Lost (21 page)

“Anything else?”

“Blood or skin tissue—something that can't be three years old.”

“If there's no such proof, do you stil go ahead with the ransom drop?”

“I don't know. It's too far-fetched.”

“Maybe you want to catch the hoaxers.”

“I wouldn't put Rachel in danger for that.”

“So you must believe it.”

“Yes.”

“None of your col eagues agree with you. Why?”

“Perhaps the proof of life isn't conclusive.”

Joe has turned his chair slightly away from me, so his gaze fixes me off center. Whenever I pause or falter, he finds a new question. It's like painting by numbers, working inward from the edges.

“Why would someone wait three years to post a ransom demand?”

“Maybe they didn't kidnap her for ransom—not at first.”

“Why kidnap her then?”

I'm struggling now. According to Rachel, until Mickey disappeared nobody in England knew that Aleksei was her father. Sir Douglas Carlyle obviously did, but if he kidnapped Mickey he's hardly likely to send a ransom demand.

“So someone else took Mickey and we go back to the same question: Why wait three years?” says Joe.

Again, I don't know the answer. I'm guessing. “Either they didn't have her or they wanted to keep her.”

“Why give her up now?”

I see where he's going now. The ransom makes no sense. What do I real y imagine: that Mickey has been chained to a radiator for the past three years? It's not credible. She isn't sitting in a waiting room, rocking her legs beneath a chair, expecting to be rescued.

Joe is stil talking. “There's another issue. If Mickey is stil alive, we have to consider whether she wants to come home. Three years is a long time at the age of seven. She could have formed attachments, found a new family.”

“But she wrote a letter!”

“What letter?”

The realization is like a sharp gust of wind. I remember this! A postcard in a child's hand—written in capital letters! I can recite the text: DEAR MUMMY,

I MISS YOU VERY MUCH AND I WANT TO COME HOME. I SAY MY PRAYERS EVERY NIGHT AND ASK FOR THE SAME THING. THEY SAY THEY WILL LET ME GO IF YOU SEND THEM SOMETHING. I THINK

THEY WANT MONEY. I HAVE £25 AND SOME GOLD COINS IN MY MONEY BOX UNDER MY BED. PLEASE HURRY. I CAN SEE YOU AGAIN SOON BUT ONLY IF YOU DON'T CALL THE POLICE.

LOVE,

MICKEY

P.S. I HAVE BOTH MY FRONT TEETH NOW.

For a moment I feel like I might hug Joe. God, it's good to remember. It's better than morphine.

“What did you do with the postcard?” he asks.

“I had it analyzed.”

“Where?”

“A private lab.”

I can picture the postcard flattened under glass, being scanned by some sort of machine—a video spectral comparator. It can tel if any letters have been altered and what inks have been used.

“It looked like a child's handwriting.”

“You don't sound certain.”

“I'm not.”

I remember a handwriting expert explaining to me how most children tend to write “R”s with the extender coming down from the intersection of the vertical line and the loop. This didn't happen on the postcard. And children also draw the capital “E” with a center line the same length as the upper and lower lines. And they cross their capital “J”s, whereas adults drop the line.

But the main clue came from the lines. Children have difficulty writing on blank paper. They tend to slew their writing down to the lower right corner. And they have trouble judging how much space words wil use so they run out of room on the right-hand margin.

The ransom letter was perfectly straight.

“So it wasn't written by a child?” asks Joe.

“No.”

My heart suddenly aches.

Joe tries to keep me focused. “What about the strands of hair?”

“There were six of them.”

“Any instructions for the ransom?”

“No.”

“So there must have been more letters . . . or phone cal s.”

“That makes sense.”

Joe is stil drawing on his pad, creating a spiral with a dark center. “The ransom packages were waterproof and designed to float. The orange plastic made them easier to see in the dark. Why were there four identical bundles?”

“I don't know. Maybe there were four kidnappers.”

“They could have divided the diamonds themselves.”

“You have a theory.”

“I think the packages had to fit into something . . . or float through something.”

“Like a drain.”

“Yes.”

I'm exhausted but exhilarated. It feels like my eyes have been partial y opened and light is filtering inside.

“You can relax now,” he says. “You did very wel .”

“I remembered the postcard.”

“Yes.”

“It mentioned Mickey's money box. It even gave a specific amount. Only someone very close to Mickey and Rachel would know something like that.”

“A verifiable detail.”

“It's not enough.”

“Give it time.”

16

London has three private laboratories that do genetic testing. The biggest is Genetech Corporation on Harley Street. Although it's late Friday afternoon, the place is stil open. The reception area has a granite counter, leather chairs and a framed poster that reads, PEACE OF MIND PATERNITY KITS. Isn't that an oxymoron?

The receptionist is a tal pale girl with straggly hair and a vacant face. She's wearing pearl earrings and has a plastic cigarette lighter tucked under her bra strap.

“Welcome to Genetech, how can I help you?”

“Do you remember me?”

She blinks slowly. “Um, wel , I don't think so. Have you been here before?”

“I was hoping you might be able to tel me. My name is Detective Inspector Vincent Ruiz. I might have been here about a month ago.”

“Did you order a test?”

“I believe so.”

She doesn't bat an eyelid. I could be asking for a paternity test on Prince Wil iam and she'd act like it happens every day. She jots down my details and flicks at the keys of a computer. “Was it a police matter?”

“A private test.”

“Yes, here it is—a DNA test. You wanted a comparison done on an earlier sample . . .” She pauses and gives a puzzled hum.

“What is it?”

“You also wanted us to analyze an envelope and a letter. You paid cash. Almost £450.”

“How long did the tests take?”

“These were done in five days. It can sometimes take six weeks. You must have been in a hurry. Is there a problem?”

“I need to see the test results again. They didn't arrive.”

“But you col ected them personal y. It says so right here.” She taps the computer screen.

“You must be mistaken.”

Her eyes fil with doubt. “So you want copies?”

“No. I want to speak to whoever conducted the tests.”

For the next twenty minutes I wait on a black leather sofa, reading a brochure on genetic testing. We live in suspicious times. Wives check on husbands; husbands check on wives; and parents discover if their teenage children are taking drugs or sleeping around. Some things are safer left alone.

Eventual y, I'm escorted upstairs, along sterile corridors and into a white room with benches lined with microscopes and machines that hum and blink. A young woman in a white coat peels off her rubber gloves before shaking hands. Her name is Bernadette Foster and she doesn't look old enough to have done her A levels let alone mastered these surroundings.

“You wanted to ask about some tests,” she says.

“Yes, I need a ful er explanation.”

Sliding off a high stool, she opens a filing cabinet and produces a bright-green folder.

“From memory the results were self-explanatory. I extracted DNA from strands of hair and compared this with earlier tests done by the Forensic Science Service, which I assume you provided.”

“Yes.”

“Both samples—new and old—belonged to a girl cal ed Michaela Carlyle.”

“Could the test be wrong?”

“Thirteen markers were the same. You're looking at one chance in ten bil ion.”

Even though I'm expecting the news, I suddenly feel unsteady on my feet. Both samples were the same. This doesn't breathe air into Mickey's lungs or pump blood through her veins but it
does
prove that at some point, however long ago, the hair fel across her shoulders or brushed against her forehead.

Miss Foster looks up from her notes. “If you don't mind me asking, why did you ask us to do the test? We don't usual y do police work.”

“It was a private request from the girl's mother.”

“But you're a detective.”

“Yes.”

She looks at me expectantly but then realizes I'm not going to explain. Referring back to the folder, she takes out several photographs. “Head hairs are usual y the longest and have a uniform diameter. Uncut hair appears tapered but in this case you can see the cut tip from a hairdresser's scissors or clippers.” She points to a photograph. “This hair hadn't been dyed or permed.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“Can you tel her age?”

“No.”

“Could she be alive?”

The question sounds too hopeful but she doesn't appear to notice. Instead she points to another highly magnified image. “When hair originates from a body in a state of decomposition a dark ring can sometimes appear near the root. It's cal ed a postmortem root band.”

“I can't see it.”

“That makes two of us.”

A second set of photographs show the postcard. The wording is just as I remember, with large block letters and completely straight lines.

“The envelope and card didn't tel us much. Whoever sent this didn't lick the stamp. And we didn't find any fingerprints.” She shuffles through the photographs. “Why is everyone so interested in this case al of a sudden?”

“What do you mean?”

“We had a lawyer phone last week. He asked about forensic tests relating to Michaela Carlyle.”

“Did he give his name?”

“No.”

“What did you say?”

“I told him we couldn't comment. Our tests are confidential.”

It may have been Howard's lawyer, which begs the question how did he know. Miss Foster returns the file to the cabinet. I seem to have exhausted my questions.

“Don't you want to know about the other package?” she asks.

My confusion lasts a fraction of a second—long enough to give myself away.

“You don't remember, do you?”

I feel a wave of heat down my neck.

“I'm sorry. I had an accident. I was shot.” I motion to my leg. “I have no memory of what happened.”

“Transient global amnesia.”

“Yes. That's why I'm here—putting the pieces together. You have to help me. What was in the package?”

Opening a cupboard beneath the bench, she takes out a hard plastic box. Reaching inside she produces a transparent ziplock bag. It holds several triangles of pink-and-orange polyester. A bikini!

She turns it around in her fingers. “I did a little research. Michaela Carlyle was wearing a bikini like this when she disappeared, which I assume is why you asked us to analyze this.”

“I assume so, too.” My mouth is suddenly dry.

“Where did you get this?”

“I don't remember.”

She hums knowingly. “So you can't tel me what's going on?”

“I can't, I'm sorry.”

Reading something in my eyes, she accepts this.

“Is it Mickey's bikini?”

“We couldn't extract any DNA materials but we did find slight traces of urine and feces. Unfortunately, there isn't enough to analyze. I did, however, discover that it was part of a batch manufactured in Tunisia and sold through shops and catalogs in the spring of 2001. Three thousand units were imported and sold in the U.K.; five hundred were size seven.” Rapidly I try to process the information. A few triangles of polyester weave, size seven, don't constitute proof of life. Howard could have kept the swimsuit as a souvenir or someone else could have found one similar. The details were widely publicized. There was even a photograph of Mickey wearing the bikini.

Would this be enough to convince me that Mickey was stil alive? I don't know. Would it convince Rachel? Absolutely.

Stifling a groan, I try to make my brain function. My leg has started to hurt again. It doesn't feel like part of me anymore. It's like I'm dragging around someone else's limb after a failed transplant.

Miss Foster takes me downstairs.

“You should stil be in the hospital,” she warns.

“I'm fine. Listen. Are there any more tests you can do . . . on the bikini?”

“What do you want to know?”

“I don't know—traces of hair dye, fibers, chemicals . . .”

“I can have another look.”

“Thank you.”

Every criminal investigation has loose ends. Most of them don't matter if you get a confession or a conviction; they're just white noise or static in the background. Now I keep going back to the original investigation looking for something we missed. Al the unexplained details and unanswered questions rattle through my head when I should be sleeping.

We interviewed every resident of Dolphin Mansions. They al had an alibi except for Howard. He couldn't have known the exact contents of Mickey's money box—not unless she told him. Sarah told me she didn't know. Kirsten might have learned such a detail.