Lost

by Michael Robotham Narrated by Ray Lonnen

Overview

Detective Inspector Vincent Ruiz doesn't know who wants him dead. He has no recollection of the firefight that landed him in the Thames, covered in his own blood and that of at least two other people. A photo of missing child Mickey Carlyle is found in his pocket--but Carlyle's killer is already in jail. And Ruiz is the detective who put him there. Accused of faking amnesia, Ruiz reaches out to psychologist Joe O'Loughlin to help him unearth his memory and clear his name. Together they battle against an internal affairs investigator convinced Ruiz is hiding the truth, and a ruthless criminal who claims Ruiz has something of his that can't be replaced. As Ruiz's memories begin to resurface, they offer tantalizing glimpses at a shocking discovery.

Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly

Det. Insp. Vincent Ruiz (a supporting character in Robotham's debut, Suspect) is hauled out of the Thames with a bullet wound in his leg and no memory of a shooting, let alone how he wound up in the water in Robotham's fine, moody second thriller. Keebal, a nasty cop from internal affairs, hounds Ruiz from the start, and everyone seems to know something Ruiz doesn't. When psychologist Joe O'Loughlin (the protagonist of Suspect) shows Ruiz a picture of young Mickey Carlyle-a seven-year-old girl kidnapped three years earlier whom everyone but Ruiz thinks is dead-he figures there must be some connection between her case and his shooting. Despite his injuries, Ruiz retraces this investigation with the help of his partner, a young Sikh woman named Ali. The past returns in dribs and drabs and none too gently. Mickey is the daughter of a Russian-born crime lord, Aleksei Kuznet; a cache of diamonds and a man known as a "grooming paedophile" also figure prominently in the splintered plot. The warm relationship between Ruiz and Joe, who suffers from Parkinson's, counterpoints the main story line's grit. Robotham works some good wrinkles into Ruiz's relationship with Ali and an empathetic nurse, too. The result is a thoughtful and subtle thriller, with convincing, three-dimensional characters. (Feb.) Copyright 2005 Reed Business Information.

Library Journal

Last seen in Suspect, Det. Vincent Ruiz is pulled from the Thames with a bullet in his leg-and no memory in his head of why he was carrying a photograph of a kidnapped child long since thought dead. Copyright 2005 Reed Business Information.

Kirkus Reviews

Robotham switches heroes but holds on to a central feature of his smashing debut (Suspect, 2005): the detective who's also a leading suspect. One day three years ago, Sarah Jordan went to Dolphin Mansions to meet her friend Michaela Carlyle. Mickey, the daughter of an aristocratic British mother and a Russian gangster, vanished before she made it to the front door. Though they eventually convicted a local sex offender on circumstantial evidence, the Metropolitan police never found any trace of Mickey. Now she's back in the news with shocking suddenness. A ransom demand has been made by someone who provides details of her household only she or her mother could know. And DI Vincent Ruiz, the head of Serious Crimes who spearheaded the earlier investigation, has been found floating in the Thames near an abandoned, blood-soaked skiff, his leg shredded by a sniper's bullet and his memory shredded by trauma. A photo of Mickey in his pocket suggests that Ruiz was on the trail of her kidnappers, but he can't remember a thing about it. Suspected of murder by his superiors, Ruiz has only one resource: £2,000,000 worth of diamonds he's found in a gym bag. But they swiftly turn into a liability when Aleksei Kuznet, Mickey's fearsome father, announces that they're his stones, he's already paid them as a ransom for his daughter and he wants them or Mickey back instantly. Bold and bracing, though following the plot twists is like riding a bucking bronco.

From the Publisher

"Robotham deftly mixes sentiment and noir...a complex mystery."—--People

"Robotham spins an agreeably complex plot, and he has an eye for peripheral details."—--Entertainment Weekly

"An exceptional thriller. Deft dialogue, a fast-paced plot, and richly drawn characters."—--Tucson Citizen

--Tucson Citizen

"An exceptional thriller. Deft dialogue, a fast-paced plot, and richly drawn characters."

--Entertainment Weekly

"Robotham spins an agreeably complex plot, and he has an eye for peripheral details."

--People

"Robotham deftly mixes sentiment and noir...a complex mystery."

OCT/NOV 06 - AudioFile

Detective Vincent Ruiz comes to as he is pulled from the Thames; he has a bullet in his thigh and no memory of his activities in recent days. But from the clues that surface, he soon believes he had been trying to recover a child whose presumed murder he had investigated three years earlier. Ray Lonnen's delivery is full of a snap that reflects both Ruiz's regrets as husband, father, and police officer, and his contempt for his superiors’ anger when he raises doubts over a case they would prefer remain closed. Those who relish earthy accents from London's most hardscrabble sections will find plenty of entertainment in Lonnen's performance. M.O. © AudioFile 2006, Portland, Maine

Product Details

BN ID:	2940171311063
Publisher:	Recorded Books, LLC
Publication date:	03/06/2008
Edition description:	Unabridged

Read an Excerpt

Lost

---

By Michael Robotham

Vintage

Copyright © 2007 Michael Robotham
All right reserved.
ISBN: 0307275485

---

1


The Thames, London


I remember someone once telling me that you know it's cold when you see a lawyer with his hands in his own pockets. It's colder than that now. My mouth is numb and every breath is like slivers of ice in my lungs.

People are shouting and shining flashlights in my eyes. In the meantime, I'm hugging this big yellow buoy like it's Marilyn Monroe. A very fat Marilyn Monroe, after she took all the pills and went to seed.

My favorite Monroe film is Some Like It Hot with Jack Lemmon and Tony Curtis. I don't know why I should think of that now, although how anyone could mistake Jack Lemmon for a woman is beyond me.

A guy with a really thick mustache and pizza breath is panting in my ear. He's wearing a life vest and trying to peel my fingers away from the buoy. I'm too cold to move. He wraps his arms around my chest and pulls me backward through the water. More people, silhouetted against the lights, take hold of my arms, lifting me onto the deck.

"Jesus, look at his leg!" someone says.

"He's been shot!"

Who are they talking about?

People are shouting all over again, yelling for bandages and plasma. A black guy with a gold earring slides a needle into my arm and puts a bag over my face.

"Someone get some blankets. Let's keep thisguy warm."

"He's palping at one-twenty."

"One-twenty?"

"Palping at one-twenty."

"Any head injuries?"

"That's negative."

The engine roars and we're moving. I can't feel my legs. I can't feel anything--not even the cold anymore. The lights are also disappearing. Darkness has seeped into my eyes.

"Ready?"

"Yeah."

"One, two, three."

"Watch the IV lines. Watch the IV lines."

"I got it."

"Bag a couple of times."

"OK."

The guy with pizza breath is puffing really hard now, running alongside the gurney. His fist is in front of my face, pressing a bag to force air into my lungs. They lift again and square lights pass overhead. I can still see.

A siren wails in my head. Every time we slow down it gets louder and closer. Someone is talking on a radio. "We've pumped two liters of fluid. He's on his fourth unit of blood. He's bleeding out. Systolic pressure dropping."

"He needs volume."

"Squeeze in another bag of fluid."

"He's seizing!"

"He's seizing. See that?"

One of the machines has gone into a prolonged cry. Why don't they turn it off?

Pizza breath rips open my shirt and slaps two pads on my chest.

"CLEAR!" he yells.

The pain almost blows the top of my skull clean off.

He does that again and I'll break his arms.

"CLEAR!"

I swear to God I'm going to remember you, pizza breath. I'm going to remember exactly who you are. And when I get out of here I'm coming looking for you. I was happier in the river. Take me back to Marilyn Monroe.


I am awake now. My eyelids flutter as if fighting gravity. Squeezing them shut, I try again, blinking into the darkness.

Turning my head, I can make out orange dials on a machine near the bed and a green blip of light sliding across a liquid crystal display window like one of those stereo systems with bouncing waves of colored light.

Where am I?

Beside my head is a chrome stand that catches stars on its curves. Suspended from a hook is a plastic satchel bulging with a clear fluid. The liquid trails down a pliable plastic tube and disappears under a wide strip of surgical tape wrapped around my left forearm.

I'm in a hospital room. There is a pad on the bedside table. Reaching toward it, I suddenly notice my left hand--not so much my hand as a finger. It's missing. Instead of a digit and a wedding ring I have a lump of gauze dressing. I stare at it idiotically, as though this is some sort of magic trick.

When the twins were youngsters, we had a game where I pulled off my thumb and if they sneezed it would come back again. Michael used to laugh so hard he almost wet his pants.

Fumbling for the pad, I read the letterhead: St. Mary's Hospital, Paddington, London. There is nothing in the drawer except a Bible and a copy of the Koran.

I spy a clipboard hanging at the end of the bed. Reaching down, I feel a sudden pain that explodes from my right leg and shoots out of the top of my head. Christ! Do not, under any circumstances, do that again.

Curled up in a ball, I wait for the pain to go away. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath. If I concentrate very hard on a particular point just under my jawbone, I actually feel the blood sliding back and forth beneath my skin, squeezing into smaller and smaller channels, circulating oxygen.

My estranged wife, Miranda, is such a lousy sleeper that she said my heart kept her awake because it beat too loudly. I didn't snore or wake with the night terrors, but my heart pumped up a riot. This has been listed among Miranda's grounds for divorce. I'm exaggerating, of course. She doesn't need extra justification.

I open my eyes again. The world is still here.

Taking a deep breath, I grip the bedclothes and raise them a few inches. I still have two legs. I count them. One. Two. The right leg is bandaged in layers of gauze taped down at the edges. Something has been written in a felt-tip pen down the side of my thigh but I can't read what it says.

Farther down I can see my toes. They wave hello to me. "Hello toes," I whisper.

Tentatively, I reach down and cup my genitals, rolling my testicles between my fingers.

A nurse slips silently through the curtains. Her voice startles me. "Is this a very private moment?"

"I was . . . I was . . . just checking."

"Well, I think you should consider buying that thing dinner first."

Her accent is Irish and her eyes are as green as mown grass. She presses the call button above my head. "Thank goodness you're finally awake. We were very worried about you." She taps the bag of fluid and checks the flow control. Then she straightens my pillows.

"What happened? How did I get here?"

"You were shot."

"Who shot me?"

She laughs. "Oh, don't ask me. Nobody ever tells me things like that."

"But I can't remember anything. My leg . . . my finger . . . "

"The doctor should be here soon."

She doesn't seem to be listening. I reach out and grab her arm. She tries to pull away, suddenly frightened of me.

"You don't understand--I can't remember! I don't know how I got here."

She glances at the emergency button. "They found you floating in the river. That's what I heard them say. The police have been waiting for you to wake up."

"How long have I been here?"

"Eight days . . . you were in a coma. I thought you might be coming out yesterday. You were talking to yourself."

"What did I say?"

"You kept asking about a girl--saying you had to find her."

"Who?"

"You didn't say. Please let go of my arm. You're hurting me."

My fingers open and she steps well away, rubbing her forearm. She won't come close again.
My heart won't slow down. It is pounding away, getting faster and faster like Chinese drums. How can I have been here eight days?

"What day is it today?"

"October the third."

"Did you give me drugs? What have you done to me?"

She stammers, "You're on morphine for the pain."

"What else? What else have you given me?"

"Nothing." She glances again at the emergency button. "The doctor is coming. Try to stay calm or he'll have to sedate you."

She's out of the door and won't come back. As it swings closed I notice a uniformed policeman sitting on a chair outside the door, with his legs stretched out like he's been there for a while.

I slump back in bed, smelling bandages and dried blood. Holding up my hand I look at the gauze bandage, trying to wiggle the missing finger. How can I not remember?

For me there has never been such a thing as forgetting, nothing is hazy or vague or frayed at the edges. I hoard memories like a miser counts his gold. Every scrap of a moment is kept as long as it has some value.

I don't see things photographically. Instead I make connections, spinning them together like a spider weaving a web, threading one strand into the next. That's why I can reach back and pluck details of criminal cases from five, ten, fifteen years ago and remember them as if they happened only yesterday. Names, dates, places, witnesses, perpetrators, victims--I can conjure them up and walk through the same streets, have the same conversations, hear the same lies.

Now for the first time I've forgotten something truly important. I can't remember what happened and how I finished up here. There is a black hole in my mind like a dark shadow on a chest X-ray. I've seen those shadows. I lost my first wife to cancer. Black holes suck everything into them. Not even light can escape.

Twenty minutes go by and then Dr. Bennett sweeps through the curtains. He's wearing jeans and a bow tie under his white coat.

"Detective Inspector Ruiz, welcome back to the land of the living and high taxation." He sounds very public school and has one of those foppish Hugh Grant fringe haircuts that falls across his forehead like a dinner napkin on a thigh.

Shining a penlight in my eyes, he asks, "Can you wiggle your toes?"

"Yes."

"Any pins and needles?"

"No."

He pulls back the bedclothes and scrapes a key along the sole of my right foot. "Can you feel that?"

"Yes."

"Excellent."

Picking up a clipboard, he scrawls his initials with a flick of the wrist.

"I can't remember anything."

"About the accident."

"It was an accident?"

"I have no idea. You were shot."

"Who shot me?"

"You don't remember?"

"No."

This conversation is going around in circles.

Dr. Bennett taps the pen against his teeth, contemplating this answer. Then he pulls up a chair and sits on it backward, draping his arms over the backrest.

"You were shot. One bullet entered just above your gracilis muscle on your right leg leaving a quarter-inch hole. It went through the skin, then the fat layer, through the pectineus muscle, just medial to the femoral vessels and nerve, through the quadratus femoris muscle, through the head of the biceps femoris and through the gluteus maximus before exiting through the skin on the other side. The exit wound was far more impressive. It blew a hole four inches across. Gone. No flap. No pieces. Your skin just vaporized."

He whistles impressively through his teeth. "You had a pulse but you were bleeding out when they found you. Then you stopped breathing. You were dead but we brought you back."

He holds up his thumb and forefinger. "The bullet missed your femoral artery by this far." I can barely see a gap between them. "Otherwise you would have bled to death in three minutes. Apart from the bullet we had to deal with infection. Your clothes were filthy. God knows what was in that water. We've been pumping you full of antibiotics. Bottom line, Inspector, you are one lucky puppy."

Is he kidding? How much luck does it take to get shot?

I hold up my hand. "What about my finger?"

"Gone, I'm afraid, just above the first knuckle."

A skinny looking intern with a crewcut pokes his head through the curtains. Dr. Bennett lets out a low-pitched growl that only underlings can hear. Rising from the chair, he buries his hands in the pockets of his white coat.

"Will that be all?"

"Why can't I remember?"

"It's not really my field, I'm afraid. We can run some tests. You'll need a CT scan or an MRI to rule out a skull fracture or hemorrhage. I'll call neurology."

"My leg hurts."

"Good. It's getting better. You'll need a walker or crutches. A physiotherapist will come and talk to you about a program to help you strengthen your leg." He flips his bangs and turns to leave. "I'm sorry about your memory, Detective. Be thankful you're alive."

He's gone, leaving a scent of aftershave and superiority. Why do surgeons cultivate this air of owning the world? I know I should be grateful. Maybe if I could remember what happened I could trust the explanations more.

So I should be dead. I always suspected that I would die suddenly. It's not that I'm particularly foolhardy but I have a knack for taking shortcuts. Most people only die once. Now I've had two lives. Throw in three wives and I've had more than my fair share of living. (I'll definitely forgo the three wives, should someone want them back.)


My Irish nurse is back again. Her name is Maggie and she has one of those reassuring smiles they teach in nursing school. She has a bowl of warm water and a sponge.

"Are you feeling better?"

"I'm sorry I frightened you."

"That's OK. Time for a bath."

She pulls back the covers and I drag them up again.

"There's nothing under there I haven't seen," she says.

"I beg to differ. I have a pretty fair recollection of how many women have danced with old Johnnie One-Eye and unless you were that girl in the back row of the Shepherd's Bush Empire during a Yardbirds concert in 1961, I don't think you're one of them."

"Johnnie One-Eye?"

"My oldest friend."

She shakes her head and looks sorry for me.

A familiar figure appears from behind her--a short square man, with no neck and a five-o'clock shadow. Campbell Smith is a Chief Superintendent, with a crushing handshake and a no-brand smile. He's wearing his uniform, with polished silver buttons and a shirt collar so highly starched it threatens to decapitate him.

Everyone claims to like Campbell--even his enemies--but few people are ever happy to see him. Not me. Not today. I remember him! That's a good sign.


From the Hardcover edition.

Continues...

---

Excerpted from Lost by Michael Robotham Copyright © 2007 by Michael Robotham. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

---

Videos