“I know, I know, I felt guilty for not trusting him. I thought I was being paranoid, but now I’m glad.”
Bach has taken the photographs to the window where the light is better. He arranges them in some sort of sequence.
“Do you know who she is?”
“No.”
“Are there any more?”
Elizabeth retrieves the rest of the photographs. Bach pauses when he sees the images of the outdoor meeting in Maida Vale.
“Do you recognize anyone?” asks Elizabeth.
Bach doesn’t answer.
“I thought it might have something to do with the bank.”
“I don’t think so. I could be wrong. Ex-chairmen are like former prime ministers-we retire gracefully, never comment on company business and enjoy the benefits of a generous pension scheme.”
“I don’t know how you can be so flippant.”
Bach looks hurt. “I’m sorry if I gave that impression.”
He goes back to the photograph of the girl. “Are you sure you don’t know her?”
“I’m sure.” Elizabeth sighs. “I should be angry. I should want to kick his sorry arse out the door, but I just want to find him.”
“Men do foolish things sometimes.”
“Were you ever unfaithful?”
“That’s not a fair question.”
“Does that mean yes?”
“It means I’m not going to answer you.”
Elizabeth apologizes. She has no right to ask. And she has no right to blame her father for the sins of her husband.
Her mobile is ringing. She looks at the screen but doesn’t recognize the number.
“Hello?… Is anyone there?… Hello?”
There is no sound at all except for a faint pulse that might be the blood in her ears. She exhales and squeezes her eyes shut, ending the call.
12
Artie Chalcott sits in his home office, feeling his skin prickle and sweat on his forehead. His ulcer is also acting up and his bowel movements are all over the place. Stress-related. Shit-related. Things are also going south in London. First the banker gets robbed, then he goes missing and now they can’t find the girl who robbed him.
During the afternoon he’d tried to take out his frustration on the driving range, hitting balls. Smacking them with a club head the size of a Christmas ham. Made no difference to his mood.
Now he’s home and the kids are asleep upstairs and his wife is outside on a pool lounger, wrapped in a silk kimono, smoking a cigarette and getting drunk. She smokes in the same hungry way that she has sex. Not with him. He doesn’t know what gym instructor or pool boy or realtor she’s screwing now.
Chalcott can’t punch a turd, but he can punch a number. He calls Sobel in London. Apologizes for the hour.
“Don’t worry about it, Artie, sleep was so last century.”
Chalcott feels a flash of annoyance. Sobel sounds too cheerful and he should be calling him “sir.”
“What news on our banker?”
“He’ll turn up.”
“That’s the issue, isn’t it, Brendan? Where will he turn up? You should have pulled him in before he went AWOL. The list would be safe by now.”
“The robbery was a coincidence.”
“I don’t believe in coincidences. Someone killed the boyfriend.”
“Maybe it was North?”
“You don’t believe that.”
“Who then?”
“Ibrahim.”
“Ibrahim doesn’t do his own dirty work.”
“Maybe he hired someone. North was getting nervous and making threats. He made a phone call on Friday from a call box to a journalist.”
“Who?”
“Keith Gooding on the Financial Herald. He left a message.”
“Had they ever met?”
“We’re going back over his phone records.”
Chalcott has the television muted. Pictures of a building in Baghdad with shattered windows and curtains flapping through the holes. The Finance Ministry. A crowd outside being kept back by soldiers. A rolling banner on the screen: Missing UN auditor found dead in Iraq.
“What about the wife?”
“North hasn’t been in touch with her.”
“And the girl?”
“MI6 are looking.”
“Six couldn’t find their ass-cheeks with both hands.” Chalcott belches. “While we’re on the subject of Ibrahim?”
“He’s dropped out of sight.”
“Christ almighty! This is a clusterfuck, Brendan. You know how much time and money have gone into this. Remember Afghanistan? Khost? We lost seven agents in one day. They trusted al-Balawi-they made him a fucking birthday cake-and the prick was playing them all along. He walked right into a secure base wearing a suicide vest and blew them all to pieces.”
“The Jordanians vouched for al-Balawi.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t trust any of these cunts. We control that list and we’re two years ahead of the game. We’ll nail every last one of the murdering scumbags.”
13
Joe O’Loughlin is slowly crossing the concourse at Paddington Station. Ruiz recognizes the professor’s distinctive stoop and stiff-legged gait. He looks like a scientist or a doctor, more Einstein than Freud, with unkempt hair and a tweed jacket. Some weeks he forgets to shave and a salt-and-pepper stubble covers his chin and cheeks.
Ruiz takes his suitcase. Judges the weight. “You bought me a present?”
“It’s a bottle of something.”
“If I were a religious man I’d bless you.”
“If you were a religious man the bells would be ringing at Westminster Abbey.”
The two men weave through the crowds. Ruiz has to wait for the professor to catch up.
“Can you move any slower?”
“We’re all slow in the West Country.”
Through the automatic doors, they reach the cab rank where Ruiz has double-parked and displayed a disabled sign in his windscreen.
“Does that still work?”
“I got shot in the leg-there have to be some perks.”
Joe looks around. “So where is the young lady?”
“Now that’s a good question.”
Ruiz drives and talks-telling him about Zac Osborne’s death, the bribe and Holly running away. The professor interrupts occasionally to ask a question, focusing on the murder scene and the injuries inflicted.
“It had to be personal,” he says. “Very few people can torture someone so directly, hands-on, inflicting injuries over a long period, ignoring their pain… you’re dealing with a sadist who was very comfortable in a strange environment. He wasn’t panicked. He didn’t rush. He took his time, looking for information or waiting for the girl. What do the police say?”
“They’re calling it a drug turf war.”
“You don’t agree?”
“They found no drug paraphernalia in the flat.”
“Which doesn’t prove anything.”
“I talked to the pathologist this morning. Osborne had no drugs in his system. The tox screen came back negative.”
Joe leans over the seat and unzips a pocket on his suitcase.
“I had to call in some favors at Social Services. It’s not easy getting someone’s juvenile files.”
“What did you find?”
“Both of Holly Knight’s parents are dead. A murder suicide.”
“Domestic?”
“Her father strangled her mother and then hung himself. Holly’s brother died the same year. Brain aneurism. Holly must have been seven, maybe eight. She was made a ward of the court and fostered to six different families before she was fifteen. That’s when she ran away. She was found living with a man twice her age and was sent to another foster home, which she burnt down.”
“Did she give a reason?”
“Wouldn’t talk about it.”
Ruiz has seen how Holly reacts to authority figures. Her resentment borders on hatred.
“At seventeen she spent a year as a kitchen hand. Then she took a job waitressing. She was arrested in April 2009 during a G20 protest in London and a couple of months later she made a rape allegation that wasn’t pursued by the CPS.”
Joe continues to precis the file, aware of how brutally casual he sounds, giving a banal rendering of a terrible life. What does it do to someone, an upbringing like that? They grow up scared of the dark, scared of being alone, scared of their own dreams.