he's peering beneath chairs and the table, following the edge of the baseboards. “Have you noticed anything unusual about this place?” he asks.

“Like what?”

“There are no telephone lines. The house isn't even hooked up.”

“Maybe they're underground.”

“Yes, that's what I thought, but I can't even see sockets in the walls.”

I turn to Harold. “Are there any telephones?”

He grins. “He's sharp, your mate. Mr. Kuznet didn't believe in normal phones. I don't think he trusted 'em. We all got one of these.” Reaching into his jacket he pulls out a cell phone.

“Everyone?”

“Yep. The cook, the driver, the cleaners, even me—s'pose I'll have to give mine back now.”

“How long have you had this one?”

“Not long. He made us swap numbers all the time. I never had the same number more than a month before he changed it.”

Aleksei was obviously paranoid about his telephones being tapped or monitored. He must have leased hundreds of cell phones, doling them out to his employees at work and at home, rotating them, swapping his own number among them, making it almost impossible for anybody to keep track of his calls or fix on a particular phone number and trace it back to him. The list of numbers must read like lottery results—all put through the one account.

My mind clings to this idea as if for some reason I know it's important. They say elephants never forget. They remember watering holes hundreds of miles away that they haven't visited in twenty years. My memory is a bit like that. It throws away some things like people's birthdays, anniversaries and song lyrics, but give me eighty witness statements and I can remember every detail.

Here's what I remember now. Aleksei had a phone stolen. He told me about it when we were outside Wormwood Scrubs. It was a new model. He loves his gadgets.

Turning suddenly, I head for the door, leaving Joe scrambling to keep up. He chases me across the gravel trying to hear what I'm saying on the phone.

“New Boy” Dave answers but I don't give him a chance to speak. “Aleksei had a phone stolen a few months back. He said he reported it to the police so there should be a record.”

I pause. Dave is still on the line. I can hear him tapping at a keyboard. The only other sound I hear is the soft stirring of every wet thing inside me.