Using his hands, he tries to relieve the pressure on his neck, but eventually he gets tired and his legs drop, cutting off his air supply.
He endures on the edge of consciousness, picturing his own funeral, imagining the eulogies, putting words in people’s mouths. Julianne inconsolable. Wanting him back.
“You will not see the morning,” the man had said when he pressed the gun to Joe’s forehead, waking him from a dream. A good dream, Julianne had been in it. They were reconciled. Getting physical. Oxygen deprivation is supposed to heighten sexual pleasure.
Joe rolls on to his stomach feeling four gospels and two testaments of pain. He rolls again, resting his head against the inside of the door. If he loses consciousness he’ll suffocate. Raising his head an inch, he takes a breath and brings it down against the door. It rattles with a dull thunk. Back and forth he rolls, his bruises like burning charcoal.
The night manager is complained to. Summoned. The door unlocked. Ropes untied. Tape cut away. An ambulance called. The journey to the hospital made in a haze of opiates and questions. His voice box has been bruised. He can’t make them understand.
Later he wakes in hospital, his neck smothered in ointment where the nylon rope chaffed and broke his skin. Ruiz is outside his room, bellowing something at an unfortunate nurse.
“This is me calm, OK. You don’t want to see me upset.”
The door seems to narrow as he enters with the nurse hanging on to his left arm, but not in a romantic way.
Joe looks at him for the single longest second of his life. Tries to speak. The sound is a strangled croak.
“What’s wrong with his voice?” Ruiz asks the nurse.
“His voice box was damaged.”
“Is he going to be able to talk?”
“In a few days.”
Ruiz pulls up a chair and reaches across the sheet, taking Joe’s hand in both of his. Squeezes. It’s the most intimate physical contact they’ve ever shared.
Joe tries to speak, mouthing the word “Holly.”
“She’s gone. I’m going to get her back. How many?”
Joe raises one finger.
“Recognize him?”
He shakes his head.
“If he hurts her I’ll kill him. I’ll rip out his arsehole and stitch it into his mouth.”
A police officer appears, puffing, having run down the corridor. Uniformed. Nervous at the sight of Ruiz, he has one hand on his radio.
“Step back from the bed, sir. No visitors are allowed.”
Ruiz asks for a moment longer. Joe is trying to say something. “Where were you?”
“I fucked up. I’m sorry.”
He’s about to stand. Joe pulls him closer, mouthing words.
“Find her.”
“I will.”
Ruiz nods to the police officer and apologizes to the nurse. Then he takes the corridor and the stairs. Crossing the foyer, he passes Campbell Smith, who is dressed in full uniform, marching like he’s on parade. Ruiz doesn’t stop.
“Where are you going?”
No answer.
“What are you, Vincent? Not a police officer. Not a private detective. All you do is make things worse.”
Still no response. The doors are closing. Campbell again.
“This is your fault. We could have protected her.”
34
LONDON
Luca and Daniela are waiting for Ruiz at the hotel, fear hanging over them like a curse. Nothing they say can make him feel any less responsible. His fault. His guilt.
They take a table at a café. The morning well advanced.
“This should have been over,” says Ruiz. “People got what they wanted.”
“Ibrahim didn’t,” says Daniela.
“Nor did the bank,” adds Luca.
Studying his scarred hands, Ruiz closes his eyes, warding off a fresh wave of hurt. He should call Julianne, Joe’s estranged wife. Explain. Apologies. What would he say? If Julianne had her way, Joe would never be friends with someone like Ruiz. She’d have him wrapped in cotton wool, safely tenured at some university, disconnected from the real world.
Daniela and Luca are talking about the money-laundering investigation. They have spent the past twenty-four hours tracing some of the transactions, following the money trail between various accounts. They are so comfortable together they’re starting to finish each other’s sentences.
“We’re concentrating on the Middle East,” says Daniela. “We’ve linked twelve accounts to Saudi Arabia, eight to Syria, five to Pakistan, fourteen to Iran and six to Indonesia. We’ve found an indirect link between one of the accounts and the militant group responsible for the Bali bombing in 2002. ATM withdrawals.”
“What about accounts linked to UK addresses?” Ruiz asks.
“Not so much,” says Daniela. “There’s an address in Luton, but that looks like a dead end. We’re looking at others in Italy and Germany.”
Ruiz is staring back at her. “What did you say?”
“About Italy and Germany?”
“Before that.”
“Luton. There were money transfers to a private postbox in Luton. A hundred thousand pounds.”
“Who owns the postbox?”
“A Muslim charity, but it looks legitimate.”
Ruiz is holding his breath. Exhales. “When Colin Hackett was following Richard North he went to a postbox in Luton. He mentioned a charity. When I talked to Hackett’s niece she told me that her uncle was in Luton looking for the missing banker on the day she called him and he came back to London. That was the day he died.”
Ruiz is already moving.
Luca has grabbed his coat. “Where are you going?”
“To find a car.”
Charlton Car Impound looks like a World War II prison camp with razor wire atop an eight-foot-high perimeter fence. Spread over nearly four acres, the compound is covered by tarmac and a series of brick warehouses with iron roofs and roller doors.
This is where vehicles are towed if they’re involved in serious accidents, or abandoned, or used in crimes, or seized by the police or the courts.
The office has a staff of three, hardened souls with a thankless job—a twelve-hour shift full of abuse and insults from members of the public who find their cars have been towed from red routes or double-yellow lines; or because they are unlicensed, uninsured, untaxed or being driven by a drunk. Thank you, sir/madam, that’s two hundred pounds—we accept cash or credit cards. No American Express.
The guy behind the counter is black, six-two, and has granny glasses perched on the edge of his nose. It’s like seeing Mike Tyson wearing a pinafore.
“I need to look at a car,” says Ruiz.
“You got the plate number?”
“No.”
“Was it towed under your name?”
“No.”
“Registration paper or owner’s license?”
“It’s not my car.”
His eyes move from Ruiz to Luca. “Are you guys taking the piss?”
“It was towed here two days ago from Earls Court. It belonged to a Colin Hackett.”
“Are you a copper?”
“Not anymore,” says Ruiz.
“A private detective?”
“Not as such.”
“Can’t help you. You’re not authorized. Move aside. I got people in the queue.”
Ruiz can hear a scraping sound inside his head like a blade being sharpened on a stone. Holly has been missing for nearly eight hours. Getting further away. There must be four hundred cars on the lot—each with a number and grid reference. Even if they could get past the security, it could take them hours to find Hackett’s car.
Through a reinforced window, he notices a mud-streaked truck pull up at the boom gate. The driver jumps down from his cab to sign paperwork. He tucks the pen behind his ear.
Ruiz tells Luca to wait in the Merc. “I won’t be long.”
He leaps a low fence and walks towards the gates.
“How’s the Pekingese?”
Dave looks up from the clipboard.
“Shitting all over my carpets, but it’s still better company than my wife. What are you doing here?”
“I’m looking for a car, but the lads behind the counter aren’t being very helpful. I don’t have any paperwork.”
“Not official business.”
“Just as important.”
Dave glances across the lot where cars are lined up in neat rows. “Is this going to get me into trouble?”
“It could save someone’s life.”
He makes a decision. “Jump in the cab. Stay out of sight until we get inside.”
The truck passes beneath the raised boom and then through a sliding electronic gate. Dave takes a series of turns before stopping in a warehouse. He leads Ruiz to an outer office where the drivers have a tearoom with a jug and chest fridge. Page Three girls with arched backs and melon-like breasts gaze down from the walls, some of them yellowed by age and aged even further by their hairstyles.
Dave makes a call. Asks about a car towed in from Earls Court. Moments later they’re walking between rows of vehicles. Colin Hackett’s Renault is at the back of the lot parked against a brick wall. A common make, a common color, it was chosen to blend in with the traffic when Hackett was tailing unfaithful husbands or insurance cheats. There are fast-food wrappers on the floor, along with separate bottles—one for water, the other for urine—clearly marked to avoid confusion on long stakeouts.
“You got the keys?” asks Ruiz.
“It’s already unlocked.”
“Can you hotwire it?”
Dave is shaking his head, holding up his hands. “You wanted to see the car—you’ve seen it.”
“I’m not going to steal it, Dave—I need to see the satnav.”
The driver squeezes his hands against his temples, unsure of what to do next.
“A young woman was abducted a little while ago,” says Ruiz. “I was supposed to be looking after her. If I don’t find her in the next few hours I don’t know what could happen to her.”
“Abducted?”
“Yeah.”
Dave scratches his jaw and finds a pimple to squeeze. He takes a pen-torch from his pocket. “Here, hold this.”
Opening the door, he leans into the footwell of the Renault and reaches beneath the dashboard, pulling out the electrics. The engine starts on the third touching of the wires. Dave pumps the accelerator with his hand, revving the engine until it idles smoothly. Ruiz taps the screen of the satnav, which lights up with a welcome message. He looks for the last known destination. Bury Park. Luton. He jots down the street name. No number.
Dave takes him out through a side gate on to waste ground between the motorway and a set of newer factories. Following the fence, Ruiz turns the corner and crosses a forecourt before reaching the Mercedes. Sliding behind the wheel, he borrows Luca’s mobile.
“Campbell?”
“Yeah, who’s this?”
“Ruiz. I’ve got a lead on Holly Knight—an address in Luton. Colin Hackett had it programmed into his satnav when he was following Richard North.”
Campbell seems preoccupied. Ruiz wants him to listen. “Hackett and North were both killed by the same caliber pistol. They both went to Luton and both of them finished up dead.”
“Jesus, Ruiz, I told you to stay out of this.”
“I might need some local backup.”
“I can’t spare anyone. We’re pulling warm bodies into London.”
“Why? What’s wrong?”
“Counter terrorism just raised the threat level to critical. An emergency call: a woman called 999 and said something about an attack on London tonight. Pakistani accent. She hung up before we could get details.”
“A verified threat?”
“We’re tracing the call.”
Campbell has a phone ringing in the background. “Go home, Vincent, and stop acting like some third-rate vigilante. We’ll follow your lead tomorrow.”
Ruiz hangs up and looks at the sky, the trees bending in the wind. A storm coming.
35
LUTON
The rain starts falling just north of Watford, a few spits at first, mixing with dust on the windscreen and bleeding down the wipers. Then the clouds break and sheets of rain are swept across the motorway as if the air has turned to water. Ruiz drives with both hands on the wheel; his head canted forward, wanting the traffic to part. He stays in the overtaking lane, flashing his lights at any slow vehicles.
Luca is next to him, still trying to fathom how quickly the euphoria of yesterday has turned to this. Ruiz didn’t ask him to come, but some decisions have all the momentum and certainty of gravity. Nicola had once accused him of sitting on the sidelines, unwilling to get involved, watching and reporting while sharing none of the pain. Maybe she was right. Maybe this is his moment.
“Do you believe in God?” asks Ruiz.
The question is so unexpected that all Luca does is stare at him. “I have a Catholic father and a Muslim mother. I call myself confused.”
Ruiz drums his fingers on the wheel and they drive another mile in silence.
“But it’s the same God, right? Muslim. Christian. Jewish.”
“Yeah.”
“I’ve been in two churches in the past week. I couldn’t remember a single prayer.”
“They say it’s just a conversation with God.”
“Guess I’m not much of a talker.”
Luca doesn’t doubt the statement.
Ruiz can hear the tone of his voice thickening. “I’ve never asked for much or felt entitled. Low expectations, less to be disappointed about. Some people talk about fate or karma or say that luck evens out, a little here or a little there, floating around and falling randomly on people like it’s a raincloud. Holly Knight has been swimming in shit her entire life. She lost a brother, both her parents and a boyfriend—violently, pointlessly. When is Lady Luck going to smile on her?”
“Maybe today,” says Luca.
Ruiz nods. “Yeah, maybe today.”
It’s still pouring when they arrive in Luton, the satnav directing them along Airport Way into Windmill Road, taking the Merc through a series of roundabouts that are threaded together like beads on a string.
“In two hundred yards you will have reached your destination.”
Ruiz parks across the street from an abandoned motel in a neighborhood of warehouses, factories, garages and workshops. The two-storey, red-tiled motel is a leftover from the sixties, built around an asphalt forecourt that glitters with shattered glass. Most of the windows are barred or boarded up. The doors padlocked. Raindrops are bouncing off the windscreen.
“What do you think?” asks Ruiz.
“I think maybe Norman Bates had a British cousin,” replies Luca, peering through the gloom.
Ruiz zips up his waterproof jacket and flips the hood.
“Where are you going?”
“To get a closer look.”
“That’s not a very good plan.”
“You got a better one?”
“I haven’t thought of it yet.”
Instantly wet, Ruiz stays in the shadows, moving across the road and into the forecourt, which is empty except for a van parked near the rear fence. The rooms have numbers. He counts them down and slips his right hand into his jacket. Checks the Glock.
Room 12 has light leaking from behind the curtains. Voices. Accents. For a full minute he listens, trying to pick up the words. He’s twenty yards away without any cover. If anyone walks out of the room they’ll see him immediately. Backing away, he crosses the forecourt in a crouching run and squats beside the stairs.
The door opens. Three men emerge, silhouetted by the light inside. Young. Fit. They walk towards the van and open the rear doors. Ruiz can’t see the interior, but one of the men has something in his hands: a machine pistol. He pulls back the slide mechanism and gazes down the barrel, aiming it at Ruiz, who is invisible in the darkness. More weapons
are checked.
Having seen enough, Ruiz turns into a walkway that takes him behind the hotel, where he follows a chain-link fence back to the road. Luca sees him coming and opens the door.
“So what is it? What did you see?”
“Trouble.”
He turns on Luca’s mobile and calls Campbell, who’s in the middle of a briefing.
“I’ve been trying to reach you. Where are you?”
“Luton.”
“Shit!”
“What’s wrong?”
“We traced that 999 call to a Homebase store in Bury Park, Luton. One of the female employees, Aisha Iqbal, is married to a man on a watchlist. Her husband is booked on a flight to Cairo first thing tomorrow.”
Ruiz rubs a hole in the fogged glass. “I’m looking at a white van. Three up. Pakistani extraction. Heavily armed.”
The van is pulling out of the forecourt. No headlights. Luca cranes forward and reads the number plate. Ruiz relays the information.
“If the van is heading for London it’s going to reach the M1 in about fifteen minutes. You’ll need to do a mobile intercept. In the meantime I need backup.”
“Don’t fuck around, Ruiz. Get out of there.”
“Holly Knight could be inside.”
“No, no, no. You listening? Stand down.”
“You’re breaking up.”
Ruiz hears Campbell bang something hard. “All right, I’m sending a fucking army. You sit tight. They’ll be there in fifteen.”
“What about the van?”
“My problem. Don’t you move.”
The windscreen has fogged again. Ruiz wipes a circle on his side and sees a dark figure emerge from Room 12, a fourth man. He’s carrying something in his right hand—a plastic jerrycan. He crosses the forecourt and disappears from view. Several minutes later he returns.
Ruiz opens the car door.
“Where are you going?”
“Want a closer look.”
“He told us to wait.”
“You wait.”
Retracing his steps along the fence, Ruiz reaches the rear of the motel, keeping an eye on Room 12. The walkway is ahead of him, the rooms in darkness… all but one of them. Room 17 has a padlock hanging on a latch, uncoupled. He slides the bolt and nudges the door.
The Wreckage: A Thriller Page 40
