“It wasn't all bad then.”
Joe smiles. “It's too early to say if your memory loss is permanent. Head trauma is only one possibility. Most recorded cases have been preceded by physical and emotional stress. Getting shot would qualify. Sexual intercourse and diving into cold water have also triggered attacks.”
“I'll remember not to shag in the plunge pool.”
My sarcasm falls flat. Joe carries on. “During traumatic events our brains radically alter the balance of our hormones and neurochemicals. This is like our survival mode—our fight-or-flight response. Sometimes when the threat ends, our brains stay in survival mode for a while—just in case. We have to convince your brain it can let go.”
“How do we do that?”
“We talk. We investigate. We use diaries and photographs to prompt recollections.”
“When did you last see me?” I ask him suddenly.
He thinks for a moment. “We had dinner about four months ago. Julianne wanted you to meet one of her friends.”
“The publishing editor.”
“That's the one. Why do you ask?”
“I've been asking everyone. I call them up and say, ‘Hey, what's new? That's great. Listen, when did you last see me? Yeah, it's been too long. We should get together.'”
“And what have you discovered?”
“I'm lousy at keeping in touch with people.”
“OK, but that's the right idea. We have to find the missing pieces.”
“Can't you just hypnotize me?”
“No. And a blow on the head doesn't help either.”
Reaching for his briefcase, his left arm trembles. He retrieves a folder and takes out a small square piece of cardboard, frayed at the edges.
“They found this in your pocket. It's water damaged.”
He turns his hand. Spit dries on my lips.
It's a photograph of Mickey Carlyle. She's wearing her school uniform and grinning at the camera with her gappy smile like she's laughing at something we can't see.
Instead of confusion I feel an overwhelming sense of relief. I'm not going mad. This does have something to do with Mickey.
“You're not surprised.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“You're going to think I'm crazy, but I've been having these dreams.”
Already I can see the psychologist in him turning my statements into symptoms.
“You remember the investigation and trial?”
“Yes.”
“Howard Wavell went to prison for her murder.”
“Yes.”
“You don't think he killed her?”
“I don't think she's dead.”
Now I get a reaction. He's not such a poker face after all.
“What about the evidence?”
I raise my hands. My bandaged hand could be a white flag. I know all the arguments. I helped put the case together. All of the evidence pointed to Howard, including the fibers, bloodstains and his lack of an alibi. The jury did its job and justice prevailed; justice polled on one day in the hearts of twelve people.
The law ruled a line through Mickey's name and put a full stop after Howard's. Logic agrees but my heart can't accept it. I simply cannot conceive of a world that Mickey isn't a part of.
Joe glances at the photograph again. “Do you remember putting this in your wallet?”
“No.”
“Can you think why?”
I shake my head but in the back of my mind I wonder if perhaps I wanted to be able to recognize her. “What else was I carrying?”
Joe reads from a list. “A shoulder holster, a wallet, keys and a pocketknife . . . You used your belt as a tourniquet to slow the bleeding.”
“I don't remember.”
“Don't worry. We're going to go back. We're going to follow the clues you left behind—receipts, invoices, appointments, diaries. We'll retrace your steps.”
“And I'll remember.”
“Or learn to remember.”
He turns toward the window and glances at the sky as though planning a picnic. “Do you fancy a day out?”
“I don't think I'm allowed.”
He takes a letter from his jacket pocket. “Don't worry—I booked ahead.”
Joe waits while I dress, struggling with the buttons on my shirt because of my bandaged hand.
“Do you want some help?”
“No.” I say it too harshly. “I have to learn.”
Keebal watches me as I cross the foyer, giving me a look like I'm dating his sister. I resist the urge to salute him.
Outside, I raise my face to the sunshine and take a deep breath. Planting the points of my crutches carefully, I move across the parking lot and see a familiar figure waiting in an unmarked police car. Detective Constable Alisha Kaur Barba (everyone calls her Ali) is studying a textbook for her sergeant's exam. Anybody who commits half that stuff to memory deserves to make Chief Constable.
Smiling at me nervously, she opens the car door. Indian women have such wonderful skin and dark wet eyes. She's wearing tailored trousers and a white blouse that highlights the small gold medallion around her neck.
Ali used to be the youngest member of the Serious Crime Group. We worked on the Mickey Carlyle case together, and she had the makings of a great detective until Campbell refused to promote her.
Nowadays she works with the DPG (Diplomatic Protection Group), looking after ambassadors and diplomats, and protecting witnesses. Perhaps that's why she's here now—to protect me.
As we drive out of the parking lot, she glances at me in the mirror, waiting for some sign of recognition.
“So tell me about yourself, Detective Constable.”
A furrow forms just above her nose. “My name is Alisha Barba. I'm in the Diplomatic Protection Group.”
“Have we met before?”
“Ah—well—yes, Sir, you used to be my boss.”
“Fancy that! That's one of the three great things about having amnesia: apart from being able to hide my own Easter eggs, I get to meet new people every day.”
After a long pause, Ali asks, “What's the third thing, Sir?”
“I get to hide my own Easter eggs.”
She starts to laugh and I flick her on the ear. “Of course I remember you. Ali Baba, the catcher of thieves.”
She grins at me sheepishly.
Beneath her short jacket I notice a shoulder holster. She's carrying a gun—an MP5 A2 carbine, with a solid stock. It's strange seeing her carrying a firearm because so few officers in the Met are authorized to have one.
Driving south past Victoria through Whitehall, we skirt parks and gardens that are dotted with office workers eating lunch on the grass—healthy girls with skirts full of autumn sunshine and fresh air and men dozing with their jackets under their heads. Turning along Victoria Embankment, I glimpse the Thames, sliding along the smooth stone banks. Waxing and waning beneath lion-head gargoyles, it rolls beneath the bridges past the Tower of London and on toward Canary Wharf and Rotherhithe.
Ali parks the car in a small lane alongside Cannon Street Station. There are seventeen stone steps leading down to a narrow gravel beach slowly being exposed by the tide. On closer inspection the beach is not gravel but broken pottery, bricks, rubble and shards of glass worn smooth by the water.
“This is where they found you,” Joe says, sliding his hand across the horizon until it rests on a yellow navigation buoy, streaked with rust.
“Marilyn Monroe.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“It's nothing.”
Above our heads the trains accelerate and brake as they leave and enter the station across a railway bridge.
“They say you lost about four pints of blood. The cold water slowed down your metabolism, which probably saved your life. You also had the presence of mind to use your belt as a tourniquet.”