The Wreckage: A Thriller (49 page)

“You don’t have to go. You can pul out. Tel Syd and Rafiq.”

“I’m committed.”

“What about me… the baby?”

“You’re going to wait for me.”

Taj reaches into his pocket and produces a rol of cash in a rubber band. Aisha blinks twice, moves her mouth. She has never seen so much money. It scares her.

“What have you done?” she whispers, trembling now.

A silence. Taj isn’t going to tel her. It’s not what he’s done but what’s expected of him…

27

LONDON

Summer leaving. Autumn coming. On an ordinary morning ful of ordinary things, Ruiz walks to clear his head, folowing the river, watching the sun ascend. He passes old Bilingsgate Market and HMS Belfast reaching the shadows of Tower Bridge.

Six years ago, not far from here, he was pul ed from the Thames with a bul et in his thigh and a missing ring finger. They found him clinging to a navigation buoy east of Tower Bridge. Less than a mile away, drifting on the tide, a boat looked like a floating abattoir. At first Ruiz had no memory of what had happened, but then it came back slowly in snapshots, dreams and shivers. He had been washed through London’s famous sewers and been spat out into the Thames as he fol owed the ransom for a missing girl. He survived the river and the bul ets, but his career couldn’t be saved.

Richard North had been fished from a different river—a bul et hole in his head. He won’t be coming home to meet his new daughter or watch his son grow up. Ruiz had almost surrendered that same chance with his own children.

At that moment a bird, black as polished onyx, tumbles from the sky and lands with a dul thud on the footpath. Neck broken and blood on its beak. Ruiz looks up and contemplates which window it dashed itself upon. In a split second shining air had turned to solid glass and the world had snapped shut. Not fair or unfair. Life.

He turns and begins retracing his steps. Joe O’Loughlin appears ahead of him.

“I thought I’d find you here.”

“Why?”

“The river.”

He has a large white envelope. “Luca wanted me to give you this. He said you’d know what to do with it.”

“Where’s Hol y?”

“She’s gone shopping. That girl can make twenty quid go a long way.”

“Has she ever shown you the receipts?”

Joe’s face drops. “Am I aiding and abetting a shoplifter?”

“Hol y is a little more subtle than that.”

The two men walk in silence, feeling a chil breeze blowing down the river, moving into the heart of the city.

“You want to tel me what’s wrong?”

Ruiz takes his tin of boiled sweets from his pocket. Offers one. Makes his own selection.

“I stil don’t know who kil ed Zac Osborne and Colin Hackett. One died for the notebook, the other for the photographs. Same shooter. Same MO.”

“You have a theory.”

“Not real y, but I keep coming back to the Americans. They’ve known about the notebook al along.”

“Maybe they’re investigating the money-laundering.”

“Maybe they kil ed Zac Osborne and Colin Hackett and Richard North.”

“You’re talking about state-sponsored murder.”

“You’re right. Stupid idea. I’m sure they’re al registered patriots.”

“I’m being serious.”

“So am I.”

Joe fal s silent. Ruiz fil s the void. “Richard North told his secretary he’d done something terrible. He was investigating some of the transactions.”

“Cold feet?”

“Maybe he developed a conscience.” Ruiz pats his pockets. “You got any spare change? I got to make a cal .” He taps the coins against the metal box, waiting for Capable Jones to answer.

“Been trying to reach you?”

“Problem?”

“That thing you wanted. Brendan Sobel has booked a restaurant for this evening at nine o’clock—a private dining room at Trel ini’s in Little Thames Street. You want me to make a booking?”

“A table for two.”

28

LONDON

Owen Price, the editor of the
Financial Herald
, is an Australian who arrived in London in the eighties at the height of the Wapping dispute and hasn’t smiled since Margaret Thatcher resigned in tears. The editorial meeting has been underway for twenty minutes. Luca and Gooding are pitching the story—the money trail from Baghdad to Mersey Fidelity, the ghost accounts, secret deals and tax evasion.

Price grunts occasional y, a bestial gesture that can be read as either positive or negative, depending upon a person’s level of paranoia. “And you’re saying this dead banker is involved?”

“Up to his eyebal s,” says Gooding.

“It was his job to vet al new accounts and investigate any suspicious transactions,” adds Luca.

“Now he’s dead, which means he can’t verify your story,” says Price.

Gooding: “We don’t need him to verify the story and dead men can’t be libeled.”

“How high does it go?” asks Price.

“Richard North is the brother-in-law of Mitchel Bach, the chief financial officer.”

Price wrinkles his nose, not liking some hidden smel . “Cal Legal and tel them to have a QC ready. I want the lawyers involved early. Keep this to a smal team. Need-to-know only.

You can have Spencer and Blaine.”

The editor is pacing back and forth to the window, chewing on a biro. “They’re going to shit bricks upstairs. Mersey Fidelity has a big advertising budget. Deep pockets.”

“Is that a problem?” asks Luca.

“Not for you, Sunshine, unless this is a set-up.” Price looks at the cracked plastic end of the biro and tosses it into the bin. “This is one of those stories you fuck up only once. Could cost us mil ions in a libel action. My job. Your job. Oh, right, you don’t have one of those.”

He picks up another pen and addresses Gooding. “You’re in charge. Personalize the story. I want a ful profile on Richard North—animal, vegetable and mineral—and get me the complete Bach family album. Where’s the wife?”

“She had a baby last night,” says Luca.

“Better and better. I want someone at the hospital. Send her flowers. A letter. Softly, softly… she could tel her side of the story…”

“Maybe we should go easy on her.”

Price grins. “Don’t go wobbly me on me, Terracini.”

“I’m just saying that she’s been through a lot.”

The editor senses something more. “You know her?”

“I’ve met her.”

“You’ve talked to her! Shit! Why don’t we have quotes?”

“She doesn’t know anything.”

“There are no fucking friends in this story.”

“Her husband is dead.”

“That’s the whole fucking point. I want quotes. Photographs. A sit-down interview.”

A phone is ringing on Price’s desk. He grunts in annoyance. Picks up. Listens. Puts the handset back in the cradle. Then he walks to the sofa and opens the vertical blinds. Three plain-clothes police officers are walking through the newsroom. With them is another man, overweight, dressed in a pinstriped double-breasted suit: a lawyer.

“Someone ratted on us. The bank just cal ed in the police.”

Gooding and Luca peer through the blinds.

“Where is the notebook?” asks Price.

“Not on the premises,” says Luca. “I have copies.”

“Right, you go in there.” He points to a bathroom. “Gooding, you stay here. Let me do the talking.”

Luca fol ows instructions, keeping the door ajar so he can listen. The detectives and lawyer introduce themselves, handshakes al round and a discussion about the weather. The British are so very polite.

The lawyer’s name is Marcus Weil.

“This is a High Court injunction that prevents you publishing anything based upon statements made by, or materials belonging to, any employee of Mersey Fidelity.”

“Materials?” asks Price. “You’l have to be a little more specific. I’m Australian. Slow on the uptake.”

“We believe you are in possession of a notebook and other files that were obtained by theft, deception or false overtures. These materials were created by Richard North in the course of his employment at Mersey Fidelity and therefore remain the property of the bank.”

Price has resumed his seat, leaning back in his expensive leather chair; his fingertips pressed together, a frown linking him to his inner world.

“What’s in this notebook?”

“The paranoid ramblings of a disgruntled employee.”

“Oh, so you’ve read it?”

Mr. Weil dismisses the question. “Should you disseminate inaccurate and malicious opinions based on false information and flawed interpretations, you wil be sued.” The lawyer then delivers an arrogant non sequitur by denying the bank is in any way suppressing or hiding information to avoid its corporate responsibilities.

“And what makes you so sure we have these materials?” asks the editor.

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

“You’re not at liberty? That sounds like scurrilous newspaper-speak. Surely you’re not going to hide behind the defense of protecting your sources?”

“Richard North was an employee of—”

“Richard North is dead.”

“His notes are covered by commercial and legal privilege.”

Price repositions his long legs and tilts his head to one side in order to observe Weil from a different angle.

“Since you seem to know quite a lot about this notebook, perhaps you could tel me what I should be looking for?” The editor turns on a tape recorder. “Just for the record.” Blood has drained from the lawyer’s face. He blusters and whines, threatening warrants, subpoenas and writs. He looks at the detectives, demanding they take action. The most senior of them speaks.

“Have you seen this notebook, Mr. Price?”

“No.”

“Is any member of your staff in possession of such a notebook?”

“No member of my staff.”

Mr. Weil interrupts. “What about Luca Terracini?”

Price raises an eyebrow and glances at Gooding. “That name sounds familiar.”

“One of our foreign stringers—works mainly in Iraq,” says Gooding.

“Yeah. Freelance. A hired gun.” Price gets to his feet. “These stringers are always dreaming up conspiracies. We had one here the other day who accused a bank of laundering money out of Iraq and running a second set of books.”

From Weil not a flicker.

“You should go back and tel your clients not to worry. The
Financial Herald
doesn’t publish half-baked stories. When we go hunting for elephants we carry a big gun.”
29

LONDON

Elizabeth has pilows propped behind her and bedclothes puled across her lap. Despite the painkilers she feels as though someone has taken a basebal bat to her during the night.

Everything below her waist hurts. Everything above the waist is numb. Claudia Rosaline North arrived just before midnight, weighing in at seven pounds with al the required fingers and toes: minus only a father.

There are two detectives waiting to see her. The older one looks like an undertaker. The younger one has blond, cropped hair and nice eyes, which he casts down deferential y, uncomfortable in her presence.

“We’ve got some bad news, Mrs. North,” says the older officer.

“Is there something wrong with Claudia?”

“Who’s Claudia?”

“My baby.”

“No, I mean, we’re not here about your baby.”

Elizabeth can hear herself changing the subject. Making conversation.

“I thought it was a bit odd, them sending detectives instead of a doctor. This must be about my husband.” The younger officer takes a deep breath. He almost speaks but doesn’t. He leaves it to his more senior col eague.

“Your husband’s body was found last evening by police divers not far from where they recovered his car. This is now a murder investigation.” Silence.

Maybe he says more. Maybe he says nothing. The words go missing. Al Elizabeth can think about is the cruel nature of the timing, to have lost a husband and gained a daughter on the same night. The car. The river. The blood. Pausing for a moment, her head bowed, shoulders sagging, she braces herself for tears but they don’t come. Instead an oddly comforting thought occurs to her.

Yes, North had been unfaithful, but he hadn’t abandoned her. He was coming home. Maybe she would have listened to his excuses. Forgiven him. Taken him back.

How quickly her circumstances have changed. Ten days ago she had been a reasonably contented, stay-at-home mother with an enviable life. Not perfect—what marriage ever is?

Now she can recognize the countless foretel ings, the innumerable smal breaks from normalcy, the tel tale signs of disintegration and decay. North’s chin unshaved, his long hours at the office, the second bottle of wine opened on a weekday night… One evening she found him in tears, but he wouldn’t tel her why. “Just a sad day,” he told her. “I’m al owed to have sad days.”

Elizabeth’s phone keeps beeping. Text messages. People are starting to send congratulations. Soon they’l be sending commiserations. There’s an interesting dilemma: What card do you send a new mother and a widow?

The detectives apologize again and say they’l want to interview Elizabeth when she’s out of hospital. It is al so very polite and civilized. No hysterics. No recriminations. They leave her alone and she stares at the ceiling, feeling divorced from herself, watching the scene rather than playing her part. From along the corridor she hears the scuttle of little feet. Rowan hurls himself into her arms.

“I saw Claudia,” he announces excitedly. “She’s got a squished-up face.”

“Al babies look a little squished.”

“When can I play with her?”

“She’s a bit smal to play with, but she’l grow up quickly.”

“Is mine Daddy here?” he asks.

“No.”

“Doesn’t he want to see Claudia?”

“I’m sure he does, but Daddy has gone away. He’s in Heaven.”

“Where’s Heaven?”

“It’s where people go when they die.”

“Is mine Daddy dead?”

“Yes.”

“Is he coming back soon?”

“No, sweetheart, people don’t come back from Heaven.”

“What about angels?”

Elizabeth doesn’t know how to answer that question. She can see the complete trust in her son’s eyes, wanting to learn and believe, every day a new adventure. At that moment something damaged inside her final y breaks.