The Wreckage: A Thriller (45 page)

Elizabeth narrows her eyes. Her mouth opens but no sound emerges. She is focused on something miles away that seems to be coming closer, getting larger, like a speeding freight train.

“The police found semen stains in Polina’s bedroom,” says Ruiz. “They matched the DNA to your husband. Maybe you accidental y swapped sheets.”

“Polina’s bed is a single,” says Elizabeth.

For a moment Ruiz thinks she’s missed the point, but Elizabeth knows exactly what she’s being told. Brash, seductive, hungry Polina with her graceful body, textbook English and strangely beautiful, heavy-lidded eyes had been sleeping with North. She had ironed his shirts and folded his socks and serviced him in other ways.

Reaching back through her memories of the previous months, Elizabeth searches for evidence: North’s hand brushing Polina’s hip as he squeezed past the ironing board; another on her shoulder as he reached past her for a mug. He would tease Polina about her accent, or stay up late to watch a movie with her, or laugh at some private joke that Elizabeth could never quite understand.

Polina had denied seeing North that Friday when Colin Hackett fol owed him back to the house. They were three hours together. Alone.

For a moment Elizabeth’s courage seems to fail and she coughs as though she’s inhaled something toxic and has to clear out her lungs. Ruiz pul s over and opens the door. She leans out, her innards heaving. Gagging. Retching. He holds back her hair as she vomits into the gutter.

No words for her.

19

LONDON

The corner house is a two-storey terrace with parrot-green window frames and flower boxes ful of summer annuals. Nobody answers the turtle doorknocker. Another turtle peeks from the garden bed and a third has a metal frame for scraping mud from boots.

Luca knocks again. He crouches and opens the letterbox, peering along a hal way.

“Miss Lindop,” he cal s. Listens. Nothing. She’s not at work. He phoned her office.

“Maybe she’s gone out for a while,” says Daniela, glancing up at the first floor. Luca goes to the front window and presses his face to the glass, looking through a crack in the curtains. He can see a thin strip of polished floor and an oriental rug. More turtles are visible on a mantelpiece.

“You wait here,” he tel s Daniela.

“Where are you going?”

“To check out the back.”

The terrace is on a corner with one boundary on a different street. There is a garage with a raised rol er door and a smal Fiat hatchback parked inside. Luca tries the internal door.

Locked.

Retracing his steps, he stares at the garden wal , judging the height. He runs and jumps, gripping the top of the wal and scrambling up, scraping his shoes on the painted bricks as he tries to get purchase. On his elbows, peering into the smal neat garden, he can see the back of the house. The rear sliding door is open; a newspaper is spread out on the kitchen table. Nearby the refrigerator door is open. A milk carton lies on its side and a large tortoiseshel cat licks at the edge of the puddle.

Luca scrambles higher and lowers himself down into the garden. He cal s Bridget Lindop’s name. The cat comes to him, weaving figure-of-eights between his legs. In the kitchen he cal s out again. The newspaper is a day old. A ful cup of tea has grown cold on the table, leaving a milky skin on the surface.
Woman’s Hour
is playing on the radio.

Luca unlocks the front door. Leaves it open.

“What are you doing?” hisses Daniela. “You can’t just break in.”

“The back door was open. She might be hurt.”

They move through the house going from room to room. The dining area has a display case with more turtles—figurines made of jade, amethyst, quartz and mother of pearl. An oversized couch faces a television in the living room. The coffee table is laden with books on interior design and gourmet food.

“You want to wait here,” says Luca, climbing the stairs. On a landing there is a potted plant that has been knocked over. The damp dark earth has stained the carpet. The main bedroom smel s of talcum powder and aromatherapy candles.

There are smal signs of a search but none to indicate a struggle. Her jewelry is stil on the dressing table along with her purse and her mobile phone. Not a robbery. Not a trip to the shops.

The second bedroom is a sewing room and office. The door is splintered. It was locked. Someone kicked it open from inside.

Luca looks over the banister. “You should come and see this.”

Ruiz pul s into an empty parking space and checks the house numbers. Elizabeth is stil pale and shaking beside him. He offered to take her home. She refused.

“Is that the place?”

She nods.

The front door is open. A woman living alone doesn’t leave her door wide open. Ruiz scans the street, studying the cars parked on either side. Across the road is a playground with brightly colored climbing frames and swings. A British Gas van moves slowly past.

He approaches the house from the north side, pauses at the front door, listening. There are voices upstairs. Male and female. American.

Glancing along the hal way, he can see as far as the kitchen where a milk carton lies in a shiny puddle. His fingers slide inside his jacket, finding the butt of the Glock. Four paces.

He’s at the bottom of the stairs, looking up, listening.

He climbs, putting as little weight as possible on each step. Eyes up. He can no longer hear their voices, but can feel their presence. He reaches the landing. The main bedroom is on the left, second bedroom on the far right, a bathroom in between. There is a man squatting in the doorway, examining something. A woman is standing beside him, silhouetted against the haze of white light. Both of them turn in unison, looking down the barrel of the Glock.

“Stand up! Hands against the wal !”

“You got this al wrong,” says Luca.

“Shut up!”

Ruiz kicks Luca’s legs apart, using one hand to pat him down—shoulders, chest, back, right leg, left leg.

“Are you a policeman?” asks Daniela.

Ruiz ignores her. “Where’s Bridget Lindop?”

“I don’t know,” says Luca.

“What are you doing in her house?”

“We were looking for her. I’m a journalist.”

“What paper?”

“
Financial Herald
.”

Ruiz pushes Daniela hard against the wal .

“I didn’t think British police officers carried guns,” she says.

“That’s an urban myth.”

She lowers her arms. “I don’t think you’re a policeman at al .”

“You want to test that theory?”

She’s a bal breaker, thinks Ruiz, either crazy-brave or stupid. Her off-sider is more diplomatic. He’s explaining how he found the back door open and thought Miss Lindop might be hurt.

“She’s been gone a while. Her cat hasn’t been fed.”

Elizabeth cal s from below. “Is everything al right?”

“I told you to wait in the car,” says Ruiz.

“I heard you talking.”

Elizabeth has reached the landing. “Who are they?”

“They broke in.”

“I didn’t break in,” says Luca. “I’m a reporter.” He takes a moment to recognize Elizabeth—the missing banker’s wife, heavily pregnant. He’s seen her photograph and watched her media appeal. “We were looking for Bridget Lindop. If you cal Keith Gooding at the paper he’l vouch for us.”
That name again.

Ruiz and Elizabeth exchange a glance. At that moment her uterus contracts and she hol ows out her cheeks in a whistling intake of breath. Eyes shut, she exhales in shal ow puffs, trying to ease the pain.

Daniela glares at Ruiz like he’s personal y responsible for making a pregnant woman climb the stairs.

“When are you due?”

“A few weeks.”

“You should sit down.”

Luca points to the broken door. “Someone was locked inside and had to break out.”

Ruiz runs his finger over the splintered frame. It was kicked open. Someone strong did this. A man. A prisoner.

20

LONDON

Are you going to hypnotize me?”

“No.”

“Then why do I have to lie down?”

“I just want you to be comfortable.”

Hol y is dressed in a thin floral-print cotton dress, machine faded, which clings to her body like wet tissue paper. She looks at the bed, which is covered with an old lady bedspread.

“Lie down, close your eyes and relax,” says Joe.

She shoots him a look. “You better not try anything.”

“I’m going to sit over here by the window. I won’t leave this chair.”

Hol y stares at the ceiling, which has water stains and a cracked plaster rosette.

“So what is this cal ed if it’s not hypnosis?”

“A cognitive interview.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’m going to take you back to the night you met Richard North. I’m going to ask you lots of questions. Some things you won’t remember. Some things wil come back to you.”

“I’ve already told Vincent…”

“We’re going to do it again.”

“I’m hungry.”

“You’ve just eaten.”

Joe O’Loughlin takes a seat. The window provides some breeze and he can hear birds in the trees. He begins as he always does, by setting the scene—the bar on that Friday night.

Where was she sitting? What was she drinking? Who else was around her? He has a nice voice, thinks Hol y. Kind eyes. But he asks too many questions.

Lady Gaga was playing on the sound system. Zac had never liked Lady Gaga. Said she was a wannabe Madonna. Then again, he didn’t like Madonna, who he cal ed “that ridiculous old bag.” Lady Gaga had the better voice. Madonna was the better dancer.

“I didn’t think he was going to notice me at first,” says Hol y. “He was sitting at a corner of the bar, going through vodka like he had Smirnoff shares. I thought he might be gay.”

“Why choose him?”

“He looked rich… lonely. I like to watch them for a while—just to be sure.”

“Sure of what?”

She shrugs. “Sure they’re not rapists or psychos. I’m looking for the Good Samaritan, remember?”

“So you can rob him?”

Hol y opens her eyes and looks at Joe scornful y. He marvels at how someone barely educated past fifteen can make him feel like he’s just stepped off the bus from Stupidvil e.

“What was he doing?”

“He looked like he was waiting for someone.”

“Did he have anything in his hands?”

“No… maybe.” She chews on the inside of her cheek. “He was writing something.”

“What was he writing on?”

“I didn’t see.”

“With a pen or a pencil?”

“A pen. He dropped it and I thought he was trying to look at my legs, but he just went back to writing. He only real y noticed me when Zac and I kicked off.”

“You started arguing?”

“That was our shtick, you know. Our grift. That’s what Zac cal ed it. We argued. He hit me. I cried.”

“Someone else could have stepped in.”

“We’ve been doing this for a while. I know how to position myself, so the mark is closest. I was just a few feet away when Zac hit me across the face. I went down, but this guy just didn’t react. I mean, Zac was standing over me and this guy was just staring straight through me like he was watching it al on TV and any moment he was going to reach for the remote and change the channel.”

“What happened then?”

“Zac cal s me some names and storms out. I was sitting on the floor pretending to cry, thinking to myself, this guy must be real y cold. What does a girl have to do to get his attention?

Then he final y reacted.”

“He came over.”

“Yeah. He picked me up. Got some ice. Bought me a drink. He wanted to cal the police, but I talked him out of it. Then I did the old, “My keys! My phone!” routine and started to cry again. He put his arm around me and I sort of leaned into him. That’s when I knew I’d hooked him, you know. Physical contact. You melt into a guy’s body and it triggers his protective instincts.”

“Where were you sitting?”

“At his table.”

“What did you talk about?”

Hol y screws up her features. “It was odd.”

“What was odd?”

“He didn’t offer to let me use his phone. It was sitting on the table on top of a book.”

“What sort of book?”

“It had a dark cover.”

“He’d been reading it?”

She pauses, thinking. Then she opens her eyes and lifts her head, staring at Joe like he’s just performed a magic trick. “He’d been writing in it.”

“A notebook?”

“Yeah. Must have been.”

Hol y is annoyed at herself for not remembering earlier. Joe doesn’t labor the point. He takes her through the encounter, minute by minute until she reaches a point in the story where they leave the bar.

“What did he do with the notebook?”

“How the fuck should I know?”

“Was it stil on the table?”

“No…” She pauses. “He put it in his jacket pocket.”

“Which pocket?”

“Inside. Just here.”

She puts her hand on her left breast.

“I remember that jacket because Zac liked it so much.”

“What do you mean?”

“When we were robbing his place, Zac was saying how much he liked the jacket. It was camel-colored, you know. Cashmere. Expensive. Zac had his share of problems, but he knew stuff about clothes. He had this dress uniform—he kept it after he left the army—and every button on that thing shone. It was kept like brand new, folded in tissue paper and stored in a special box.”