“You think he was upset?”
“No, he was scared. There’s a difference.”
A secretary knocks. Mitchell has another meeting. Elizabeth doesn’t want to let him go.
“Why has Bridget Lindop been told not to talk to me? What are you trying to hide?”
Mitchell is gathering files from his desk. Elizabeth blocks the doorway. “I’m not leaving until you talk to me.”
Her brother sighs, angry but accepting. He glances at his watch.
“We’re rather concerned that North took materials with him-internal memos and sensitive documents.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Someone has been feeding information to outside parties.”
“What outside parties?”
“A journalist.” Mitchell raises his hands. “I’m not making accusations, Lizzie. We just want to talk to him. I’m sure there’s an explanation. Right now I have auditors waiting in the boardroom. I can’t stay.”
Elizabeth wants to follow him, to argue, but Felicity Stone materializes in the corridor, blocking her way. Chaperoned to the foyer and through the security barriers, Elizabeth hands over her visitor’s pass and finds herself in Cabot Square. People have to step around her to reach the revolving door.
Almost without thinking, she begins walking with no destination in mind, feeling her certainty run down inside her like a wind-up toy. Reaching the river, she watches a group of teenagers, black and white, boys and girls, hanging out on benches. One couple is French kissing with all the desperation of those too young to share a bed yet.
Elizabeth can feel objects grow bigger in her imagination, magnified by the silence of the river and the din of voices in her head. Up until six days ago, if asked, she could have taken North apart and put him back together again blindfolded, just like some people can put guns together in the dark. Now she’s not so sure. Now he seems like a stranger. An imposter. Someone who tricked his way into her heart.
10
Colin Hackett pauses on the landing, slightly out of breath. He should lose weight. Cut down on the carbs. In his army days he could tab eight clicks with a sixty-pound Bergan on his back, barely breaking a sweat.
He’s sweating now. Jangling.
Standing outside his office door, he listens for a noise that shouldn’t be there. Who has he upset this time? What cheating husband or insurance fraudster or child support defaulter?
Reaching for the handle, he pushes it open.
The outer office is empty. Nothing has been disturbed. Moving to the next room, he checks the office safe and the drawers of his desk. All as it should be. For the next twenty minutes he searches, running his fingers beneath the desk and windowsills, checking the electric sockets, light fittings, looking for bugs or hidden cameras.
The place is clean.
At the top of the stationery cupboard is a sports bag with his camera equipment, including a tripod and telephoto lenses. He lifts it down to his desk. Holding the smooth black camera body, he checks the battery and settings. The memory card slot is empty. Someone wanted his photographs.
Sitting in his chair, he leafs through his diary, working out which case might have triggered the robbery. Most of them were background checks, missing persons and debt recovery. He printed out photographs for Elizabeth North showing her husband with the woman he brought home. She looked more like a shopgirl than a callgirl. Pretty. Young. Dirty looking. That’s often the way with men and affairs. They can have prime beef fillet at home but they go for the cheaper cuts. When you’ve been eating steak for a long long time, brisket tastes fine.
Hackett had spent the morning searching for Richard North-tracking the transmitter he planted behind the bumper of the banker’s car. He was lucky the battery had lasted this long. He had traced North’s car to an industrial estate in Bury Park, Luton, full of factories, marshalling yards, warehouses, workshops, and surrounded by run-down housing estates, second-hand clothes shops and Asian clothing emporiums.
The BMW was parked in the forecourt of a derelict motel. Most of the rooms were padlocked but one or two were being used for storage. Charity collections. Donated clothes and blankets.
Hackett waited five hours for North to show up. Figured he was with a girl. Maybe hookers were using the rooms. Just when he was contemplating a wasted morning, a Pakistani youth dressed in baggy jeans and a hooded sweatshirt emerged from one of the rooms. He walked to the BMW. Unlocked the doors. Checked the glove box, opened the boot, lay down a plastic sheet and then went back inside.
That’s when Janice had phoned to say he had a visitor in the office-someone who gave her the creeps.
The mystery man has gone now. Hackett’s bladder has been clenched for too long. He needs a leak. The toilet is along the corridor. Unzipping his trousers, he rocks on his heels and relaxes, closing his eyes.
The door opens behind him. Hackett looks over his shoulder. The bathroom is small and the man is standing by the sink, arms by his sides. He’s wearing a leather jacket. Dark jeans.
“Are you Colin Hackett?”
“Who’s asking?”
“People call me the Courier.”
“Is that because you deliver messages?”
“I also collect things from people.”
The detective estimates the threat posed. Height. Weight. Speed.
“You finished?” asks the Courier.
“Unless you’re here to help me shake this thing, you can wait outside.”
“I’m good here.”
Hackett is trying to think. What’s he not seeing or remembering? The banker can’t have sent this guy.
“What can I do for you?”
“I want to talk to you about some photographs you took.”
Hackett glances at his shoes. A drop of urine has settled on the polished leather. He pumps soap on to his hands, turns on the tap, washes them carefully and then triggers the dryer, rubbing his hands beneath the warm stream of air.
“They don’t provide paper towels anymore,” he says. “Got to save the trees. Instead we burn fossil fuels to run these things.”
The Courier doesn’t add anything to the observation. He’s not a talker. Hackett considers his options. His mobile is in his coat pocket. His Smith amp; Wesson Airweight. 38 is locked in the office safe.
The dryer falls silent.
Hackett tugs at his cuffs. Straightens his tie. Smoothes down his hair. He’s waiting for someone else to come into the gents.
“You followed a banker,” says the Courier.
“Did he send you?”
“You took photographs. Who has copies of them?”
“You took the memory card from my camera. There are no more copies.”
“The banker had a notebook.”
“I never met the man. I just followed him.”
“What about the girl he was with?”
“I don’t know who she is. How about we go back to my office? We can talk about it.”
Hackett moves towards the door. If he can reach the hallway, he can turn right and run towards the stairs. The Courier is behind him. Stepping closer, something in his hand, a gun maybe, pressed hard between his shoulder blades.
Hackett pivots, aiming an elbow at his face. The Courier ducks it easily and delivers a short sharp jab to the kidneys. Hackett’s knees buckle. Pain breaks over his face. The next punch sends him to the floor, half in the room and half out. The Courier grabs the door and slams it closed across the detective’s head. He slams it again.
A forearm closes around Hackett’s throat, hinged with the opposite elbow, adding to the pressure, sealing off his windpipe. Hackett’s fingers claw at the arm. Kicking. Jerking. He can see a pinpoint of brightness in front of him and feels his mind drifting to a distant battlefield, a rocky island in the Atlantic, where pissing rain has turned to sleet and artillery shells are shaking the ground with a deafening roar.