The phone is ringing. The answering machine picks it up. Elizabeth is in the shower, rinsing shampoo from her hair. Drying herself, she puts on something feminine to make her feel less frumpy.
This time her mobile is ringing. Her father’s voice: “Have you seen the TV?”
“What is it? Is it North?”
“I’m so sorry, Lizzie.”
Her throat closes. She fights against the panic.
“What? Tell me.”
“It’s absolutely foul. So fucking unfair.”
Sinking to her knees in front of the television, Elizabeth holds the remote control in both hands. She flicks through the channels. Stops. BBC News. There are images of Mersey Fidelity’s head office, footage of a trading room, dealers waving their arms and shouting. The banner says: MILLIONS MISSING IN HUNT FOR ROGUE BANKER.
She turns up the volume.
“A fugitive banker is being hunted today following the discovery of a ‘black hole’ in the bank’s accounts. Mersey Fidelity, one of Britain’s biggest investment banks, says it is investigating a series of suspicious trades and transfers following an official audit. Fiona Gallagher reports.”
The camera switches to a reporter standing on the steps of Mersey Fidelity, a skinny woman with big hair who Elizabeth is sure has never been eight months pregnant.
“Authorities have spent the morning retrieving hundreds of documents and computer disks from the banker’s office. Forensic accountants have also been brought in to trace transactions.
“Today’s revelations follow in the wake of Mersey Fidelity announcing record profits and being praised by the government and the Bank of England for having weathered the global financial crisis. Chancellor of the Exchequer George Osborne told Parliament last week that Mersey Fidelity would provide the blueprint for new banking laws in the UK, which he would take to the G20 summit in South Korea in November…”
As she watches the coverage and commentary, the ache of uncertainty inside Elizabeth is replaced by a dull thudding like clods of earth rattling on a coffin lid. Her father is still talking. “It must be a mistake. The wrong end of the stick.”
“Are they talking about North?” she asks.
“We’ll get to the bottom of this…”
“Why would they say such things?”
She doesn’t hear what he says next. Her mind has gone to Rowan. She has to go shopping. She promised him pasta shapes for dinner. He likes the spirals or the tubes but not the shells.
“Did you hear me, Lizzie?”
“Sorry.”
“The police will want to talk to you. They’ll want to search the house.”
“Why?”
“In case he left something.”
“Left what?”
“It’s a mistake, I know, but we have to co-operate.”
Polina is standing in the open doorway, listening to her conversation. She’s carrying a box of Rowan’s toys and his favorite bath towel.
“I’ll send Jacinta over,” says Alistair Bach.
“No.”
“You shouldn’t be alone. Come and stay with us.”
Elizabeth doesn’t want to see her stepmother. She wants to talk to Mitchell. She wants to know why he hasn’t called to explain. Why didn’t he warn her?
The landline is ringing. “I have to go.”
She picks up the new call. It’s an unfamiliar voice.
“Mrs. North?”
“Yes.”
“I’m from the Daily Mail. Can you confirm that your husband is being sought by the police?”
“I have nothing to say.”
“Do you know where your husband is?”
“Please don’t call this number again.”
She drops the handset as though scalded.
“Is everything all right?” asks Polina.
“Fine. I’m going to pick up Rowan.”
“It’s not even midday.”
“He had a sore throat this morning. I should have kept him at home.”
“Do you want me to fetch him?”
“No, I’ll go.”
Elizabeth grabs her coat and her keys. She needs to be outside. Moving. Thinking.
It takes her fifteen minutes to reach the nursery. The carers don’t seem surprised to see her. Rowan is playing in the sandpit. She collects his things. Forgets his lunchbox. One of his shoelaces is undone, but she doesn’t stop.
“Slow down, Mummy, you’re hurting.”
His coat sleeve has been pulled off one of his arms.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart.”
“Is Daddy home?”
“Not yet.”
As they turn the final corner she spies the police cars parked in front of the house.
“It must be Daddy,” Rowan cries, pulling free from her hand.
Elizabeth tries to stop him. Calls out. He’s running and she can’t keep up because she risks giving birth to Claudia on Barnes Green. Rowan runs with his head down and a loping stride like a puppy let off a leash.
Polina is standing outside the open front door. She catches Rowan before he can get inside. A detective emerges from the house. He hands Elizabeth a search warrant and delivers a speech warning her not to interfere.
“There has been some mistake,” Elizabeth tells him.
“Please step aside, Mrs. North.”
“We’ve done nothing wrong.”
Four officers move past them, each dressed in light blue cotton overalls carrying aluminum cases. They’re not just searching the house, they are vacuuming and scraping and dusting for evidence.
“Do you know the whereabouts of your husband?”
“No.”
“Has he been in contact with you?”
“No.”
Rowan is tugging at her hand, wanting to ask a question. “Not now, sweetheart.”
The detective has moved her into the garden. She can feel the neighbors’ eyes upon her from across the road, their fingers creasing the venetians. Rushing to judgment.
“I need you to come to the station with me,” the detective says. “We’ll need a statement.”
“I’ve given you one.”
“That was before.”
Elizabeth glances at Rowan and then looks to Polina. “Can you stay? Just until I get back.”
The nanny nods.
Elizabeth follows the detective to a waiting police car. She’s told to mind her head. At the last moment she looks up at the sound of an approaching car. A black Lexus parks across the driveway, blocking the unmarked police car. Felicity Stone emerges; her only wrinkle in the lap of her tight skirt. The young detective watches her approach, his eyes on her hips and her calves. Miss Stone gives him her widest smile.
“You’ll have to move your car.”
“Of course, whatever you say. I’m here with Mrs. North’s lawyer. Nobody is to speak to her unless he’s present.”
A large man struggles with his seat belt as he emerges from the Lexus. He has a fringe of brown hair combed over his head. He reaches up to pat his scalp, checking that everything is still in place.
“You don’t have to say anything,” says Marcus Weil. “You don’t have to comment at all.”
“I don’t need a lawyer. I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“Of course not, but Mitchell wants to be reassured,” says Miss Stone.
“Where is he?”
“Busy. But he’s on your side.”
Elizabeth looks at her and wonders why there are “sides.”
Hustled through a side door and up a set of internal stairs, Elizabeth follows a new police officer, a florid, beefy man, who carries his weight like a weapon. Uniformed. More senior. A commander. How different this is from her last visit to the police station. Now everybody wants to talk to her.
“Sorry about the stairs,” says Campbell Smith. “We thought it best to bring you in the back… away from the cameras.”
The lawyer is puffing behind them, dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief, which he tucks into his breast pocket. When they reach the interview suites he demands a private consultation with Elizabeth. Campbell Smith grudgingly agrees and clears the room.
“The police make this sort of thing seem so dramatic,” says Mr. Weil. “The sirens and flashing lights-they do it to intimidate people.”
“I’m not intimidated.”
“Good.”
He takes a legal pad from his briefcase. “You cannot be compelled to give evidence against your husband, Mrs. North. You do not have to say anything, but you may get in trouble if you fail to mention something that comes up later in a court case.”