Read The Wreckage: A Thriller Online

Authors: Michael Robotham

Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Mystery & Detective, #Suspense, #Thrillers, #Suspense Fiction, #Bank Robberies, #Ex-Police Officers, #Journalists, #Crime, #Baghdad (Iraq), #Bankers, #Ex-Police, #Ex-Police Officers - England - London

The Wreckage: A Thriller (33 page)

BOOK: The Wreckage: A Thriller
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“I need one more favor,” says Ruiz. “I want you to reroute my cal s.”

“What number?”

“Use this one.”

Ruiz hangs up and wanders back towards the wedding party. Claire and Phil ip are being photographed beneath a fig tree with the canal in the background. Miranda drags him into the next picture: The bride and her father. Smiling stiffly, Ruiz looks past the camera to the main doors of the church. That’s when he sees her in the shadows, her arms wrapped around herself and her feet splayed slightly inwards.

He wants to raise his hand. He wants to cal out. The photographer demands that he smile. Just one more… look this way…

Ruiz slips his hand around Claire’s waist and gives her a squeeze. “This is not my sort of gig. Do you mind?”

“Away you go,” she says, not surprised.

As Ruiz gets nearer, Hol y glances over her shoulder, as though ready to run. Something makes her stay.

“Did you send those men?” she asks.

“No.”

“Who were they?”

“I don’t know.”

“What did they want?”

“They think you stole something.”

Silence. Hol y looks over her shoulder again.

“I tried to cal you,” he says.

“I lost my phone in the river.”

“How did you get away?”

“A boat. I slept on an island. Did you know there were islands on the Thames?”

“Yes.”

She nods and glances at the wedding party. Claire and Phil ip are being posed beneath the arch. The photographer has set up reflectors to soften the light.

“She looks beautiful,” says Hol y, wistful y.

“Yes.”

Another silence.

“There’s something you should know. I saw a story on the TV about a banker who stole lots of money.”

“What about him?”

“That’s one of the guys we robbed, Zac and me. You asked me who they were. He was one of them.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah.”

“When was it?”

“About a week ago, maybe longer.”

“Where?”

“He had a place in Barnes.”

“Could you find the house again?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

Ruiz takes a pen from his pocket. He doesn’t have any paper. He takes her hand, turning her wrist so he can write on the pale skin of her inner arm. The name of a hotel. An address.

“Cal yourself Florence. Take a room at the back on the first floor. There’s a fire escape. Don’t make any phone cal s. Don’t talk to anyone.”

“What about money?”

Ruiz gives her sixty pounds.

“I’l send someone to see you tomorrow. He’l ask for Florence. Don’t open the door for anyone else.”

“How wil I know him?”

“You’l know if he’s lying.”

24

LONDON

It is after dark by the time Elizabeth is alowed to leave the police station. Campbel Smith says a car wil drop her home, but she chooses a cab instead, sinking into the vinyl seat, smel ing the sneaked cigarette the driver has just stubbed out.

Halfway home she glances at the meter and checks her purse. She doesn’t have enough money to pay the fare.

“Do you take debit cards?” she asks.

The driver has a big head and a short neck, making it hard for him to turn. He uses the mirror.

“No, love.”

“Could you find me an ATM, please?”

He sighs and pul s over in Knightsbridge, blocking one lane. Elizabeth crosses the pavement to a cash machine, where she inserts her card and fol ows the instructions.

Nothing happens.

The card emerges from the slot. She tries again, slowly retyping her PIN. The result is the same. Choosing a credit card, she requests a cash advance. The screen freezes for a moment and then says, “Transaction Canceled.” This time her card doesn’t reappear.

Each card. Every account. How is that possible?

Elizabeth glances over her shoulder at the cab driver. She can feel his impatience growing just like the cold creeping into her toes. There is a helpline number on the ATM screen.

Elizabeth opens her mobile and fol ows the automated instructions. In the meantime, she searches the pockets of her coat and the compartments of her purse, hoping to find cash.

A voice answers, an Indian accent, half a world away. Elizabeth tries to explain. The operator wants her password. The cab driver toots his horn. Elizabeth holds up two fingers and shouts, “Two minutes.”

“Your accounts have been frozen, Mrs. North.”

“But we have sufficient funds.”

“It has nothing to do with the account balances.”

Elizabeth can hear her voice growing shril . “What about my credit cards?”

“Suspended.”

“Who did this? Let me talk to your manager?”

“I’m afraid you’l have to visit your branch.”

“But I need money now.”

“Talk to your branch.”

“It’s nearly ten o’clock at night. I have a cab fare to pay.”

The cal center operator apologizes for the inconvenience. Elizabeth argues, demands, yel s down the phone, but the line is dead.

The cab driver is standing on the pavement now, hands on hips, tattoos on his forearms.

“The machine just ate my cards,” she explains. “I only have fifteen pounds and thirty-five pence, but I’l find some money at home. Polina wil have some.”

“Polina?”

“It doesn’t matter. Just take me home.”

The driver gets back in the cab, not bothering to open the door for her. They travel in silence along King’s Road, which is stil busy on a Wednesday night. Elizabeth once worked in a boutique here during a summer holiday. One jacket cost more than a week’s wages. She wishes she had that money now.

They cross Putney Bridge and turn along Lower Richmond Road. A group of young men spil from a pub. One of them jumps into the road, waving his arms. The driver swerves.

Misses. Takes his hand from the wheel.

“Morons!” he yel s, and then to Elizabeth, “Idiots!”

Familiar streets now, turning left and right. There are more vehicles than usual parked in Elizabeth’s street. The cab pul s up, engine running. A dozen car doors open in unison.

Reporters, cameramen and photographers close around the black cab like baying hounds on the scent of a fox. The cab driver is shouting at them to “watch the motor” and “give the lady some room.” He opens the passenger door for Elizabeth and shields her, shouldering people aside as she makes her way along the front path.

Someone grabs at her arm. She pul s away. A tape recorder is thrust in her face.

“Has your husband contacted you?”

“Do you think he took the money?”

“Why has he run?”

Elizabeth reaches the front door. Pushes it closed. There are two suitcases in the hal way. Polina is sitting on the stairs, texting on her mobile.

Elizabeth asks breathlessly, “Do you have any cash? I need twenty pounds.”

Polina pul s a bundle of loose bil s from the pocket of her jeans, a twenty among them. Elizabeth notices the suitcases.

“Is everything al right?”

“I’m leaving.”

“What?”

“Rowan is asleep. The ironing is done. I have made his lunch for tomorrow. I cannot stay.”

“Why?”

Polina motions outside. “They have been ringing the doorbel . Phoning. Yel ing through the letterbox.”

“I’m sorry.”

The nanny shakes her bobbed hair. “I cannot stay here. I cannot.”

Elizabeth fol ows her gaze. She notices a dustpan and brush. Broken glass. The bay window has been smashed. A broken paver sits on the phone table, along with a single-page note. Three words.

Bankers are scum!

Polina squeezes past her, struggling with her suitcases. The cab driver gives her a hand. The reporters and photographers step aside.

“Please don’t go,” says Elizabeth. “What about your money?”

“You can owe me.”

25

LUTON

The old motel is boarded up with plywood on the barred windows and padlocks on the doors. The Courier waits for the young men to arrive, watching from a distance. One of them wil be late—Taj. He’s older and more level-headed than the others, but he lacks conviction.

The one cal ed Rafiq has shown promise. He kil ed when he was asked. Held his nerve. Pul ed the trigger. He has been quiet since then, looking at himself in the mirror as though expecting to see some visible change in himself like the notch between his eyes grown deeper.

Two of the young men have arrived. They are arguing and joking, throwing fake punches and kicking at a soft-drink can in the gutter. How many others are there like them—white, black, Asian, rich, poor, educated, uneducated—praying in Madrasahs, surfing the internet, dreaming of Jihad?

Syd is the youngest. He runs his fingers over the contours of the dark-colored BMW parked at the rear of the motel screened by an overgrown hedge.

“This would be such a sweet ride, you know. I reckon Jenny Cruikshank would go out with me if I had a ride like this.”

“Jenny Cruikshank stil won’t do the business,” laughs Rafiq, “not even in a BMW. She’s a prick-tease, man.”

“Don’t talk about her like that.”

Rafiq laughs even harder, his cheeks etched with tiny acne scars like needle marks. “Don’t let the Courier catch you leaving your prints on that thing.” Syd bunches his sleeve in his fist and begins wiping the car.

Built on either side of a tarmac courtyard, the red-brick motel has two stories with an open walkway along the upper floor. The Courier lets himself into the dining room, which is stripped of furnishings except for a dozen chairs and a tea-urn. There are boxes of donated clothes and blankets—some for disposal, some for sale.

Rafiq and Syd are in Room 12, setting up a digital camera. Folding a magazine, Rafiq jams the pages under one leg of the tripod, which is shorter than the others. Syd sits cross-legged on the floor wearing cargo pants, trainers and an Arsenal strip.

“Should the light be blinking?” he asks.

“It’s stil charging.”

“You got the lens cap on.”

Rafiq checks, then glares at Syd.

“You’re a funny prick.”

Syd giggles and adjusts the
shemagh
on his forehead. His round face is made rounder by an attempted beard that sprouts from his cheeks like alfalfa in wet cotton wool. His father cal s it bum fluff. Says it out loud to embarrass Syd when girls come into the shop. He hates his father then. Hates his braying laugh. Hates how everything is a competition.

“We should have crossed swords in the background.”

“We don’t have any swords.”

“Wel , I should be holding a gun. We’re supposed to look like soldiers.”

“You got khaki trousers.”

“Can you see them? Maybe I should stand up.”

“You’re fine.”

“It stil looks kind of lame.”

Rafiq seems to make a decision. He goes to his rucksack and removes a cloth-covered object, placing it careful y on the table. Unwrapping it with great ceremony, he steps back.

The pistol has a black rubber grip and snub-nosed barrel that soaks up the light.

Syd whistles through his teeth and reaches for it. Rafiq slaps his hand away.

“I just want to touch it.”

“Be careful.”

Syd’s fingers close around the grip. He picks it up and feels the weight, marveling at how balanced it feels. Swinging it left, he aims it at a blank TV screen.

“Is it loaded?”

“You got to treat every gun like it’s loaded, that’s what the Courier says.”

“Where did you get it?”

“The Courier gave it to me.”

“Am I going to get one?”

“You don’t ask him shit like that.”

Syd closes one eye and looks down the barrel. “Why we need guns for, anyway? We’re just gonna blow shit up.”

“Insurance.”

“Against what?”

“Problems.”

Syd glances at the camera. “Can I hold it—just while we’re filming?”

Rafiq takes his time deciding and nods. Syd sits on the floor, crossing his arms with the pistol braced against his chest.

“Do I look like a soldier?”

“You look good.”

“One day of fighting…”

“… is worth eighty of praying.”

He looks into the camera.

“Oh, glorious prophet and vanquisher of the infidels, bless me now as I prepare for holy Jihad against the unbelievers…”

“What’s wrong?”

“I forgot what I was going to say next.”

Syd pul s a slip of paper from his pocket and begins memorizing.

“Just read it.”

“I don’t want to read it. I want to know it off by heart.”

“We’re wasting memory.”

“I got it now. Was I speaking too fast? Sometimes when I get excited I speak too fast.”

“You were fine.”

“Could you hear the words?”

“Yeah.”

“So it was OK?”

“You should say something about being a martyr.”

“But we’re not going to be martyrs. That’s what the Courier said. I’m not going to even pretend. I’m not interested in virgins in Heaven. I’l be happy if Jenny Cruikshank lets me feel her tits.”

“Don’t let the Courier hear you say shit like that.”

“I’m not scared of him.”

“Bol ocks!”

“I’m not.”

Syd looks up and his bowels seem to liquefy. The Courier is standing in the doorway as if he has suddenly materialized from thin air. Syd scrambles to his feet. Bows his head.

Palms together. Salaam.

“Where is Taj?” asks the visitor.

“He’s running late,” says Rafiq. “His wife wanted him to mind their baby.”

“I can go look for him,” suggests Syd, who likes being around Aisha, Taj’s wife, even though she makes him nervous. Pretty girls do that to him and Aisha is so beautiful he finds her painful to look at. How did Taj manage to get a wife like that? Honey-colored eyes. Perfect skin. Glo-white teeth. When Syd’s time comes, his parents are likely to choose some fat cow with a stutter.

The Courier has moved into the room and taken a seat on a plastic chair. He motions them to sit down. He has a job for them.

“We have to dump the banker’s car.”

“What about his body?” asks Rafiq.

“That too.”

26

BAGHDAD

Daniela’s bags are packed and waiting on a luggage troley by the door. Her flight leaves in four hours, the first leg to Istanbul and then on to New York. By this time tomorrow she’l be back in her one-bedroom apartment with its dodgy plumbing and her weird neighbor who works al night in a basement under strange flickering lights.

BOOK: The Wreckage: A Thriller
13.03Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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