The Wreckage: A Thriller (18 page)

He should be waking up next to her in his Jermyn Street pajamas with his messed up hair and his morning breath. The selfish bastard! Why isn’t he here with his family?

Elizabeth swings her feet to the floor and pauses, perched on the edge of the mattress, caught between getting out of bed or curling up and crying. She cups her pregnancy in both hands. She has to pee. Claudia is pressing on her bladder.

It’s a girl, according to the ultrasound. Both she and North had said they didn’t care, but secretly they did. Elizabeth’s grandmother was cal ed Claudia, which was one of six possible names they considered until they began using Claudia al the time and it just sort of stuck.

Rowan had complained, of course. Four-year-old boys want baby brothers and don’t understand why swaps aren’t possible; a change of order just like when they get Friday night takeaway from the Bombay Palace on The Green and want extra poppadoms.

Now he’s getting used to the idea. Yesterday morning he brought his trains into Elizabeth’s bed because he wanted to show them to Claudia. He pushed them up and over Elizabeth’s stomach, through the mountain pass of her breasts, making the sound effects.

“Don’t move, Mummy.”

“But it tickles.”

Then he frowned. “I’m worried, Mummy.”

“Why’s that?”

“What if Claudia doesn’t like me?”

“She’s going to love you.”

The baby’s room is only half done. Elizabeth is supposed to be making new curtains but has only finished measuring the windows and buying the fabric. She started with great plans for creating the perfect little girl’s room—an echo of her own childhood—but nothing ever turns out quite like she imagines. She’s not a finisher, that’s her problem.

Making her way to the bathroom, she sits on the toilet and stares at herself in the mirror, frowning. She hasn’t gained much weight in her face and her extremities, but God has seen fit to give her a huge arse, balancing out her bel y.

Downstairs she can hear Polina unloading the dishwasher and fil ing the kettle. Polina is the nanny and she comes from one of those “istan” countries that Elizabeth can never remember because they al sound so similar.

Rowan is downstairs too. He and Polina tend to have very earnest, grown-up discussions about trains and superheroes and aspects of the world that puzzle him. Why do his fingers go wrinkly in the bath? How does he know when to wake up? Why can’t he remember being born? Who would win out of Batman and Spiderman? Important questions when you’re four years old.

One day in the park he asked Elizabeth if he could go and kick a bal with some of the older boys. “Those boys look a bit rough,” she told him and Rowan said, “If I can find a smooth one, can I play with him?”

She should write these things down. One day she’l forget them and she’l have lost a precious memory like a first word or a first smile.

Back in the bedroom she opens the curtains and watches the sun struggle up beyond the rooftops. It’s a view that normal y soothes Elizabeth—the grass, the trees, the slice of moon suspended above the spire of St. Mary’s Church—but today she feels nothing but irritation and foreboding. What if something terrible has happened? North might be hurt. He could be lying in a ditch or unconscious in a hospital. He could have lost his memory or be in a coma.

Squeezing into her maternity trousers, Elizabeth brushes her hair, puts on lip balm and goes downstairs to confront another day. Polina has made Rowan a boiled egg and put it in a ceramic eggcup shaped like a train. His buttered toast soldiers are lined up on either side of the cup. He marches them along the spoon, dunking them in the soft yolk. When Elizabeth boils eggs they are either too runny or too hard. Polina has told her the timings but Elizabeth can never seem to get them right.

Kissing Rowan’s head, she lingers with her nose in his hair, which smel s of apple shampoo.

“Did Daddy come home?”

“Not yet.”

“You said today.”

“Maybe.”

“Where is he?”

“Working.”

“At the bank?”

“Yes.”

Through the window she can see Polina hanging washing on the line. She’s wearing tight jeans and a blouse that looks too smal for her. Her straight short black hair in a pixie cut and narrow neck make her look like a Russian gymnast or a child who has run away to the circus.

Elizabeth inherited her from her sister-in-law, although she could never understand why Inga had been so insistent. Yes, she’d been looking for a new nanny, but wouldn’t normal y have chosen someone as pretty as Polina. It was something her mother had always told her—never hire pretty cleaners or nannies. Why put temptation in your husband’s way?

There were plenty of women, including some of Elizabeth’s own girlfriends, who would happily have slipped into North’s bed if she let the sheets grow cold. These were the same women who complained about their own husband’s sexual demands or their inattentiveness—getting either too much sex or not enough. That’s why Elizabeth made a conscious effort in that department, even during her pregnancy when she was “fugly,” as she cal ed it. It was a maintenance thing: 1) Change batteries in the smoke alarms. 2) Check the air in the tires. 3) Have sex with North…

“Can I watch TV, Mummy?” asks Rowan.

“Have you finished your egg?”

“I only like the runny stuff.”

“That’s cal ed the yolk.”

Elizabeth lifts him down from the chair and turns on the TV in the lounge. Polina has come inside, her cheeks pink with the cold.

“Good morning,” she says, “did you sleep wel ?” Her English sounds as if she is reading it from a phrase book.

“Yes, thank you.”

“Can I get you breakfast?”

“I can sort myself out.”

Polina begins clearing up Rowan’s crumbs. Composting the eggshel . Wiping the table. Elizabeth puts two crumpets in the toaster and feels Claudia moving again. What sort of husband leaves his wife a month before their baby is due? That’s not something North would do. He’s a sticker, a keeper, one of the good guys.

For weeks he’s been out-of-sorts, working late, leaving home early, stressed, secretive. She thought he might be having an affair. Then she discounted the possibility. Then she convinced herself. That was in the space of a few days. She hired a private detective. What a terrible wife! Faithless. Suspicious.

Twice she canceled her appointment, the guilt gnawing away inside her like a rat in a wicker cage. I’m being paranoid, she told herself. It’s the pregnancy. The hormones. Then she changed her mind and cal ed him again.

Elizabeth smothers the crumpets with honey. Polina has gone to make the beds. She’s been spring-cleaning these past few days, clearing out the cupboards and drawers, airing old clothes and moving junk to the attic. Routines are important for everyone when a husband disappears.

Rowan has to be dressed. Polina wil walk him across the park to his nursery school. Elizabeth has a doctor’s appointment: her thirty-six-week check-up. Her life is about numbers.

Eight months pregnant. Seven years married. Five days alone. She can picture the last time she saw North. He went to work at the normal time. Kissed her goodbye. She lingered with her lips pressed against his. She and Rowan were going up to the Lake District to spend the weekend with her best friend from university. They didn’t come back until Sunday afternoon.

She had tried to cal North al day, but he wasn’t answering. She caught a cab from Euston Station and found the house in darkness. Inside it looked like it had undergone a subtle alteration, as if someone had cleaned up after a party but hadn’t managed to put things back precisely where they’d been. Her jewelry was missing. Her passport. Her spare credit card, the ugly gold watch she inherited from her Aunt Catherine…

Elizabeth kept trying to cal North, sending him text messages and emails. Final y she phoned her father. Sitting on the edge of the bed, cupping her hand over the mouthpiece, she spoke in whispers so that Rowan wouldn’t hear her.

The family swung into action, cal ing hospitals, clinics, homeless shelters and final y the police. Two young constables came the next day and took a statement about the robbery.

“You’l need this for insurance purposes,” said the constable.

“What about my husband?”

“I don’t think your policy covers him.”

The officers laughed. It was a joke. Elizabeth stared numbly at them. By then her mind was ful of terrible scenarios: North disturbing burglars or being abducted, or worse.

A large drop of honey has dripped on her blouse. Elizabeth looks at the stain and wants to cry. Hormones.

Rowan is standing at the kitchen door watching her.

“Is you al right, Mummy?”

“I’m fine.”

“Why is you crying?”

“I’m having a sad day.”

“When Daddy comes home you’l be happy.”

“Yes, I wil .”

2

LONDON

Standing outside the police station in London Road, Elizabeth gazes at the three-storey red-brick building squeezed between a hairdressing salon and the head office of the
Richmond & Twickenham Times
. Be polite but firm, she tel s herself. Don’t be fobbed off.

Rowan is dressed in a Spiderman T-shirt and mask. The eyeholes are slightly too wide for his head, which means that only one eye is visible at any given time. He flicks his “web finger” at passing pedestrians who are either arch-vil ains or super-vil ains. Elizabeth isn’t an expert on comic book bad guys.

The uniformed officer at the front desk is a woman and she’s not carrying a gun. Rowan is a little disappointed. He was expecting a fel ow crime-fighter who could compare weaponry with him and swap tales of saving the world. After waiting forty-five minutes they are taken upstairs through a cluttered open-plan office that looks reassuringly productive.

The detective constable is cal ed Carter and he’s wearing a jacket and tie. He’s quite handsome except for a buzz-cut that makes his ears look like jug handles.

“Please sit down, Mrs. North. Tea? Coffee? Water?”

“No, thank you.”

DC Carter glances at her pregnancy and then smiles hesitantly at Rowan, who has crawled onto Elizabeth’s lap and is staring at him with the intensity that only young children can produce.

“Have you heard from your husband?”

“I wouldn’t be here if I’d heard from my husband.”

There is an awkward pause and DC Carter uses the moment to open the file on his desk.

“It has only been forty-eight hours,” he says.

“It has been five days.”

“Yes, but technical y we don’t class a person as missing until a certain amount of time has elapsed.”

“How long?”

“That depends upon the circumstances.”

Rowan slips out of her arms and is now sitting on the floor linking paperclips together into a chain.

Elizabeth looks back at the detective. “What are you doing to try to find him?”

“Your husband is also over the age of eighteen and not considered vulnerable, Mrs. North.”

“What does that mean?”

“He’s not at risk of suicide or self-harm.”

The words sound too harsh. He tries to make amends. “Your husband may have decided to spend a few days away, getting his head together. It happens sometimes.”

“He wouldn’t do that without tel ing me.”

The detective looks at her tiredly. She’s not going to make it easy for him. Consulting her statement, he goes over the details again.

“Your husband works for a bank.”

“He’s a compliance officer at Mersey Fidelity.”

“Was he having any problems?”

“He was very busy.”

“There is evidence that he used his ATM card at a machine in Regent Street early on Saturday morning. He also bought clothes in Oxford Street on Sunday.”

“North never buys clothes—he hates shopping.”

“Somebody used his cards.”

“I told you we were robbed. It’s in my statement. My jewelry is missing… our passports.”

“Perhaps your husband was planning a trip.”

“We were planning a baby.”

DC Carter smiles at her as though she’s being feeble and irrational. It’s the same look her father used to give Elizabeth when they argued during her childhood.

“Is there anyone your husband could be staying with?”

“No.”

“What about the other woman?”

“What other woman?”

“You hired a private detective because you thought your husband might be having an affair.”

Elizabeth looks at Rowan, who is playing with a stapler and a piece of paper.

“I was worried about North. I knew something was bothering him.”

“So you hired someone to fol ow him?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you just ask him?”

Elizabeth can feel her features becoming squashed and color rising in her cheeks.

“Don’t patronize me, Detective. Of course I asked him, but he wouldn’t tel me. We argued. I got upset. Nothing changed.”

“Something made you suspicious.”

“I didn’t know what he was doing. I didn’t have any evidence. North said he loved me. I had a friend who recommended an agency. She’d been through a divorce.”

“Were you considering divorcing your husband?”

“No, not at al ! Never.”

There is a cry of pain. Rowan has punched a staple through the webbing of his hand. One tooth of the staple is sticking from his skin. Elizabeth holds him tightly and pul s the barb free, kissing away his pain and his tears.

3

LONDON

Ruiz walks the surrounding streets, interviewing neighbors and passers-by, asking questions the police should have asked. Did anyone see a young woman? She was running. Which way did she go? What sort of boat? Two fishermen. Where did they take her? Upriver.

The men who came looking for Hol y were professionals. They drove al -wheel-drive vehicles with heavily tinted windows. They wore dark clothing. Soft shoes. They were trained for this. How does someone train for this? Drowning kittens? Torturing animals?

She managed to get away, but where would she go? Out of London, if she has any sense. Somewhere safe. She needs a friend with a spare room or a sofa bed, someone who doesn’t appear on her phone records or in her address book. How long can she stay hidden? If she doesn’t use her mobile, if she doesn’t cal family or friends, if she doesn’t break the law and get caught, if she doesn’t visit a doctor, or withdraw money, or apply for a job…