Read Online Lost by Michael Robotham - Free Book Online

Someone is in the room with me. Only his hands are in the light. Draped over the knuckles are polished-silver worry beads.
    “How did you get in here?”
    “Don't believe everything you read about hospital waiting lists.”
    Aleksei Kuznet leans forward. He has dark eyes and even darker hair combed in rigid lines back from his forehead and kept there with hair gel and wil power. His other most notable feature is a pink puckered circle of scar tissue on his cheek, wrinkled and milky white. The watch on his wrist is worth more than I earn in a year.
    “Forgive me, I didn't ask after your welfare. Are you wel ?”
    “Fine.”
    “That is very pleasing news. I am sure your mother wil be relieved.”
    He's sending me a message.
    Tiny beads of perspiration gather on my fingertips. “What are you doing here?”
    “I have come to col ect.”
    “Col ect?”
    “I seem to remember we had an arrangement.” His accent is classic public-school English—perfect yet cold.
    I look at him blankly. His voice hardens. “My daughter—you were to col ect her.”
    I feel as though some snippet of the conversation has passed me by.
    “What do you mean? How could I col ect Mickey?”
    “Dear me, wrong answer.”
    “No, listen! I can't remember. I don't know what happened.”
    “Did you see my daughter?”
    “I don't think so. I'm not sure.”
    “My ex-wife is hiding her. Don't believe anything else.”
    “Why would she do that?”
    “Because she's a cruel heartless bitch, who enjoys turning the knife. It can feel like a jousting stick.” The statement is delivered with a ferocity that lowers the temperature.
    Regaining his calm, he tugs at the cuffs of his jacket. “So I take it you didn't hand over the ransom.”
    “What ransom? Who wanted the ransom?”
    My hands are shaking. The uncertainty and frustration of the past few days condenses down to this moment. Aleksei knows what happened.
    Tripping over the words, I plead with him to tel me. “There was a shooting on the river. I can't remember what happened. I need you to help me understand.” Aleksei smiles. I have seen the same indolent, foreknowing expression before. The silence grows too long. He doesn't believe me. Bringing a hand to his forehead, he grips the front of his skul as though trying to crush it. He's wearing a thumb ring—gold and very thick.
    “Do you always forget your failures, Inspector?”
    “On the contrary, they're normal y the only things I remember.”
    “Somebody must take responsibility for this.”
    “Yes, but first help me remember.”
    He laughs wryly and points at me with his hand. His right index finger is aimed at my head and his gold thumb ring is like the hammer of a gun. Then he smoothly turns his hand and frames my face within a backward “L”.
    “I want my daughter or I want my diamonds. I hope that's clear. My father told me never to trust Gypsies. Prove him wrong.” Even after Aleksei has gone I can feel his presence. He's like a character from a Quentin Tarantino film with an aura of violence held barely in check. Although he hides behind his tailored suits and polished English accent, I know where he comes from. I knew kids just like him at school. I can even picture him in his cheap white shirt, clunking shoes and oversize shorts, taking a beating at lunchtimes because of his strange name and his peasant-poor clothes and his strange accent.
    I know this because I was just like him—an outsider—the son of a Romany Gypsy, who went to school with ankrusté (smal bal s of dough flavored with caraway and coriander) instead of sandwiches, wearing a painted badge on my blazer because we couldn't afford to buy a stitched one.
    “Beauty cannot be eaten with a spoon,” my mother would tel me. I didn't understand what she meant then. It was just another one of her queer sayings like, “One behind cannot sit on two horses.”
    I survived the beatings and the ridicule, just like Aleksei. Unlike him I didn't win a scholarship to