The recording ends. Elizabeth plays it back and listens for names, but there are too many gaps and unintelligible words. She concentrates on North’s voice, feeling something snag in his chest when he mentions the word family.
This wasn’t a normal business meeting. These weren’t normal business contacts. North told Bridget Lindop that he’d done something terrible and on the tape he talked about wanting to know where money had come from and gone. Perhaps Mitchell was right to be concerned.
Elizabeth looks at the daily log written by Colin Hackett. Before North went to The Warrington, he visited a house in Mount Street, just off Park Lane. She glances at her watch. Rowan won’t be home from nursery for another few hours. Polina can pick him up. Grabbing her car keys and her bag, she gets in the car and programs the satnav for Mayfair. The journey takes her across Hammersmith Bridge and along Hammersmith Road past Olympia and through Kensington to Hyde Park Corner.
Late summer and there are still plenty of tourists in London, eating sandwiches on the grass and taking photographs from open-top buses. London has never seemed like a destination to Elizabeth, but for others it is a postcard, a photograph or the backdrop to their holiday videos.
Mount Street is lined with Edwardian mansion blocks and rows of Italianate houses, every corner has a CCTV camera bolted to the brickwork. Curtains don’t twitch anymore and neighbors no longer study neighbors. Instead cameras record every dropped piece of litter and unscooped dog turd.
Walking up the front steps, Elizabeth presses a large bronze bell. The blue-painted front door is heavy and old. It opens after a moment. A woman in a black smock dress peers from inside. Elegant. Her hair is silver tipped and her features as delicate as a porcelain figurine.
Elizabeth realizes that she should have thought of a story.
“I’ve lost my dog,” she blurts. “I live around the corner. I’m asking everyone.”
The woman shakes her head. “What does your dog look like?”
“Umm, he’s white, ah, he’s a sort of terrier like a Jack Russell.”
“I haven’t seen any stray dogs.”
“Is there anyone else at home? Perhaps you could ask your husband.”
A man’s voice comes from the top of the stairs: “Who is it, Maria?”
“Someone has lost her dog.”
The door opens a little wider. Elizabeth takes the opportunity. She steps into the hallway, glancing up the stairs.
“It’s been two days and my little boy is heartbroken. I thought I’d knock on some doors.”
The man has gone. She didn’t see his face. The woman ushers her into a large front room with dormer windows and a fireplace. Every piece of furniture seems to fit perfectly. Antique or expensive copies, they match the artifacts—Byzantine mosaics, swords, pottery and statues displayed around the room. The beauty of the items seems to distract Elizabeth, who doesn’t realize she’s being spoken to.
“I beg your pardon?”
“What is the dog’s name?”
“Ummm, ah, well, his name is Fred, short for Frederick.”
The woman is almost ageless with a casual elegance that makes Elizabeth feel clumsy and shabbily dressed. She could be Middle Eastern. She could just be wealthy.
“Where do you live?”
“Around the corner.”
“What road?”
Elizabeth can’t think of a neighboring street. She mumbles something and Claudia kicks her as though punishing her stupidity.
“Do you have a photograph?” asks the woman.
“Pardon?”
“A picture of the dog. You could put it on lampposts.”
“Yes, what a good idea.”
Elizabeth wants to ask her about North and why he came to the house. She has the photographs in her handbag. What would the woman say if she just came straight out and showed them to her? She raises her eyes to the ceiling, hearing something upstairs. “Maybe your husband has seen Fred.”
“He’s busy.”
“What does he do?”
The woman ignores the question and stares at Elizabeth for a long time. “Why are you really here?”
Elizabeth’s skin prickles with embarrassment and Claudia squirms wetly in her belly.
“I feel so bloody silly. I didn’t work out what I was going to say.”
“I don’t understand.”
“My name is Elizabeth North. My husband came here about a week ago. It was a Friday afternoon. Now he’s missing. I’m trying to find him.”
The woman is watching her with her almond-shaped eyes, giving nothing away. Elizabeth takes the photographs from her handbag. They are curling now at the edges and stained with something sticky that Rowan put in her handbag.
“Who took these?”
“A private detective.”
Suspicion flares in the woman’s eyes. “Watching this house?”
“No. He was following my husband. I was concerned about him. I knew something was wrong. He came here. Is one of these men your husband?”
The woman stands and straightens her dress, brushing it down her thighs. “I don’t know who you are—or what you’re doing, but I want you to leave.”
“I’m telling you the truth. His name is Richard North. Can you just ask your husband?”
The woman walks to the entrance hall telephone. “Do I have to call the police?”
“I’m leaving,” says Elizabeth.
As she tries to step past the woman, a hand shoots out and grips her wrist. “Tell me why you’re following us.”
“I don’t even know who you are. I’m trying to find my husband.”
Elizabeth feels a sudden sharp cramp in her abdomen that takes her breath away. She has to lean on the edge of the table, breathing in and out against the pain.
The woman lets go and her voice softens. “You should go home.”
“I know he came here.”
“I will ask my husband—but you must leave.”
A voice from above: “Is everything all right, Maria?”
It’s one of the men from the photograph—the one with the clipped English accent. Taking off his glasses, he studies Elizabeth, his eyes neither hostile nor interested.
“I’m looking for my husband, Richard North. He met with you.”
“And what makes you say that?”
“I have photographs.”
“What photographs?”
“You were sitting at a table outside The Warrington. There was another man with you.”
“I’m afraid you’re mistaken.”
Elizabeth can feel the skin on her forehead itching. She fumbles through the photographs, looking for the right one. Pulls it free. Holds it up. The man doesn’t want to look at her pictures. He hasn’t moved from the stairs.
“The other man in the picture—do you know his name?”
Nothing alters in his face, which has all the emotion and depth of a pie plate. Elizabeth presses on. “I just want to find him. Do you know where he is?”
“Show her to the door, Maria.”
Elizabeth wants to make him listen. “I know about the transfers,” she blurts, making things up as she goes along.
The man scratches at the corner of his mouth with a fingernail. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Please leave my home.”
He turns away, pulling a mobile phone from the sagging pocket of his sweatshirt.
Elizabeth finds herself on the front steps where dead leaves are chasing each other in a circle of wind. The man was lying to her. Hiding something. Had she made a mistake coming here? Claudia has stopped kicking, but her heart still races, beating like the wings of a bird against the bars of a cage.
16
LONDON
Colorful saris, black chadors, minarets and Halal butchers—it could be Bangladesh or Mogadishu or Hackney or Lambeth. Extended families. Illegal immigrants. Sweatshop workers. Flotsam washed up on British shores.
It took the Courier longer than expected to find Bernie Levinson. Follow
ing him had bordered on the banal—tracking him between his various businesses and his very ugly mock Tudor house in Ilford with its swimming pool and revolving sunroom.
A bell tinkles above his head. He spins a CLOSED sign on the back of the door. The shelves of the pawnshop are lined with DVD players, iPods, satnavs and TV sets.
“I won’t keep you,” says a voice in the back room. The Courier walks behind the counter and through the door.
“Hey, I told you to wait!” says Bernie, who is trying to repackage a CD player. “You got to stay out there—the other side of the counter.”
“How long will you be?”
“When I’m ready, I’m ready.”
The Courier walks back to the service counter, sure now that Bernie is alone. The pawnbroker appears, wiping his hands on his thighs.
“What can I do for you?”
“I’m looking for a girl called Holly Knight.”
“Never heard of her.”
“That’s a shame.”
The Courier has taken a golf club from a two-toned Slazenger bag in the corner. He holds it in his fists, more like an axe than a seven-iron.
“They’re a fine set of clubs,” says Bernie. “Belonged to a pro golfer who retired.”
“Is that right?”
“You like golf?”
“Not even a little bit.”
The Courier waggles the club.
“Hey, if you’re not into golf, have a look at these.” Bernie opens a drawer full of DVDs. “I got something for every taste in here. Fat Girls. Big tits. Nurses. Maybe you like them young. This isn’t your typical East European shit. It’s American—better production values. No dubbing. They moan in English.”
The visitor doesn’t take his eyes off Bernie. This is weird, thinks the pawnbroker; even the whacked-out crackheads and ice-addicts like porn, but not this guy. Instead he keeps grinning like he’s got dancing monkeys in his head.
Still talking, Bernie edges along the counter towards the cash register where he keeps a sawn-off shotgun on a shelf.
“Buy one and you get the second one free,” he says, “and if you don’t have a DVD player I can fix you up with one.” His right hand drops below the level of the counter and his fingers touch the stock of the shotgun. All he has to do is pick it up but for some reason he can’t do it. He’s staring at the smiling man, unable to focus.
“What do you want, mister?”
“You’re going to show me what Holly Knight sold to you. Then you’re going to tell me where to find her.”
“I told you—I don’t know anyone by that name. Why are you grinning at me like that?”
The golf club shatters the counter and Bernie leaps backwards, knocking over a rack of second-hand CDs. His mouth flaps wordlessly.
“Where is Holly Knight?” asks the Courier.
“She lives on the Hogarth Estate.”
“Not anymore.”
“Then I don’t know where she is.”
“What did she sell you?”
“Bits and pieces,” says Bernie. “Some of it I already sold.”
The Courier puts the seven-iron back in the bag and selects another.
“I mean, you’re welcome to the rest of it,” says Bernie. “I’ll show you. It’s in my office. Upstairs.” Bernie lifts his chin to the ceiling.
The Courier waits for him to lock up the shop and follows him around the side of the building and up the staircase.
“Why are you so fat?” he asks.
“I eat too much.”
“You don’t exercise? Walk every day. Twenty minutes.”
“That’s what my wife says.”
“You should listen to her.”
Once inside the office, Bernie fusses over opening cupboards, clumsy with nerves. He hands over the briefcase, a laptop, digital camera and a mobile phone.
“What about the notebook?”
“Why would I want a fucking notebook?” Bernie opens his palms, trying to sound reasonable. “That laptop won’t be much good to you. When I booted it up I got an email. I opened it up and a window popped open, then another one. It was a virus chewing through the files—emails, the calendar, contacts, spreadsheets… I held down the power button and then rebooted but it was too late. I got the black screen of death. All gone.”
The Courier glances around the office. Something bothers him. Maybe it’s Bernie’s wheedling voice. No, that’s not it. Then he notices the CCTV camera in a corner of the ceiling. Careless. He follows the wire to a DVD recorder below the pawnbroker’s desk and smashes it with his boot heel.
“It wasn’t on,” says Bernie, one hand trembling on his temple. “I got no beef with you, sir. I gave you what you asked for.”
The Courier turns towards the window where raindrops have left a pattern of dust on the pane.
“I got to figure out what to do with you,” he says. “Nothing personal, but you irritate me.”
“A lot of people say that,” says Bernie. “Even my wife says I’m irritating.”
“She’s a very perceptive woman. Do you think she’d mind if you were dead?”
“I hope she would.”
The Courier takes the keys from Bernie and pushes him into the storeroom, hooking the padlock through the latch. He puts his mouth near the door.
“What are you going to do if Holly Knight contacts you again?”
“I want nothing to do with her.”
“That’s the wrong answer, Bernie. You see, I know where you work and where you live.”
“I’m going to call you.”
“Now we’re communicating.”
17
BAGHDAD
Luca finds Edge at a bar in the International Zone holding a shot glass of bourbon up to the light as if looking at a rare jewel. His right hand is wrapped in a discolored bandage and a Filipino woman is sitting on the stool next to him. Dressed in a halter top and denim shorts, she’s wearing spiked heels that don’t reach the floor.
“You look like you slept in the restroom,” says Luca.
“Not true. I slept with this little lady,” says Edge, almost inhaling the shot, before sipping a beer more slowly. “Say hello to Marcella. She’s a hooker.”
Marcella doesn’t appreciate the description. She swings her handbag at Edge’s head and calls him an ape before tottering away on her heels, which make her legs look longer and her head smaller.
“Can I join you?”
“It’s a free country. Operation Iraqi Freedom—name says it all.”
The barman has left the bottle of bourbon so Edge can free pour. That’s one of the things the contractor hates about foreign countries—the measuring cups and penny-pinching.
Flexing his damaged hand, Edge picks up a cigarette. He has six of them lined up on the bar. Lighting up, he sucks on it like oxygen.
Luca narrows his eyes against the smoke. “What are you doing?”
“I’m getting drunk and then I’m gonna pick a fight.”
“In that order?”
“Yep. Which bit are you here for?”
Luca points at Edge’s bandaged hand. “Is that from your last fight?”
“I hit a wall.”
“Who won?”
“We both suffered superficial damage.”
Edge sips his beer.
“I heard about Shaun,” says Luca. “You want to talk about it?”
“Nope.”
“Might help.”
“That’s what the counselor said. I told him I wanted to turn this shithole country to rubble.”
“What did he say?”
“He suggested I take anti-depressants. I said I wasn’t fucking depressed. Depressed is when you can’t get out of bed and you can’t taste your food and you can’t laugh or cry. Depressed is when you feel nothing at all. Right now I’d love to feel nothing.”
“You shouldn’t blame yourself.”
“I should have been there.”
“Then you’d be dead too.”
“Yeah, w
ell, I could have lived with that.”
Luca orders a beer. They sit in silence for a while. The bar is empty, except for a young man reading a newspaper near the window. Every so often he turns a page and glances at them. Taller than average, with a short haircut and an expensive leather jacket, he looks American. It’s the teeth. An orthodontist winters in Florida thanks to those teeth.
Luca motions to Edge’s hand. “Is it broken?”
“Maybe.”
Edge gingerly unwraps the bandage as though expecting to see something green and gangrenous. Instead it’s bruised and swollen.
“Can you still drive?”
“Yeah.”
“Can you hold a gun?”
His eyes brighten.
“Sure.”
“I need security.”
“Will I get to shoot anyone?”
“I’d prefer it if you didn’t.”
Edge seems to teeter on the edge of a direct response, his eyes charged with a strange energy.
“What’s the job?”
“I’m trying to find out why Shaun and the others died.”
“How you gonna do that?”
“You remember Watergate?”
“Nixon and stuff.”
“An informant was feeding information to Woodward and Bernstein—they were the journalists who linked the break-in to the White House.”
“Deep Throat. Right? The guy in the underground car park.”
“You saw the movie—that’s good. Deep Throat kept telling them one thing, over and over.”
“What was that?”
“Follow the money.”
“That’s my sort of message.”
“I thought it might be.”
“When do we leave?”
“First light.”
The trucking camp is a makeshift township of tents, shipping containers and clapboard buildings five miles south-west of Baghdad on the main highway to Jordan. It’s a strange atavistic and tribal world, set amid a wasteland of stony desert, sand dunes, rocky islands and dried up riverbeds.
More than fifty trucks are parked in bays, some with canvas awnings strung from the cabs and pegged to the ground. Other rigs are jacked up on cinder blocks undergoing repairs. Most of the vehicles are stained with rust or scarred by bullets and shrapnel.
The Wreckage: A Thriller Page 21
