The Wreckage: A Thriller (31 page)

This is how the conversation doubles back on itself and loops into elaborate knots that confuse Daj even more as they drive across the Thames, heading north to Primrose Hil .

Claire and Phil ip have a large terraced house with glimpses of the park. It’s only a short walk to the church. One of Claire’s girlfriends opens the door. A bridesmaid. Gina. She’s an old school friend, now married. Ruiz can picture her being eight years old, dancing around Claire’s bedroom to Madonna songs.

The other bridesmaids are in various stages of dress, being fawned over by a hairdresser, a beautician and a stylist. There are yards of lace and flashes of bare shoulder.

Women in groups have always intimidated Ruiz. Their mystery increases exponential y when they’re together, laughing and exchanging news. Champagne can also be a factor.

Perhaps his anxiety dates back to his youth when girls would congregate in groups on the far side of the dance floor and necessitate the “longest walk” and a mumbled request to dance.

Success meant a few minutes of touching a female waist and hand. Failure meant public humiliation.

“Can I see Claire?” he asks.

“She’s stil getting ready.”

Gina knocks on the bedroom door. “It’s your dad.”

“Is he drunk?” comes a voice from inside.

Gina addresses Ruiz. “You’re not drunk, are you?”

“No.”

“I don’t think he’s drunk,” she yel s back.

The door opens. A breath catches in Ruiz’s throat. For a split second his mind flashes back and he sees Laura standing in their hotel room, breathless and giggling, having been carried across the threshold.

“Wel ?” asks Claire. She completes a twirl. “It’s Mummy’s wedding dress. I had them copy the design.”

“You look beautiful,” he says, struggling to find words.

“And you’re very handsome.”

She kisses his cheek. Behind her in the room is another vision from his past. Miranda Louise Mil s. Ex-wife number three. Dressed al in black.

Miranda straightens his tie and Ruiz glances at her delicate hands and past them to her cleavage. Ex-wives should be fat and frumpy. Not like this.

“Have you heard from Michael?” she asks.

Ruiz shakes his head.

“Maybe he’l surprise us.”

Claire gives him a pained smile that says, I’m not a child any more, Daddy, you don’t have to lie to me.

Ruiz reaches into his pocket and pul s out a creased envelope and a smal wooden box with a hinged lid.

“I have something for you,” he says. “It was given to me a long while ago with very specific instructions that I was to give it to you on your wedding day.” Claire can hear the slight tremor in his voice. “It was your mother who gave it to me. It belonged to her mother and her grandmother, so it goes a long way back, and now it’s yours.” He opens the box. Claire’s hand flutters to her mouth.

Ruiz continues, “I think she thought maybe you might wear it today… as the something old, you know, but maybe you have the dress now, so you don’t need anything else.” Claire shakes her head and holds the envelope in trembling hands. She looks at Miranda and back to her father and then at the envelope. Opening it nervously, she unfolds the handwritten page and turns away as she reads the letter.

When she finishes, she folds it again, holding it against her heart.

“Now look what you’ve done,” she says. “I’m going to cry and my make-up is going to run. I’l look like a panda.”

“Pandas are very cute,” says Ruiz.

Miranda takes the hair-comb and slides it in Claire’s hair, tucking it beneath the veil. Then she ushers Ruiz into the hal way and gives him a kiss on the lips, before rubbing the lipstick away with her thumb.

“You haven’t returned any of my cal s.”

“Were they urgent?”

“It’s cal ed being polite.”

“I took you to dinner a fortnight ago.”

“To that tacky fish restaurant—the meal left me faster than a fire dril .”

“I thought you’d lost weight.”

“Flattery wil get you nowhere.” She punches his shoulder. “Go outside. We’re not ready.”

Ruiz doesn’t need a second invitation. Retreating to the front steps, he takes a boiled sweet from a round metal tin in his pocket and sucks on it thoughtful y. Michael should be at his sister’s wedding. What excuse wil he give this time? Bad weather. Missed flights. Forgotten dates. Michael is his father’s son. Ruiz wishes that he could warn him that one day he’l regret spending so much time away from his family. Maybe that’s wishful thinking.

There are no bridal cars. They’re going to walk to St. Mark’s, which is just around the corner; a true wedding procession through the streets of Primrose Hil .

Joe takes the step next to him and they sit comfortably in silence, listening to the champagne corks being popped inside. Ruiz notices a car parked on the corner. It’s the same dark blue Audi that was outside Hol y’s flat in South London. Two figures are visible behind the dark-tinted windows. Ruiz feels a pain in his chest like someone has placed a fist against his breastbone and is twisting knuckles into the cartilage. This is his daughter’s wedding day.

Without a word, he stands, walks down the steps and crosses the road. He taps on the driver’s window. After a long pause it glides down. The man behind the wheel has close-cropped hair and a three-day growth. His shirt is rol ed up revealing a long pink scar running down the inside of his forearm.

Ruiz can smel the new leather of the seats. “Can I help you?” he asks.

“No, sirree.”

He’s American. A southerner.

“Are you waiting for me?”

“We’re just waiting.”

His passenger is younger, also unshaven, with blond highlights. His sunglasses are hinged on the frames and flipped upwards like wiper blades. His left hand is tucked out of sight below the level of his thigh.

The driver motions to the house.

“Fine day for a wedding,” he drawls. “Who’s getting married?”

“The bride and groom.”

“Wel , you make sure you pass on our good wishes.”

“I’l do that,” says Ruiz, who can feel his molars grinding saliva. He tucks his hands into his pockets. “Maybe we can come to an arrangement.”

“What would that be?”

“How about we agree to meet up tomorrow? I can make myself available al day. I’l even come to the office… meet your boss. That way you guys can go home and gel each other’s hair and my daughter can get married.”

The skin tightens around the driver’s eyes. “You’re a funny guy. Is that what you Brits cal irony?”

“You want me to explain irony?”

The driver closes his fingers, al except the longest, and pushes his sunglasses up his nose. That’s his answer.

Ruiz walks away. Twenty yards down the street he pauses at a builder’s skip ful of debris and broken bricks. The red-black color is rising from his chest to his face and he can hear a tearing sound behind his eyes like fabric shredding. Picking up a half brick, he weighs it in his hand.

The driver and passenger of the Audi are laughing about something. The side window shatters with the sound and fury of a shotgun. Ruiz reaches through the window and bounces the passenger’s head off the dashboard, making his nose bloom. He’s a bleeder.

The driver reaches below the seat, but Ruiz has already taken a gun from his partner’s hand. Now he’s aiming it across his crumpled body with one eye closed, the other looking along the barrel, his hand steady as a barber with a cutthroat razor.

A thought passes across the driver’s face. Ruiz has always referred to it as the Dirty Harry moment—that fleeting instant when a person wonders: Am I fast enough or lucky enough?

Something tel s him no.

Ruiz takes out his mobile and punches the number that was left beneath the wiper blades of the Merc, along with the envelope of cash. It’s ringing… being answered. There are five seconds of dead air.

“Mr. Ruiz?”

“You stil want the girl?”

“That was our deal.”

“Don’t talk to me about deals. You kicked in my front door.”

“A mistake, I admit.”

Another long pause, a low rumble in the background—aircraft noise.

“The price has doubled.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m pissed off.”

The American mul s this over. “How can I be sure that you’ve got her?”

“You can’t.”

“Where do we meet?”

“I choose the location, but it won’t be today. In the meantime, cal off your dogs. One of them might need a vet.” Ruiz hangs up and turns the phone to silent. Blood is pouring from the passenger’s nose and across his lips and chin, staining his shirtfront. Tiny cubes of glass decorate his lap like diamonds on a jeweler’s cloth.

“You hear that, ladies? You get off early today.”

He leans through the window and presses the release on the ammunition clip, letting it drop into the lap of the passenger, who has his hand cupped under his nose.

As the pistol fal s to the floor, Ruiz simultaneously drops his mobile behind the bucket seat. Then he turns away, joining the professor on the footpath. The entire wedding party is standing on the steps of the house—Claire, her bridesmaids, Miranda and Daj. Claire looks ready to throw the first punch, but Miranda has a dangerous left hook.

“Very smooth,” says Joe.

“I was being diplomatic.”

“I’d hate to see you go to war.”

Ruiz gives him a smile that means nothing.

“Can I borrow your mobile?”

“What happened to yours?”

“I must have left it somewhere.”

20

LONDON

The TV lights leave white spots swimming behind Elizabeth’s eyelids. She tries to blink them away, but the cameras are recording every twitch and grimace. She reaches for a glass of water. A few droplets spil , beading like mercury on the smooth table. She wipes up the water with her sleeve, worried it might leave a mark.

Campbel Smith whispers in her ear. “I’l give you the signal. Then you just read the statement.”

Al the seats are taken. It’s standing room only in the briefing room at New Scotland Yard. The TV cameras are at the back; press photographers at the front. Radio microphones hooked up to the feed.

The police have talked Elizabeth into this—an emotional plea from a pregnant wife to her husband. Not running. Missing. She said no at first, afraid of the publicity. The shame. The thought of people recognizing her in the street, whispering, pointing; not just her neighbors and friends, but the mothers at Rowan’s nursery and in her Pilates class or complete strangers passing her in supermarket aisles. Then she realized that she couldn’t care less about what people thought.

Speaking with deliberate slowness, Campbel Smith cal s for order. Waits. Elizabeth seems to be growing smal er beside him.

“As of 1200 hours today a warrant was issued for the arrest of Richard North. Interpol has also been advised and we’re monitoring departure points. Mrs. Elizabeth North is now going to make a statement. She won’t be taking questions and I would ask you to respect her privacy.”

He signals to Elizabeth. She stares at the page, trying to focus on the words.

“If you’re watching this, Richard, if you can hear me… if you’re able to cal …” A barrage of flashguns are firing, recording every pause. “I just want to know you’re OK. I know you can explain. I know you’re a good man…”

She doesn’t finish the sentence. Raising her eyes, she concentrates on a point at the back of the room, above their heads.

“Rowan misses you. We al do… Whatever has happened, whatever you think you’ve done, nothing could be as bad as not knowing… worrying…” The words dry up, evaporating in her mouth. Her mind becomes lost in the flashguns. Questions are being shouted from the floor. A field of hands are raised. Campbel takes Elizabeth by the forearm and leads her through a side door to a long corridor. Polished. Brightly lit. Felicity Stone is bustling towards her with a wide smile, air kissing her cheeks.

“You were marvelous, grace under pressure and al that. Is there anyone I can cal ? Do you have a rabbi or a priest?”

“No.”

“I can find you a counselor—a woman, perhaps. There are some very good trauma specialists. Caring. Discreet.”

“I’m fine.”

Miss Stone is tapping on the screen of her mobile. “We’ve found a quiet house, somewhere away from London and al the attention. You can be anonymous, recover your balance.”

“I’m going home.”

“Right. OK. Of course you should avoid commenting. No press interviews. You’re perfectly entitled to say nothing at al . Don’t even say, No comment.’ ” They have reached the lift.

“I just want to reassure you that, whatever happens, Mersey Fidelity wil look after you. You don’t have to go through this alone. Mitchel wil make sure—”

“Where is Mitchel ?”

“He’s talking to the police.”

Elizabeth turns away from her and walks back down the corridor. Banging on the doors, she starts yel ing. “Mitchel ? Are you here? I want to talk.” Faces emerge. A female officer tries to stop her, but she pushes past her.

“I want to see my brother. Mitchel ? Where are you?”

Turning a corner she sees him. He’s talking to a man in a suit. Heads together. Whispering.

“You should have warned me,” she shouts, storming towards him.

Mitchel raises his hands submissively. “I’m sorry, Lizzie. I wanted to cal you but the lawyers told me not to interfere. I have a duty to shareholders and investors…” Before he can finish the statement Elizabeth strikes him across the face with an open hand. She can’t remember ever hitting him before—not even as a child when he teased her or tortured her dol s or let her pet rabbit escape and get eaten by a fox on Hampstead Heath.

Mitchel ’s eyes go out of focus for a moment, swimming in pain.

“I’m your sister, Mitchel . Doesn’t that mean anything?”

“Of course it does.”

“You’re hanging him out to dry. He didn’t steal any money.”

“Calm down, Lizzie.”

“I won’t calm down. I know what you’re doing. You’re covering something up.”

The other man speaks. “We’re handling this, Mrs. North.”

Elizabeth takes a moment to recognize him; his grey hair is brushed back in an elegant bouffant and he’s wearing a Paul Smith suit instead of a tracksuit. It’s the man from the house in Mayfair who lied about meeting North.