Sitting on the steps of a terrace house, Ruiz watches the Mercedes for half an hour, making sure that it’s not under surveillance. Satisfied, he runs his fingers under the wheel arches and the bumpers, looking for tracking devices. Then he gets behind the wheel and drives away, heading east along Old Brompton Road, running the first red light just to make sure.
At Lancaster Gate he wakes the hotel night manager by leaning on the buzzer. Pays extra for a room. He slips a note under the professor’s door, not wanting to wake him. Opening the window, he undresses and lies down on top of the sheets, with one arm across his eyes. The curtains, printed with small pink flowers, are lifting and settling in the breeze. He can hear cars and horns in the street. A party. People fighting on the pavement. Glass breaking.
Sleep never comes on its own terms. Insomnia is part of his metabolism, lying awake in the dark of the night, his breath loud in his chest. He used to rage against it, medicate, drink too much, exercise to exhaustion, but now he’s learned to survive upon less, tasting the ash in his mouth each morning and feeling the grit in his eyes.
When he finally dozes, he remembers the American with his southern drawl, wishing Claire a happy wedding. He can still feel the weight of the gun in his hand, his finger on the trigger. He can picture putting a neat hole in the American’s forehead, red mist on the window behind. He had contemplated pulling the trigger. Wished for an excuse. Not a good state of mind.
16
LONDON
The seven-hour flight ends with a bump on the runway and a delay getting to the gate. Chalcott rolls his carry-on bag through Customs.
“How was the flight?” asks Sobel.
“Terrible.”
“London is lovely at this time of year.”
“What are you, my fucking tour guide?”
Sobel tries to remain stoic as they weave through the crowd to a waiting car. Chalcott has several moods that range from bullying to wheedling self-pity, but bullying is his favorite. A boarding school background most likely, his parents in the diplomatic service, his holidays spent with relatives or in guarded compounds in Third World countries.
“Any sign of North?” asks Chalcott.
“They’re searching the river.”
“He’s dead then?”
“Not confirmed.”
“If we keep Terracini quiet, we should be back on track.”
“In essence.”
“What does that mean?”
Sobel adopts a passive-aggressive tone. “Luca Terracini accessed the newspaper archives last night. He downloaded photographs of Yahya Maluk and Ibrahim.”
“You said you had Terracini under control.”
“We have someone at the newspaper keeping watch. We’re ready to intervene.”
“If Ibrahim is spooked, he’ll clear the accounts.”
“We can follow the trail.”
“You’re stating the obvious, Brendan, but things that are solid can melt into air.”
Chalcott goes to the wrong side of the car. Forgets about the left-hand drive. Curses. Gets in the passenger seat. The drive from Heathrow takes them over the A4 flyover, past buildings used as billboards and a neon sign flashing the temperature: 21 degrees. It is four years since Chalcott was last in London. Each year it gets more crowded, less charming and slightly shabbier. Changing by the week or by the day, leaving most people confused.
“There is one more thing,” says Sobel. “The audit at Mersey Fidelity could show up some discrepancies.”
“What sort of discrepancies?”
“Unexplained deposits and withdrawals. It could set off alarm bells.”
“Who’s conducting the audit?”
“Not one of ours.”
“Can we change the personnel?”
“This is England, we can’t just…”
“What? Change an auditor? Pardon my fucking ignorance, but aren’t we supposed to be allies? We fought two fucking wars pulling their skinny white butts out of the European mud. Where’s the quid pro quo, eh? Where’s the ‘you scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours’?
“Let me tell you something, Brendan, if this goes pear-shaped, our political friends in Washington are going to wash their hands of us. Remember the Iran-Contra Affair? Secret arms sales to fund that dirty little war in Nicaragua? This will make it look like a fucking accounting error.”
17
LONDON
Ruiz wakes mid-morning. Joe O’Loughlin is sitting in a chair beside the window, his face tilted to the light, color in his hollowed cheeks.
“I knocked. You didn’t answer. The chambermaid let me in.”
“What time is it?”
“Ten. How did you sleep?”
“Lousy.”
“You’re not very clear on this sleep concept, are you?”
“It’s overrated.”
Ruiz rubs his jaw. He needs a shave. He should have bought a razor as well as a toothbrush. Sitting on the side of the bed in his underwear, he props his forearms on his thighs.
The two men recount their yesterdays. Ruiz tells him about Elizabeth North’s photographs and Colin Hackett’s murder; worlds within worlds, bleeding into each other. Joe has a way of listening that encourages people to add the small details, but doesn’t judge the story or the way it’s being told.
“How’s Holly?” asks Ruiz.
“Demanding. Bored. Monosyllabic. It’s like being at home with my own teenage daughter.”
“Charlie is still a princess.”
“To you maybe.”
“Where is Holly now?”
“Watching DVDs in her room. She’s very fond of you—she keeps asking me questions.”
“What sort of questions?”
“She says you’re the saddest person she’s ever met.”
The statement rattles something inside Ruiz, but he refuses to let it show. He opens the curtains. A wind sweeps wetly through the trees and a damp sunlight glistens from the leaves.
“You were supposed to be finding stuff out about her.”
“I think I know why she doesn’t trust the police.”
Ruiz looks over his shoulder, waiting for the rest.
“Remember I told you about the rape allegation. It involved a twenty-year-old engineering student who she met at a party in Hounslow. The rape was supported by forensic evidence—semen and vaginal tearing—but the CPS didn’t proceed.”
“What happened?”
“Holly’s alleged rapist was the son of a senior police officer. He claimed she consented and had begged for rough sex. He produced a dozen witnesses who said Holly had initiated the encounter. His lawyers dragged up Holly’s juvenile record—the fire at her foster home. She was considered to be unstable. An unreliable witness.”
“She was shafted.”
“Poor choice of words.”
Ruiz showers and puts on the same clothes. He rubs a bar of soap beneath the arms of his shirt, trying to neutralize the odor.
Ever since he met Holly Knight, he’s been clinging to the belief that he would find someone who could answer her questions. Either that or the facts would be dragged to the surface until he had enough to form a picture. He was prepared to be patient, ignoring the background “noise,” but the mystery had merely deepened.
Joe is still sitting by the window.
“I asked Holly about the notebook. She can’t remember it.”
“Maybe you should ask her again.”
Ruiz picks up the bedside phone and punches a number.
“Capable.”
“Mr. Ruiz.”
“Don’t use my name. What have you got for me?”
Capable begins explaining how he accessed the computer records, circumventing firewalls and piggybacking from one database to the next. Ruiz interrupts. “I don’t care how you did it, Capable. That’s like wanting to know what my butcher puts in his sausages.”
“Huh?”
“I’m in a hurry. What about my mobile?”
“Oh. Right. I t
raced the blue Audi to a basement garage in an office block near Tower Bridge. Serviced offices. Ten floors. The parking space is reserved for a company that doesn’t put its name on the board in the foyer. It has unlisted numbers and a high-speed broadband connection. Serious firewall protection.”
“How many employees?
“No way of telling.” Capable is tapping at a keyboard. “I managed to get into the garage. The Audi had a service sticker on the windscreen. A dealership in West London does the work.
“The Audi has false plates, but the chassis number was sold to a dealer in Watford in 2009. Then it was leased to a private company in London that quoted a non-existent VAT number. I’ve been through Companies House. It was a shelf company set up in the mid-nineties by a firm of accountants in Hampstead. The company was first registered in July 1997. Listed as an IT security operation. It’s the affiliate of a Washington-based company called Holyrod Limited. The company director is listed as an Andrew Broderick who works for a law firm in Washington. Four identical Audis are listed at the same office address. The bills are paid on a company credit card owned by a Brendan Sobel.”
“He got a private address?
“Not that I can find.”
“OK,” says Ruiz. “I need another favor. Get a list of restaurants in the area. See if they take bookings from a Brendan Sobel.”
“You think he dines out?”
“The man has to eat.”
Walking as far as the Edgware Road, Ruiz finds a florist near the tube station. The bunch of flowers costs him twenty-five quid with a card in plain white envelope. He pays cash and is very specific about the delivery instructions to an address in Hampstead. Mrs. Elizabeth North must sign for the flowers personally. Nobody else.
He takes a moment to compose a message.
Elizabeth,
I need you to trust me. Find an excuse to leave the house. Be aware that you may be followed. There is a car wash on Archway Road in Haringey. Ask for a wash and wax. Go inside and order a coffee. After five minutes get up and go to the ladies. There is a fire door. I’ll be waiting for you.
Ruiz
PS Don’t tell anybody about this.
18
LONDON
Elizabeth can hear her father arguing with someone over the intercom. A van is parked at the gates, visible on the CCTV camera. The driver is holding a bunch of flowers.
“How do I know you’re not a reporter?” asks Bach.
“Because I’m not,” says the driver, who looks bemused rather than frustrated. “The flowers are for Mrs. Elizabeth North.”
“Who sent them?”
“I don’t know. I just deliver them. I don’t grow them. I don’t pick them. I just deliver them.”
Elizabeth interrupts. “Let him in, Daddy. He’s just doing his job.”
She meets the driver at the front door with her father hovering. Then she puts the blooms in the kitchen sink. Reads the card.
“Who are they from?”
“Mitchell,” she lies.
“Is he apologizing?”
“Yes.”
Afterwards she borrows Jacinta’s car, not the matching Mercedes, but a low-slung Japanese sporty number with sleek lines, minimal headroom and a surfeit of horsepower. If ever a car suited her stepmother… Squeezing behind the wheel, she has to adjust the seat to give Claudia some room. The indicators are on the opposite side and she hasn’t driven a manual in years, but she makes the journey without destroying the clutch or the gearbox.
Heads turn as she pulls into the car wash. The young cleaners admire the car, wondering if the driver is equally sexy. They see her pregnancy and go back to their buckets and sponges.
Ordering a coffee, Elizabeth sits at a table by the window, pretending to browse through a magazine. After a few minutes she goes to the ladies and finds the fire door. Pushing it open, she steps outside, skirting rubbish bins and parked cars, wishing she’d worn more practical shoes.
Ruiz is waiting at the end of the alley.
“Do you have your mobile?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“You should turn it off. People are following me. They might also be following you.”
Elizabeth stops walking. “Did you talk to Holly Knight? Does she have the notebook?”
“We’ll talk in the car.”
“I want to meet her.”
“That’s not going to help.”
“I want to know what they talked about; what North said to her. Did he talk about me? Did she know he was married?”
“Holly didn’t start all this. She’s not the cause of North’s problems—you know that.”
They’re arguing on the street—a heavily pregnant woman and a man old enough to be her father. Ruiz puts his hands on the small of her back, steering her towards the door. Elizabeth stands her ground.
“Don’t treat me like a child. You have no stake in this.”
Ruiz stops. Holds up his hands. “You’re right. I don’t have to be here. It’s not my problem. I should go home.”
The harshness in his tone takes Elizabeth by surprise. She apologizes and gets in the car, letting Ruiz adjust her seat belt.
“They found North’s car,” she says, trying to explain. “They don’t know if he’s…” She can’t finish the sentence. Instead she grimaces and her body folds forward over the seat belt. A cramp. A contraction. She takes short breaths until the pain eases.
“How often is it happening?”
“It’s not a real contraction, only pressure pains.”
“When was the last time you saw a doctor?”
“I’m fine.”
They drive in silence across North London, taking the North Circular through Golders Green, past Brent Cross and down Hanger Lane and Gunnersbury Avenue into Chiswick.
“The photographs that Colin Hackett took—who did you show them to?”
“The police… my father… Yahya Maluk.”
“Anyone else?”
“I don’t think so.”
Ruiz changes the subject. “Can I ask you something? Your nanny… Polina.”
Elizabeth stops picking at her nail polish. “What about her?”
“Why did she leave?”
Elizabeth lifts one shoulder and drops it again. “It was all too chaotic… North had gone missing, the media were camped outside, the phone always ringing…”
“How did you come to hire her?”
“She was working for my brother and his wife. Mitchell and Inga’s children had started school. My need was greater.”
“When did she start?”
“Eight months ago.” Elizabeth has turned to look directly at Ruiz, whose eyes stay on the road. “Why are you so interested in Polina?”
He doesn’t answer.
“What is it?” she asks again.
“Nothing.”
“Tell me.”
“It’s not my place.”
“What sort of answer is that? I’m sick of people keeping secrets or telling me lies or tiptoeing around me like I’m going to break if they make a loud noise. My husband lied to me. He kept secrets. Maybe he broke the law. If you’re not going to tell me the truth, you can stop the car and let me out here.”
They’re in Chiswick, close to Bridget Lindop’s house.
“How did your husband get on with Polina?” asks Ruiz.
Elizabeth narrows her eyes. Her mouth opens but no sound emerges. She is focused on something miles away that seems to be coming closer, getting larger, like a speeding freight train.
“The police found semen stains in Polina’s bedroom,” says Ruiz. “They matched the DNA to your husband. Maybe you accidentally swapped sheets.”
“Polina’s bed is a single,” says Elizabeth.
For a moment Ruiz thinks she’s missed the point, but Elizabeth knows exactly what she’s being told. Brash, seductive, hungry Polina with her graceful body, textbook English and strangely beautiful, heavy-lidded eyes had been sleeping with North. She had ironed his shir
ts and folded his socks and serviced him in other ways.
Reaching back through her memories of the previous months, Elizabeth searches for evidence: North’s hand brushing Polina’s hip as he squeezed past the ironing board; another on her shoulder as he reached past her for a mug. He would tease Polina about her accent, or stay up late to watch a movie with her, or laugh at some private joke that Elizabeth could never quite understand.
Polina had denied seeing North that Friday when Colin Hackett followed him back to the house. They were three hours together. Alone.
For a moment Elizabeth’s courage seems to fail and she coughs as though she’s inhaled something toxic and has to clear out her lungs. Ruiz pulls over and opens the door. She leans out, her innards heaving. Gagging. Retching. He holds back her hair as she vomits into the gutter.
No words for her.
19
LONDON
The corner house is a two-storey terrace with parrot-green window frames and flower boxes full of summer annuals. Nobody answers the turtle doorknocker. Another turtle peeks from the garden bed and a third has a metal frame for scraping mud from boots.
Luca knocks again. He crouches and opens the letterbox, peering along a hallway.
“Miss Lindop,” he calls. Listens. Nothing. She’s not at work. He phoned her office.
“Maybe she’s gone out for a while,” says Daniela, glancing up at the first floor. Luca goes to the front window and presses his face to the glass, looking through a crack in the curtains. He can see a thin strip of polished floor and an oriental rug. More turtles are visible on a mantelpiece.
“You wait here,” he tells Daniela.
“Where are you going?”
“To check out the back.”
The terrace is on a corner with one boundary on a different street. There is a garage with a raised roller door and a small Fiat hatchback parked inside. Luca tries the internal door. Locked.
The Wreckage: A Thriller Page 34
