Free Lost by Michael Robotham Page B

kil ed me right away, here in the corridor, but he col ected a wheelchair and tried to push me down the lift shaft.” Stil lying on the floor, Joe points past my shoulder at the CCTV camera. “It's the only one he didn't black out.”
    “It didn't matter, he wore a mask.”
    “Psychological y it made a big difference. Even with his face hidden, he didn't want to star in a home movie. The footage was evidence against him.”
    “So he took me out of view.”
    “Yes.”
    Joe is thinking out loud now, unaware of his twitches and trembles. I fol ow him down the corridor to the stairs. He pauses, puzzled by something.
    “The gas leak was part of both plans,” he announces.
    “Both plans?”
    “One for outside and one for inside . . .”
    I don't understand. Joe motions for me to fol ow him and waits for me to climb two flights of stairs. We reach a heavy fire door and emerge onto a barren rectangle of bitumen, the rooftop of the hospital. A gust of wind slaps me in the face and Joe grabs my shirtfront to steady me. A big-bel ied gray sky hangs overhead.
    Circular ducts and metal air-conditioning plants punctuate the bitumen. A low brick wal with white capping stones marks the outside edge of the building. A wire security fence is attached, curling inward before being topped with barbed wire.
    Joe slowly walks the perimeter, occasional y glancing at surrounding buildings as though adjusting his internal compass. When he reaches the northeast corner of the building, he leans close to the fence. “You see that park down there—the one with the fountain?” I fol ow his gaze. “That's the evacuation meeting point. Everyone was supposed to meet there when they emptied the hospital. You were supposed to be with them. There is no way they could have known you were going to be left inside.” We are both on the same page now. “Perhaps he was supposed to hide in my room and kil me when I came back.”
    “Or they were going to kil you outside.”
    Joe drops onto his haunches, studying the thin layer of soot on the capping stones. It's the same black film that settles on everything in London until the next shower. Three penny-size circles smudge the surface. Joe swings his eyes to the ground where two larger smudges appear beneath the wal .
    Someone knelt here and rested a tripod on the wal —a lone sniper with a finger on the trigger and his eyelashes brushing the lens, studying the park below. The hair on my forearms is standing on end.

    Fifteen minutes later the rooftop has been sealed off and a SOCO team is at work, searching for clues. Campbel is smarting about being shown up by a clinical psychologist.
    Joe takes me downstairs to the canteen—one of those sterile food hal s with tiles on the floor and stainless steel counters. Cedric, the guy in charge, is a Jamaican with impossibly tight curls and a laugh that sounds like someone cracking nuts with a brick.
    He brings us coffee and pul s a half bottle of Scotch from the pocket of his apron. He pours me a slug. Joe doesn't seem to notice. He's too busy trying to fil in the missing pieces.
    “Snipers have very little emotional investment in their victims. It's like playing a computer game.”
    “So he could be young?”

    “And isolated.”
    True to form, the Professor is more interested in why than who; he wants an explanation while I want a face for my empty picture frame, someone to catch and punish.
    “Aleksei Kuznet visited me last night. I think I know why I was in the river. I was fol owing a ransom.” Joe doesn't bat an eyelid.
    “He wouldn't tel me the details, but there must have been proof of life. I must have believed Mickey was stil alive.”
    “Or wished it.”
    I know what he's saying. He doesn't think I'm being rational.
    “OK, let's ask ourselves some questions,” he says. “If Mickey is alive, where has she been for the past three years?”
    “I don't know.”
    “And why would anyone wait three years to post a ransom demand?”
    “Maybe