The Wreckage: A Thriller (36 page)

“I don’t think that’s likely to happen.”

“I’m losing my sense of balance. My moral compass.”

“Your compass is just fine.”

Ruiz hesitates. “I’m going to tel you something now—and you’re probably going to question my judgment.”

“Go on.”

“Hol y Knight came to the church.”

“Where is she now?”

“Somewhere safe.”

“Did you cal the police?”

“No.”

“They can keep her safe.”

“They’l hand her over.”

“Maybe that’s not a bad thing.”

Ruiz’s eyes are flat, his hands motionless. “First these people offered me a bribe, then they kicked down my front door and terrorized my neighbors, then they turned up at my daughter’s wedding. You don’t
work
with people like that. If you’re lucky they’l yel ‘watch out’ before the freight train runs you down.” Ruiz pauses and contemplates a long career when he submitted himself to playing by the rules, upholding the law, protecting the weak, prosecuting the wicked. There was a time when he believed that it was his duty. He would pause outside New Scotland Yard at night and stare at the lighted windows, tel ing himself, “I did good work today. I served the people.” At the same time he had accepted the fact that, as a police officer, in al probability, he would become an instrument that delivered irreparable harm to a variety of individuals; some who designed their own destinies; others who were simply bystanders. He could even argue that occasional y innocent people are expedient and might have to die or go to prison for the benefit of many.

What had changed? Why is he now so determined to protect Hol y Knight against forces he can never hope to identify, let alone defeat? Maybe there is a bit of Don Quixote in al men his age. They tilt at windmil s because they don’t want to grow old.

Joe is stil waiting for an explanation.

“Hol y saw a TV report—the one about the missing banker,” says Ruiz. “She and Zac robbed him a week ago.” Joe holds his drink to his lips, but it doesn’t go any further. The information warrants a pause.

“You think the disappearance is related to Zac’s murder?”

“I’m working on that theory.”

“I can’t imagine a banker being the sort who would torture someone. It takes a very special individual to rip off pieces of flesh with a set of pliers.”

“I take it you mean ‘special’ in a negative way.”

“A psychopath or someone wired to the eyebal s.”

“Maybe the guy had a meltdown.”

“Over what?”

“Embezzling funds. Laundering money. Something il egal.”

“That stil doesn’t explain why everyone is so interested in finding Hol y Knight. What did they steal?”

“Good question.”

“She must have some idea.”

“Maybe it’s not obvious. Maybe she doesn’t know.”

The two men drink in silence, contemplating the path ahead. Ruiz raises his glass and works his throat, wipes his lips, belches quietly.

“I want you to look after her.”

“Me?”

“My phones are being tapped and they’re fol owing me, so you might have to keep her safe.”

“Where is she?”

“A tourist hotel in Bayswater.” Ruiz scratches at his jaw, making a sandpaper sound. “You should talk to her. Do that thing you do.”

“What thing?”

“The mental picturing.”

“A cognitive interview?”

“That’s it. Find out what she can’t remember. If she’s hiding something.” Ruiz glances at a kissing couple. One of the bridesmaids is giving mouth-to-mouth to her boyfriend. “You can’t go home to Rainvil e Road. Stay at the hotel with Hol y. Do you have any cash?”

“A little.”

“Find a hole in the wal and get cashed up. After that don’t use credit or debit cards. Cabs rather than public transport. No Oyster cards.”

“Is al that real y necessary?”

“They’re trying to get to Hol y through me and they’l know about you soon enough.”

Ruiz stil has the professor’s mobile. He removes the SIM card and hands it back.

“How do I contact you?”

Ruiz scrawls a phone number on the back of a business card. “You cal and leave a message with Capable Jones. Use a public cal box wel away from the hotel. Don’t use my name on an open connection or the computers wil kick in. Don’t stay too long on the line.”

“Now you’re starting to scare me.”

“It’s going to be fine. I’m just thinking ahead.”

“I hear that great chess players can think five moves ahead.”

“I’m not a great chess player.”

“How many moves ahead are you?”

“One.”

“That doesn’t seem like enough.”

“It is when it’s the right one.”

28

LONDON

Late evening, the weather has turned. Wind thrashes branches against the sides of houses and rattles rain against the windows. Keeping to the shadows, he approaches the house from the darkest end of the street, using the trees to shield himself. Rain sluices off the brim of his basebal cap as he studies the rear façade, noticing the downpipes and windows.

There is a light on in the upstairs bathroom, a woman moving behind the frosted glass. Steam rol ing across the light, fogging the mirror, condensing on the tiles.

Leaves cling to his wet shoulders, making him look like an extension of the hedge, more plant than animal, more animal than human. He doesn’t like the set-up. He prefers long-range targets viewed through the scope of a rifle.

She has read her little boy a story. Put him to bed. Brought him a glass of water.

Peering through a downstairs window, he looks for the security panel on the wal . It’s not armed. The broken window did its job.

Gloves on. The key. Upstairs.

Elizabeth soaks in the bath, her eyes closed, her head resting on a towel. She hears something outside and holds herself, listening. The wind and rain are like watery insects in her ears.

A car engine starts then disappears down the street.

When the water begins to cool she pushes herself up, wrapping a robe around her body. She pauses at the fogged mirror, rubbing a hole to examine her face. There are lines she hasn’t noticed before. Delicate cracks like soft pencil marks.

Pul ing on a nightdress, she crawls into bed, asleep almost immediately, dreaming she can feel North’s warm body next to her. In the early years of their marriage, before Rowan was born, North would sometimes wake her in the middle of the night, kissing her nipples and stroking her stomach and thighs. She would moan and smile with drowsy expectation, her legs opening almost instinctively.

At some point she wakes. The wind seems to breathe through the upper windows, locked open a few inches to create a cross draught. Rowan is snuffling on the monitor. He snores like his father, only softer.

“Hel o, Elizabeth,” rasps a voice.

Her eyes are wide open now. She looks around the room.

“Can you hear me?”

It’s coming from the monitor; from lips pressed against the plastic microphone.

“Such a fine-looking boy, he sleeps so peaceful y.”

Out of bed she crosses the floor, running along the corridor. Rowan’s bedroom door is open. The nightlight casts a soft yel ow halo. Her eyes search for him. They open to someone else.

A gloved hand covers her mouth and nose, warm and hard against her lips and teeth. He wrenches her head back into his own, drawing her body into his loins, a belt buckle hard-edged against the smal of her back, his unshaved jaw scraping like emery paper across her cheek.

He drags her along the corridor into the darkness of her bedroom, throwing her on to the mattress, where he presses the gun to her temple.

Elizabeth pul s the bedclothes around her.

“Please don’t hurt us. Take whatever you want. My purse is over there, but I don’t have any money.”

“You utter another sound and you die here and now.”

She nods. The cold ring of steel is pressed above her left eye. His face is covered in a handkerchief like a cowboy. His sodden black shirt is molded to his chest.

He twists the gun into her temple. “Who else is in the house?”

“Nobody.”

He presses the barrel to her mouth, forcing it between her lips, into her throat, making her gag.

“Who else is in the house?”

Her lips move around the barrel. She shakes her head, pleading with her eyes.

Pul ing the gun free, he wipes the barrel on the bedding.

“Are you afraid?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Of what?”

“Of you.”

Elizabeth can see into his eyes. Empty. Bottomless. They remind her of something from her childhood—an old abandoned wel in the garden, covered up and sealed with a metal grate. She would lie upon the cover and peer into the blackness, feeling the updraft as if the hole was breathing like the nostrils of a sleeping giant.

“You have some photographs.”

She shakes her head.

“You know the ones I mean.”

“In my handbag… on the dresser. Take them.”

Tucking the gun in the waistband of his jeans, he searches the bag. Finding the photographs, he folds them roughly and stuffs them inside his shirt.

“Where are the rest of them?”

“That’s al .”

“You’re lying to me.”

“No.”

“Do I have to bring your boy in here?”

“No. Please.”

“Your husband had a notebook—where is it?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“What about the girl he brought home?”

“I don’t know who she is.”

The Courier sits on the bed. The sheets are knotted in Elizabeth’s hands and drawn up beneath her chin. He traces the barrel of the gun down her cheek across her lips, over her chin to her neck. Lower stil … between her breasts… brushing against her pregnancy.

He reacts as though scalded, rearing backwards and pointing the gun at her stomach. Elizabeth lowers the bedclothes. Her nightdress is bunched between her closed thighs. He’s staring at her pregnancy as though witnessing a miracle.

“Turn around. Face down. Hands above your head.”

“Do you know where my husband is?”

“Count to a thousand.”

“Please tel me where he is.”

“Louder! I want to hear the numbers. If you cal the police, if you tel anyone, I wil come back and cut your baby out of your womb. It wil be the last thing you see before you die.” Elizabeth begins counting slowly, her mouth almost too dry to make the words. The room is quiet. She stops. Listens. Rain gurgles in the downpipes. Wind shakes the trees.

Crawling out of bed, she goes to Rowan’s room, placing her hand upon his chest, feeling for his heartbeat. Then she slips into bed next to him, placing her arms around his sleeping form, protecting him from the monsters.

We are not descended from fearful men. Not from men who feared to write, to speak, to associate, and to defend causes that were for the moment unpopular.

EDWARD R. MURROW

1

LONDON

Holy opens the curtains, dividing the room with angled light. The overnight storm has passed and the sky is the color of tarnished silverware. The bruise on her cheek has faded but if she presses it hard enough she can stil feel it beneath her skin. Zac’s bruise: the last one he inflicted upon her. A souvenir. No, that’s not the word she wants. A reminder.

She should cal his parents. Help make arrangements for the funeral. She only met them once. Zac told them that she was a legal secretary and was helping him sue the army for compensation. Can you sue the army for war injuries, she wondered. Maybe the government doesn’t al ow it.

There is a knock on the door. Her heart leaps. She checks the window. The fire escape is her escape route.

“Who is it?”

“I’m looking for Florence.”

“Just a minute.”

Hol y pul s on a pair of jeans and picks up a lamp from a table between the beds. Unlocking the door, she steps behind it, holding the lamp above her head.

The door opens. Nobody enters.

“You don’t need that,” says the voice.

Hol y looks across the room and sees her reflection in the mirror. The man in the hal way can see her.

“I’m a friend of Vincent’s. You can cal me Joe.”

She studies him for a moment, looking for the lie, then lowers the lamp on to the table. Joe steps into the room.

“I brought you something to eat,” he says, handing her a paper bag with handles. “I didn’t know if you were a vegetarian so I brought you both.” Hol y rips open the wrapping and bends into a sandwich greedily, forcing the corner of the bread into her mouth.

“How do you know Vincent?” she asks between mouthfuls.

“We’ve worked together.”

“Are you a copper?”

“A psychologist.”

Hol y searches his face. He’s tel ing the truth. She starts on the second sandwich.

“Can I sit down?” he asks.

“Do what you like.”

The hotel room is just big enough for two single beds, a wardrobe and an armchair worn smooth by many buttocks. It smel s of ancient lacquer and cheap perfume and, somehow faintly, of wet tobacco trodden into the carpets.

“So?”

“So what?”

“How did you sleep?”

She laughs. “This conversation sounds like a real winner.”