There are no bridal cars. They’re going to walk to St. Mark’s, which is just around the corner; a true wedding procession through the streets of Primrose Hill.
Joe takes the step next to him and they sit comfortably in silence, listening to the champagne corks being popped inside. Ruiz notices a car parked on the corner. It’s the same dark blue Audi that was outside Holly’s flat in South London. Two figures are visible behind the dark-tinted windows. Ruiz feels a pain in his chest like someone has placed a fist against his breastbone and is twisting knuckles into the cartilage. This is his daughter’s wedding day.
Without a word, he stands, walks down the steps and crosses the road. He taps on the driver’s window. After a long pause it glides down. The man behind the wheel has close-cropped hair and a three-day growth. His shirt is rolled up revealing a long pink scar running down the inside of his forearm.
Ruiz can smell the new leather of the seats. “Can I help you?” he asks.
“No, sirree.”
He’s American. A southerner.
“Are you waiting for me?”
“We’re just waiting.”
His passenger is younger, also unshaven, with blond highlights. His sunglasses are hinged on the frames and flipped upwards like wiper blades. His left hand is tucked out of sight below the level of his thigh.
The driver motions to the house.
“Fine day for a wedding,” he drawls. “Who’s getting married?”
“The bride and groom.”
“Well, you make sure you pass on our good wishes.”
“I’ll do that,” says Ruiz, who can feel his molars grinding saliva. He tucks his hands into his pockets. “Maybe we can come to an arrangement.”
“What would that be?”
“How about we agree to meet up tomorrow? I can make myself available all day. I’ll even come to the office… meet your boss. That way you guys can go home and gel each other’s hair and my daughter can get married.”
The skin tightens around the driver’s eyes. “You’re a funny guy. Is that what you Brits call irony?”
“You want me to explain irony?”
The driver closes his fingers, all except the longest, and pushes his sunglasses up his nose. That’s his answer.
Ruiz walks away. Twenty yards down the street he pauses at a builder’s skip full of debris and broken bricks. The red-black color is rising from his chest to his face and he can hear a tearing sound behind his eyes like fabric shredding. Picking up a half brick, he weighs it in his hand.
The driver and passenger of the Audi are laughing about something. The side window shatters with the sound and fury of a shotgun. Ruiz reaches through the window and bounces the passenger’s head off the dashboard, making his nose bloom. He’s a bleeder.
The driver reaches below the seat, but Ruiz has already taken a gun from his partner’s hand. Now he’s aiming it across his crumpled body with one eye closed, the other looking along the barrel, his hand steady as a barber with a cutthroat razor.
A thought passes across the driver’s face. Ruiz has always referred to it as the Dirty Harry moment—that fleeting instant when a person wonders: Am I fast enough or lucky enough?
Something tells him no.
Ruiz takes out his mobile and punches the number that was left beneath the wiper blades of the Merc, along with the envelope of cash. It’s ringing… being answered. There are five seconds of dead air.
“Mr. Ruiz?”
“You still want the girl?”
“That was our deal.”
“Don’t talk to me about deals. You kicked in my front door.”
“A mistake, I admit.”
Another long pause, a low rumble in the background—aircraft noise.
“The price has doubled.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m pissed off.”
The American mulls this over. “How can I be sure that you’ve got her?”
“You can’t.”
“Where do we meet?”
“I choose the location, but it won’t be today. In the meantime, call off your dogs. One of them might need a vet.”
Ruiz hangs up and turns the phone to silent. Blood is pouring from the passenger’s nose and across his lips and chin, staining his shirtfront. Tiny cubes of glass decorate his lap like diamonds on a jeweler’s cloth.
“You hear that, ladies? You get off early today.”
He leans through the window and presses the release on the ammunition clip, letting it drop into the lap of the passenger, who has his hand cupped under his nose.
As the pistol falls to the floor, Ruiz simultaneously drops his mobile behind the bucket seat. Then he turns away, joining the professor on the footpath. The entire wedding party is standing on the steps of the house—Claire, her bridesmaids, Miranda and Daj. Claire looks ready to throw the first punch, but Miranda has a dangerous left hook.
“Very smooth,” says Joe.
“I was being diplomatic.”
“I’d hate to see you go to war.”
Ruiz gives him a smile that means nothing.
“Can I borrow your mobile?”
“What happened to yours?”
“I must have left it somewhere.”
20
LONDON
The TV lights leave white spots swimming behind Elizabeth’s eyelids. She tries to blink them away, but the cameras are recording every twitch and grimace. She reaches for a glass of water. A few droplets spill, beading like mercury on the smooth table. She wipes up the water with her sleeve, worried it might leave a mark.
Campbell Smith whispers in her ear. “I’ll give you the signal. Then you just read the statement.”
All the seats are taken. It’s standing room only in the briefing room at New Scotland Yard. The TV cameras are at the back; press photographers at the front. Radio microphones hooked up to the feed.
The police have talked Elizabeth into this—an emotional plea from a pregnant wife to her husband. Not running. Missing. She said no at first, afraid of the publicity. The shame. The thought of people recognizing her in the street, whispering, pointing; not just her neighbors and friends, but the mothers at Rowan’s nursery and in her Pilates class or complete strangers passing her in supermarket aisles. Then she realized that she couldn’t care less about what people thought.
Speaking with deliberate slowness, Campbell Smith calls for order. Waits. Elizabeth seems to be growing smaller beside him.
“As of 1200 hours today a warrant was issued for the arrest of Richard North. Interpol has also been advised and we’re monitoring departure points. Mrs. Elizabeth North is now going to make a statement. She won’t be taking questions and I would ask you to respect her privacy.”
He signals to Elizabeth. She stares at the page, trying to focus on the words.
“If you’re watching this, Richard, if you can hear me… if you’re able to call…” A barrage of flashguns are firing, recording every pause. “I just want to know you’re OK. I know you can explain. I know you’re a good man…”
She doesn’t finish the sentence. Raising her eyes, she concentrates on a point at the back of the room, above their heads.
“Rowan misses you. We all do… Whatever has happened, whatever you think you’ve done, nothing could be as bad as not knowing… worrying…”
The words dry up, evaporating in her mouth. Her mind becomes lost in the flashguns. Questions are being shouted from the floor. A field of hands are raised. Campbell takes Elizabeth by the forearm and leads her through a side door to a long corridor. Polished. Brightly lit. Felicity Stone is bustling towards her with a wide smile, air kissing her cheeks.
“You were marvelous, grace under pressure and all that. Is there anyone I can call? Do you have a rabbi or a priest?”
“No.”
“I can find you a counselor—a woman, perhaps. There are some very good trauma specialists. Caring. Discreet.”
“I’m fine.”
Miss Stone is tapp
ing on the screen of her mobile. “We’ve found a quiet house, somewhere away from London and all the attention. You can be anonymous, recover your balance.”
“I’m going home.”
“Right. OK. Of course you should avoid commenting. No press interviews. You’re perfectly entitled to say nothing at all. Don’t even say, No comment.’ ”
They have reached the lift.
“I just want to reassure you that, whatever happens, Mersey Fidelity will look after you. You don’t have to go through this alone. Mitchell will make sure—”
“Where is Mitchell?”
“He’s talking to the police.”
Elizabeth turns away from her and walks back down the corridor. Banging on the doors, she starts yelling. “Mitchell? Are you here? I want to talk.”
Faces emerge. A female officer tries to stop her, but she pushes past her.
“I want to see my brother. Mitchell? Where are you?”
Turning a corner she sees him. He’s talking to a man in a suit. Heads together. Whispering.
“You should have warned me,” she shouts, storming towards him.
Mitchell raises his hands submissively. “I’m sorry, Lizzie. I wanted to call you but the lawyers told me not to interfere. I have a duty to shareholders and investors…”
Before he can finish the statement Elizabeth strikes him across the face with an open hand. She can’t remember ever hitting him before—not even as a child when he teased her or tortured her dolls or let her pet rabbit escape and get eaten by a fox on Hampstead Heath.
Mitchell’s eyes go out of focus for a moment, swimming in pain.
“I’m your sister, Mitchell. Doesn’t that mean anything?”
“Of course it does.”
“You’re hanging him out to dry. He didn’t steal any money.”
“Calm down, Lizzie.”
“I won’t calm down. I know what you’re doing. You’re covering something up.”
The other man speaks. “We’re handling this, Mrs. North.”
Elizabeth takes a moment to recognize him; his grey hair is brushed back in an elegant bouffant and he’s wearing a Paul Smith suit instead of a tracksuit. It’s the man from the house in Mayfair who lied about meeting North.
Elizabeth turns on him. “Who are you?”
Mitchell answers. “This is Yahya Maluk. He’s on the board of Mersey Fidelity.”
Elizabeth is still focused on Maluk. “Why did you lie to me about meeting my husband? I have the photographs. You were there.”
Mitchell looks from face to face. The older banker raises his hand. “Be careful what you say, Mrs. North. Unfounded allegations can be very dangerous.” There is a veiled threat behind the softness of his voice.
“You really should listen, Lizzie,” says Mitchell, nursing his cheek.
“I’m not going to shut up. I’m not going to stay quiet. And I’m not going to hide myself away.”
21
LONDON
Low tide. A long thin shingle beach has appeared during the night, exposed by the tide. Holly has slept all morning and into the early afternoon, the water and the birds entering her dreams. Now she can hear Pete moving outside the caravan, laboring with a heavy object and running the outboard engine to clear the water intake pipe.
Rising from the narrow bed, she runs barefoot to a drop toilet surrounded by hessian curtains. She squats, urinating, wishing she’d worn shoes. Dog is watching her. She tries to shoo him away, but he cocks his head and wags his body.
After washing her hands in the river, she walks back to the camp.
Pete is cooking over a gas burner. He’s dressed in a rugby jumper that’s too big for him—more Ruiz’s size. The mental comparison makes Holly angry because she feels betrayed by the former detective. One more act of betrayal in a life littered with them.
Sitting on a stool beneath the awning, she watches Pete cook her scrambled eggs for breakfast. She eats hungrily, avoiding his gaze, feeling the heat of the Tabasco sauce on her lips.
Pete takes the saucepan to the river, crouching on the edge of the shingle spit. When he’s out of sight, Holly opens the drawers and cupboards in the van, searching the pockets of Pete’s clothes. She finds ten quid and coins. Staring at the crumpled bill, she contemplates what to do.
She has two pounds and fifty-three pence. She needs money and somewhere to stay. What would Zac do? He’d scam someone. Pete would be an easy mark—innocent as a puppy—but it doesn’t seem fair after what he’s done for her.
She puts the money back where she found it and steps out of the caravan. Pete is wiping his hands on his trousers.
“Do you want to know why those men were chasing me?”
“I figure you’ll tell me or you won’t.”
“Do you think I’m a criminal?”
Pete scratches his cheek. “You are what you are.”
“They weren’t the cops… at least I don’t think so.”
“I’m not so fond of coppers.”
Pete packs away the frying pan and lets the knives and forks dry by resting upright in a can. A boat putters past them, invisible behind the willow trees.
“You can stay here for a while… I mean, if you want to… until you decide.”
“I don’t have any money.”
“I got enough.”
Holly eyes him carefully. She can smell the dampness of the river and the sweat on his clothes.
“You wouldn’t take advantage of me, would you, Pete? I mean… you wouldn’t… you know.”
Pete adamantly shakes his head. Then he packs a satchel with envelopes and a pen.
“I have to post some letters and pick up supplies.”
“Where?”
“I usually go to Richmond.”
“Can I come?”
“Sure.”
They take the fishing boat downriver. Holly isn’t sure of the direction because the sun has disappeared behind a high layer of cloud. They pass lovely houses on the river’s edge, with manicured lawns and small jetties jutting out into the water. Pete waves to a woman hanging her washing and a man mowing his lawn. There are people cycling along the river paths and waterfowl that flap from the reeds, clumsy until airborne.
They moor in the shadow of Richmond Bridge near the floating restaurant and the “boats for hire.” Holly steps ashore. Pete has some shopping bags and a list.
“Is there anything you don’t eat?”
“I’m not very fond of baked beans.”
“I’ll get something else.”
They walk up the worn granite steps.
“Pete?”
“Yeah.”
“I need to pick up a few things, women’s stuff, you know, and I don’t have any money.”
“I can get them.”
“Women’s products?”
“Oh. Right.” He fumbles in his pockets and gives her a ten-pound note.
“I don’t know how much… if you need more…”
“Maybe just a little.”
He gives her another tenner. She unfurls the crumpled notes and folds them neatly.
“How long will you be?”
“An hour.”
“I’ll meet you back here.”
Holly goes into Boots and buys a toothbrush, toothpaste, tampons and deodorant, along with a cheap pair of sunglasses and two pairs of knickers. She walks outside and transfers her purchases into an old plastic bag, which she hides in a rubbish bin. Then she goes back into the Boots and picks up exactly the same items—same brands, same amounts—putting them into the original bag.
She goes to the checkout.
“I’m really sorry. I just bought all this stuff not realizing my boyfriend had already picked it up. We both had the same shopping list. Great minds, you know…”
“Do you have the receipt?” asks the checkout girl.
“Of course, it’s here somewhere.” Holly makes a show of searching her pockets. She finds the receipt. The girl checks off the items and opens the cash regis
ter. She gives Holly nineteen pounds and seventy-five pence.
“It’s nice that your boyfriend goes shopping for you,” she says.
“Yeah, he’s a real sweetheart.”
Outside Holly retrieves the stuff she hid in the bin. She can smell the coffee and muffins at Starbucks across the road. She now has money, clean underwear and toiletries… why not give herself a treat? She’s walking past the front window of Dixons and notices a bank of TV screens all showing the same images, a news report.
A photograph flashes across the multiple screens. Holly pauses, trying to remember how she knows the face. Where? When? The scrolling banner says something about a missing banker. The shot changes to a press conference. A woman is reading a statement into a microphone. Holly pushes through the glass door and stands in front of the screens.
“If you’re watching this, Richard, if you can hear me… if you’re able to call… I just want to know you’re OK. I know you can explain. I know you’re a good man…”
Holly stares at the row of TVs. She finds herself looking from one to the other, expecting the story to change. She remembers the missing banker and his house. There were toys in his living room. He said his wife was away for the weekend. They met at a bar in the City. He was drunk. Horny. Worried about something. He took her home.
The rolling banner gives his name: Richard North. Missing millions, it reads. Is this why Zac died? Is this why people are chasing her?
A shop assistant is standing next to her in a pressed white shirt and narrow tie. Indian. Early twenties.
“Can I help with something?”
“Do you have a phone?”
“Our phone section is over there?”
“I don’t want to buy one—I want to borrow one.”
The sales assistant takes out his own mobile. Emptying her pockets, Holly finds a worn square of white cardboard: Ruiz’s name and his home phone number. She punches the keys, tucking the phone between her shoulder and ear. There’s no answer. She starts to leave a message, but pauses, turning to the assistant.
The Wreckage: A Thriller Page 24
