The Wreckage: A Thriller (32 page)

Elizabeth turns on him. “Who are you?”

Mitchel answers. “This is Yahya Maluk. He’s on the board of Mersey Fidelity.”

Elizabeth is stil focused on Maluk. “Why did you lie to me about meeting my husband? I have the photographs. You were there.” Mitchel looks from face to face. The older banker raises his hand. “Be careful what you say, Mrs. North. Unfounded al egations can be very dangerous.” There is a veiled threat behind the softness of his voice.

“You real y should listen, Lizzie,” says Mitchel , nursing his cheek.

“I’m not going to shut up. I’m not going to stay quiet. And I’m not going to hide myself away.”

21

LONDON

Low tide. A long thin shingle beach has appeared during the night, exposed by the tide. Holy has slept al morning and into the early afternoon, the water and the birds entering her dreams. Now she can hear Pete moving outside the caravan, laboring with a heavy object and running the outboard engine to clear the water intake pipe.

Rising from the narrow bed, she runs barefoot to a drop toilet surrounded by hessian curtains. She squats, urinating, wishing she’d worn shoes. Dog is watching her. She tries to shoo him away, but he cocks his head and wags his body.

After washing her hands in the river, she walks back to the camp.

Pete is cooking over a gas burner. He’s dressed in a rugby jumper that’s too big for him—more Ruiz’s size. The mental comparison makes Hol y angry because she feels betrayed by the former detective. One more act of betrayal in a life littered with them.

Sitting on a stool beneath the awning, she watches Pete cook her scrambled eggs for breakfast. She eats hungrily, avoiding his gaze, feeling the heat of the Tabasco sauce on her lips.

Pete takes the saucepan to the river, crouching on the edge of the shingle spit. When he’s out of sight, Hol y opens the drawers and cupboards in the van, searching the pockets of Pete’s clothes. She finds ten quid and coins. Staring at the crumpled bil , she contemplates what to do.

She has two pounds and fifty-three pence. She needs money and somewhere to stay. What would Zac do? He’d scam someone. Pete would be an easy mark—innocent as a puppy

—but it doesn’t seem fair after what he’s done for her.

She puts the money back where she found it and steps out of the caravan. Pete is wiping his hands on his trousers.

“Do you want to know why those men were chasing me?”

“I figure you’l tel me or you won’t.”

“Do you think I’m a criminal?”

Pete scratches his cheek. “You are what you are.”

“They weren’t the cops… at least I don’t think so.”

“I’m not so fond of coppers.”

Pete packs away the frying pan and lets the knives and forks dry by resting upright in a can. A boat putters past them, invisible behind the wil ow trees.

“You can stay here for a while… I mean, if you want to… until you decide.”

“I don’t have any money.”

“I got enough.”

Hol y eyes him careful y. She can smel the dampness of the river and the sweat on his clothes.

“You wouldn’t take advantage of me, would you, Pete? I mean… you wouldn’t… you know.”

Pete adamantly shakes his head. Then he packs a satchel with envelopes and a pen.

“I have to post some letters and pick up supplies.”

“Where?”

“I usual y go to Richmond.”

“Can I come?”

“Sure.”

They take the fishing boat downriver. Hol y isn’t sure of the direction because the sun has disappeared behind a high layer of cloud. They pass lovely houses on the river’s edge, with manicured lawns and smal jetties jutting out into the water. Pete waves to a woman hanging her washing and a man mowing his lawn. There are people cycling along the river paths and waterfowl that flap from the reeds, clumsy until airborne.

They moor in the shadow of Richmond Bridge near the floating restaurant and the “boats for hire.” Hol y steps ashore. Pete has some shopping bags and a list.

“Is there anything you don’t eat?”

“I’m not very fond of baked beans.”

“I’l get something else.”

They walk up the worn granite steps.

“Pete?”

“Yeah.”

“I need to pick up a few things, women’s stuff, you know, and I don’t have any money.”

“I can get them.”

“Women’s products?”

“Oh. Right.” He fumbles in his pockets and gives her a ten-pound note.

“I don’t know how much… if you need more…”

“Maybe just a little.”

He gives her another tenner. She unfurls the crumpled notes and folds them neatly.

“How long wil you be?”

“An hour.”

“I’l meet you back here.”

Hol y goes into Boots and buys a toothbrush, toothpaste, tampons and deodorant, along with a cheap pair of sunglasses and two pairs of knickers. She walks outside and transfers her purchases into an old plastic bag, which she hides in a rubbish bin. Then she goes back into the Boots and picks up exactly the same items—same brands, same amounts—putting them into the original bag.

She goes to the checkout.

“I’m real y sorry. I just bought al this stuff not realizing my boyfriend had already picked it up. We both had the same shopping list. Great minds, you know…”

“Do you have the receipt?” asks the checkout girl.

“Of course, it’s here somewhere.” Hol y makes a show of searching her pockets. She finds the receipt. The girl checks off the items and opens the cash register. She gives Hol y nineteen pounds and seventy-five pence.

“It’s nice that your boyfriend goes shopping for you,” she says.

“Yeah, he’s a real sweetheart.”

Outside Hol y retrieves the stuff she hid in the bin. She can smel the coffee and muffins at Starbucks across the road. She now has money, clean underwear and toiletries… why not give herself a treat? She’s walking past the front window of Dixons and notices a bank of TV screens al showing the same images, a news report.

A photograph flashes across the multiple screens. Hol y pauses, trying to remember how she knows the face. Where? When? The scrol ing banner says something about a missing banker. The shot changes to a press conference. A woman is reading a statement into a microphone. Hol y pushes through the glass door and stands in front of the screens.

“If you’re watching this, Richard, if you can hear me… if you’re able to cal … I just want to know you’re OK. I know you can explain. I know you’re a good man…” Hol y stares at the row of TVs. She finds herself looking from one to the other, expecting the story to change. She remembers the missing banker and his house. There were toys in his living room. He said his wife was away for the weekend. They met at a bar in the City. He was drunk. Horny. Worried about something. He took her home.

The rol ing banner gives his name: Richard North. Missing mil ions, it reads. Is this why Zac died? Is this why people are chasing her?

A shop assistant is standing next to her in a pressed white shirt and narrow tie. Indian. Early twenties.

“Can I help with something?”

“Do you have a phone?”

“Our phone section is over there?”

“I don’t want to buy one—I want to borrow one.”

The sales assistant takes out his own mobile. Emptying her pockets, Hol y finds a worn square of white cardboard: Ruiz’s name and his home phone number. She punches the keys, tucking the phone between her shoulder and ear. There’s no answer. She starts to leave a message, but pauses, turning to the assistant.

“What day is it today?”

“August twenty-eighth.”

Hol y looks at her watch and remembers the wedding.

22

WASHINGTON

Chalcott is on the sideline, watching his teenage son play footbal. His phone is ringing: Sobel from London.

“I tried you in the office.”

“It’s my day off.”

“You’re outside.”

“My boy has a game.”

“Who’s winning?”

“Forty minutes and no score—foreplay shouldn’t last that long.”

A whistle blows. Chalcott shouts at the referee, “The kid dived—are you blind?”

“What position does your boy play?”

“There are positions?” Chalcott finishes his takeaway coffee and crushes the paper mug. “What news?”

“According to the bank Richard North ran off with fifty-four mil ion.”

“Dol ars?”

“Pounds. Al sorts of theories are being bandied about.”

“ ‘Bandied’? You’ve been in Blighty too long. You’re starting to sound like a Limey shirt-lifter.”

Sobel laughs hol owly. “We’ve intercepted a phone cal from Hol y Knight to the ex-detective. She left half a message on his answering machine. The cal was traced to a shopping mal in Richmond.”

“Did you pick her up?”

“She was gone by the time we arrived, but we’ve managed to get CCTV footage of her talking to some guy. The Brits may have an ID. He’s a tramp. No fixed address.”

“What about the ex-detective?”

“Ruiz says he’l do a deal for the girl if we back off.”

“Do you believe him?”

“No.”

“How much do the Brits know?”

“Green shoots.”

Chalcott is walking along the sideline, ignoring the crowd noises. He pauses. “We may have a problem from another quarter.”

“What’s that?”

“Someone is asking about Ibrahim.”

“Who?”

“A journalist cal ed Luca Terracini, based in Baghdad. He’s like Osama’s Lord Haw Haw.”

“Didn’t he win a Pulitzer?”

“That’s him. Sometimes I wish we were stil in the fifties. We could haul guys like Terracini up before the Anti-American Committee and get them labeled communists and traitors.

Instead we give the cunts prizes. If it weren’t for us, Terracini would be picking through the rubble of the next Ground Zero.”

“How did he trace Ibrahim?”

“He hasn’t, but he’s sniffing around. He’s with a woman—a UN auditor. She likely made the connection.”

“How are we playing it?”

“I don’t want Ibrahim spooked. The Iraqis are kicking Terracini out of the country.”

“That should solve our immediate problem.”

“You just worry about the girl.”

23

LONDON

The wedding is over, the rice has been thrown and photographs are being posed until the smiles look painted on. Ruiz slips away from the guests and wel-wishers, taking a gravel path around the side of the church. He walks to the edge of the Grand Central Canal where brightly painted canal boats look like children’s toys left behind after a summer picnic. A group of eager ducks navigates within range, expecting bread to be thrown, bored with the daily grind of paddling.

Ruiz takes out the tin of sweets and puts one in his mouth, rol ing it over his tongue. There is something quite melancholy about seeing a daughter married, walking her down the aisle and handing her on to another man. Claire has not been
his
little girl for twenty-five years, but for a brief instant in the church the past and present had col apsed into a single moment and he saw her as a child, turning to him, saying, “Look at me, Daddy. Look at me.”

Ruiz glances over his shoulder. The photographer is waving his arms, trying to marshal everyone on to the front steps, the bride and groom at the centre. He might be directing aircraft or sending semaphore messages. Phil ip’s family are standing together—charming sociopaths with top-drawer accents and expensive clothes. His mother, Patricia, is wearing a fur coat that is total y out of season and cost the lives of countless smal mammals.

Ruiz takes out the mobile he borrowed from the professor and punches a number. He listens to the cal being redirected electronical y… once… twice… Final y, he hears it ringing.

“Hel o, Capable.”

“Mr. Ruiz.”

“You should cal me Vincent.”

“I’l remember that, Mr. Ruiz. How’s your mother?”

“Stil complaining.”

“Mine too.”

Henry Jones, otherwise known as “Capable,” is one of those individuals that people sometimes cal unlucky but real y believe are somehow jinxed. Awkward and anxious, things break when he’s around. Vases topple. Light bulbs pop. Motors burn out. Fuses short. Doors lock with keys inside. The only exception is with computers, which seem to respond to Capable like a violin in the hands of a virtuoso.

In his cal ow and foolish youth, Capable had been an expert hacker—famous for penetrating one of the biggest UK banks and giving Gordon Brown, then Chancel or of the Exchequer, a zero account balance. He didn’t steal the money, he simply transferred it to the Inland Revenue with a note from Brown saying, “Merry Christmas, have a drink on me.” Ruiz came across Capable a few years later, when the poacher had turned gamekeeper, advising banks on cyber security. He had been arrested after a misunderstanding with an undercover copper in a public toilet in Green Park that had resulted in a broken jaw and a public indecency charge. Ruiz gave Capable a character reference and saved him from being passed around by the cel block sisters at Wormwood Scrubs like a party bong.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Ruiz?”

“I need you to trace a mobile phone.”

“Stolen?”

“Mislaid.”

“What was the last location?”

“I dropped it on the back seat of a dark blue Audi in Primrose Hil .”

“Turned on.”

“Of course.”

Capable is already tapping on a keyboard, listening to some techno beat on his sound system. Ruiz can picture him in his pokey flat in Hounslow, surrounded by computer screens and hard drives; dressed in jogging gear and sporting one of those droopy Mexican bandit moustaches that nobody—not even Mexican bandits—sport any more.

Most of his “security” work is done on the wrong side of midnight when internet speeds are faster and less people are monitoring their machines. He can piggyback off other systems, working through proxy computers, leaving no electronic trace.

Ruiz has a limited understanding of the technology, but he knows that mobile phones can be tracked because they constantly send out a signal looking for the nearest phone towers.

Signal strength and direction can be triangulated to pinpoint the location of a handset down to as little as fifty yards.