The Wreckage: A Thriller (41 page)

Gerard Noonan emerges, holding a mobile phone six inches from his mouth and shouting because he’s unwil ing to risk brain cancer. Anyone who cuts open dead people must fear myriad ways of dying.

Ruiz tel s Elizabeth to go back to the Merc. She doesn’t respond. There is a particular light in her eyes as though she has come to a realization that isn’t obvious to the rest of the world.

On the far side of the road, a constable in a reflective vest is control ing a smal crowd behind fluttering police tape. Further along the street, a young woman is sitting in the back of a patrol car. Peroxide hair. Black mascara tears. Ruiz ducks under the tape and walks with purpose towards the crime scene. The constable stops him.

“I’m on the job,” says Ruiz. Although six years retired, he stil looks and sounds the part. The constable hesitates and Ruiz strides onwards, veering slightly to the left and disappearing behind the SOCO van. The door of the patrol car is open.

“Are they looking after you?” he asks.

The young woman blinks at him. She’s wearing a crimson blouse, short skirt and angel earrings. There are pain lines in the corners of her mouth.

She nods.

“You work for Mr. Hackett?”

Another nod, even more rapid. Ruiz slides on to the seat next to her. She tugs at her skirt, covering more of her thighs.

“He’s my uncle,” she adds. “I told that other detective.”

“What’s your name?”

“Janice.”

“That’s a nasty cold, Janice.”

A shiver runs through her shoulders. “That’s what
he
said to me.”

“Who?”

“The man who came to the office on Friday. He said he was an old friend of Mr. Hackett, but I didn’t believe him. I rang Uncle Colin and I said, ‘That man isn’t your friend,’ but I don’t think he listened. Uncle Colin isn’t frightened of anything. He used to be a soldier. He went to the Falklands.” She is speaking in a rush, words and sentences running together. Ruiz waits for her to pause for breath.

“This man—did he give his name?”

“He said he was a courier but he didn’t have any packages and he didn’t look like a messenger. He told me to go home for the day. It’s this flu. Uncle Colin said I was spreading the plague.”

Janice takes a bal of tissue from the sleeve of her cardigan. “Auntie Megan cal ed me this morning and said he hadn’t come home and wasn’t answering his phone. I knew something was wrong.”

She blows her nose and takes another big sniffle. “I found him in the loo. There’s blood everywhere.”

“When you talked to your uncle, where was he?”

“On a job.”

“What job?”

“He was looking for that missing banker.”

“Did he say where he was cal ing from?”

“Luton.”

Campbel Smith emerges from the white canvas tunnel. He struggles to remove his blue plastic overal s and shoe covers. When he notices Ruiz he ignores him for a split second as though he’s simply part of the familiar. Then the information registers and anger blooms in his cheeks.

“I want that man arrested! Get him out now!”

Ruiz is pul ed from the car and pinned across the bonnet. His arms are wrenched back. Wrists handcuffed. Campbel is raging about interference with a murder investigation and impersonating a police officer.

“I’d be careful of your blood pressure,” says Ruiz, his cheek pressed to the warm metal.

“What are you doing here?”

“I had business with Mr. Hackett.”

“What business?”

Elizabeth North yel s from behind the barricade. “I brought him here.”

Campbel glances at a handful of reporters who are getting every word. He holds his tongue.

Ruiz speaks next. “Can I go now?”

“My office in an hour—be there.”

The young constable jerks Ruiz back roughly, making the handcuffs bite into his wrists.

“Take those off,” says Noonan, who’s been listening to the confrontation. “And you treat him with respect. He’s a former DI.” Campbel is already at his car. The door slams shut. A liver-spotted hand emerges from the window and places a flashing blue light on the roof. Moments later the siren sounds.

“That guy is going to be on my slab one day soon,” says Noonan.

“Heart attack?”

“Either that or someone is going to punch him too hard.”

The pathologist has work to do. Ruiz has questions.

“How did Hackett die?”

“A forty-five; smal hole going in, big hole going out.”

“Is that a medical opinion?”

“Observation is one of my gifts.”

“Same caliber as kil ed Zac Osborne. It’s going to be the same gun.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“There’s a link. Zac Osborne robbed Richard North a week ago Friday.”

“Why wasn’t it reported?”

“Elizabeth North made a statement but everybody concentrated on her missing husband.”

Noonan’s curiosity has been piqued. Ruiz tel s him how the private detective had been hired to fol ow Richard North and had photographed him leaving a bar with Hol y Knight.

“It was a scam. Hol y and her boyfriend robbed him.”

“Same sting they pul ed on you.”

“You know about that.”

“The email has gone viral. So you were saying…”

“Zac Osborne is dead and so is Colin Hackett. Same weapon. Same kil er.”

Ruiz glances again at Elizabeth, who is stil on the far side of the road. She’s shifting from foot to foot, mouthing the words, “I need to pee.”

“Is there a toilet she can use?”

Noonan addresses the constable. “Take her to the café over the road. Try not to lose her.”

Ruiz watches them leave. “Was anything taken from Hackett’s office?”

“Memory cards from his cameras and his computer hard drive.”

Ruiz nods. “Somebody wanted the photographs of Richard North.”

“Any idea why?”

“Not yet.”

Sunlight shines through the branches above, making shifting patterns of shadow on Noonan’s smooth, pale head. As they linger there, Ruiz senses that he’s being watched. His eyes slowly scan the crowd until they rest on a dark-haired man whose face is lifted at an awkward angle, as though his eyes are not looking at him directly but are stil studying him with peculiar interest. There is a strange air about him, sinister yet jaunty: an impression of hidden laughter. For a moment they scrutinize each other before the man turns away and slips into the crowd.

“You’d better go, Vincent,” says Noonan. “Don’t underestimate Campbel . You don’t have any goodwil left.”
10

LUTON

The flat is smal, just three rooms, overlooking a run-down series of shops with broken neon signs and metal grates protecting the windows and doors. On warm evenings, Taj climbs out the upper window and sits on a narrow ledge smoking and drinking coffee while Aisha puts the baby to sleep.

He can hear the clatter of his Asian neighbors echoing up and down the stairwel s and through the open windows: arguments, music, children and TV sets. Sometimes he can even convince himself that he is among the chosen people, the lucky ones.

But there are indignities to be suffered. Insults to be endured. Rejections. One particular woman, obese and choleric, always gives him a hard time when he col ects his jobseeker’s al owance and housing benefit. She scowls at him behind her desk, mispronouncing his name even after he corrects her; and she treats his payments like money meant for her kidney transplant.

Aisha is cal ing him inside. Taj puts out his cigarette and climbs off the ledge, swinging his legs through the window and arching his body like a gymnast. His wife looks pretty in tailored trousers and a smock with beading around the neck.

“Didn’t you hear the phone?”

“No.”

“Syd wants to see you.”

“Did he say why?”

“Something about the courier coming.” Aisha looks at the dishes piled in the sink. She’s been working al day at Homebase. On her feet. The least Taj could have done was wash up after breakfast.

She’s annoyed, but she won’t say anything. Taj has been on edge for months, ever since he lost his job. Short-tempered. Angry. She won’t risk starting an argument.

“Stay in tonight,” she says, rubbing his shoulders.

“Syd and Rafiq are expecting me.”

“You’re not married to Syd and Rafiq.”

“I missed the last meeting.”

Aisha turns her back on him, trying not to show her feelings.

“Why don’t you like them?” asks Taj. “They’re my friends.”

“I don’t like the way Syd looks at me.”

“He’s just jealous.”

Taj puts his finger on her lips. Aisha kisses it and giggles when Taj tries to pul her closer. Lithe as a fish, she twists past him and loops an apron over her head, letting Taj tie the bow. Al thumbs.

“What do you do at these meetings?” she asks.

“We talk.”

“What do you talk about?”

“The Koran. How we’re treated. The problems we face.”

“We’re better off than our parents.”

“This is our country too.”

Aisha runs hot water, squeezing in dishwashing liquid, watching it foam. She can see Taj reflected in the curved chrome of the tap.

“You say Pakistan is our country and England is our country. Which is it?”

“Both.”

“Can we belong in two places?”

“Only if we make them ours.”

“What does that mean?”

“We have to tear this country down and rebuild it. Make it the way we want it to be.”

“I don’t think we should tear things down.”

“Sometimes it’s the only way.”

Taj begins drying the dishes, his back pressed to the bench.

“Did you pay that bil I gave you?” she asks.

“I didn’t have enough cash. I’l do it next week.”

“I gave you the money.”

“I spent it.”

“What on? We barely have enough for food.”

Taj throws the tea towel into the soapy water. “And that’s my fault.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Yes, it is!”

“Shhhh, you’l wake the baby.”

“Don’t tel me to be quiet in my own home.”

“I’m sorry. I’l pay it tomorrow. I’l use the money we’re saving for Ramadan.”

They wash the dishes in silence. Taj slips his hand around her waist, trying to show that he’s sorry. He won’t use the word. She closes her eyes and shivers.

“I know you’re worried,” he whispers. “You must not be. We have money coming. Lots of it.”

“Don’t make up stories, Taj.”

“I mean it. Next week. We’l have al the money we need.”

She throws her arms around his neck, pressing her body against his.

“Did you get a job?”

He smel s her hair and cups her buttocks in his palms as though judging their soft weight.

“Yes, a job.”

11

LONDON

The Soho wine bar has black painted wals, black doors and black furniture. It’s ful of the kind of people who en masse intimidate Luca most: men in designer suits and women with bal erina bodies and little black dresses. Daniela doesn’t look out of place—she’s a New York girl—she probably has a wardrobe ful of cocktail dresses and tailored suits.

Keith Gooding has been entertaining her with stories about Afghanistan; shared adventures with Luca, embarrassing moments. He’s tel ing her the story about a grizzled old warlord in Jalalabad who promised to show them a former al-Qaeda training camp. Two days into their journey through the mountains the old warlord crept into their room and Luca woke with hands fondling his genitals. His scream brought the warlord’s bodyguards bursting into the room, threatening to shoot them.

“What in God’s name were you doing?” Gooding had hissed.

“The old pervert had his hands on me.”

“Couldn’t you give one up for the team?”

Daniela laughs and Luca tel s her that she shouldn’t believe everything Gooding tel s her.

She kisses his knuckles. “I know.”

He needs the bathroom. The doors are marked XX and XY—the language of chromosomes. As he exits he notices a tal man with craggy eyes sitting opposite a woman in a camisole and skirt. Holding hands. Lovers. His eyes aren’t looking into hers. Instead they’re focused on Luca.

“What’s wrong?” asks Daniela.

“I’ve just seen someone I recognize, but I can’t place him.”

“In Baghdad?”

“Maybe. Go to the bathroom in a couple of minutes. He’s sitting near the pil ar.” Luca looks at Gooding. “Did you book this table?”

“Yes.”

“Who else knows we’re here?”

“Oh, come on, Luca, relax, you’ve been living in a war zone for too long.” He raises his glass. “This is supposed to be a celebration.” Luca smiles and apologizes, but the disquiet stays with him like an unpleasant aftertaste.

“So what did you find out about Yahya Maluk?”

Gooding takes out his iPhone and runs his finger across the screen.

“Egyptian bil ionaire. Educated at Charterhouse. Second eldest son of Salim Ahmed Maluk, who rose from being an il iterate moneychanger to found banks in Egypt, Syria and Lebanon. Married. Three grown-up children. Personal wealth estimated at three bil ion pounds. Family fortune twice that much. Dozens of companies and charitable trusts.”

“Does he stil have links with banks in the Middle East?”

“He’s a former director of a Dubai-based private equity firm and non-executive director of the Bank of Syria.”

“What about in the UK?”

“He’s a non-executive director of Mersey Fidelity.”

Luca repeats the name. He’s heard it before.

“It’s been in the news,” explains Gooding, biting a wedge of lime between his teeth and sucking, letting the sourness hol ow out his cheeks. “A missing banker.” Luca remembers the story that he read in the
Herald Tribune
.

“Richard North disappeared more than a week ago,” explains Gooding. “The bank says fifty-four mil ion pounds is missing.”

“Tel me about Mersey Fidelity.”

The journalist picks at the label of his beer bottle. “Now there’s an interesting story. It’s the only UK bank that rode out the global financial crisis without needing a taxpayer-funded bailout. Barclays, Lloyds, Bank of Scotland—they were al rescued from bankruptcy and effectively nationalized—but Mersey Fidelity weathered the storm.”