Joe is still sitting by the window.
“I asked Holly about the notebook. She can’t remember it.”
“Maybe you should ask her again.”
Ruiz picks up the bedside phone and punches a number.
“Capable.”
“Mr. Ruiz.”
“Don’t use my name. What have you got for me?”
Capable begins explaining how he accessed the computer records, circumventing firewalls and piggybacking from one database to the next. Ruiz interrupts. “I don’t care how you did it, Capable. That’s like wanting to know what my butcher puts in his sausages.”
“Huh?”
“I’m in a hurry. What about my mobile?”
“Oh. Right. I traced the blue Audi to a basement garage in an office block near Tower Bridge. Serviced offices. Ten floors. The parking space is reserved for a company that doesn’t put its name on the board in the foyer. It has unlisted numbers and a high-speed broadband connection. Serious firewall protection.”
“How many employees?
“No way of telling.” Capable is tapping at a keyboard. “I managed to get into the garage. The Audi had a service sticker on the windscreen. A dealership in West London does the work.
“The Audi has false plates, but the chassis number was sold to a dealer in Watford in 2009. Then it was leased to a private company in London that quoted a non-existent VAT number. I’ve been through Companies House. It was a shelf company set up in the mid-nineties by a firm of accountants in Hampstead. The company was first registered in July 1997. Listed as an IT security operation. It’s the affiliate of a Washington-based company called Holyrod Limited. The company director is listed as an Andrew Broderick who works for a law firm in Washington. Four identical Audis are listed at the same office address. The bills are paid on a company credit card owned by a Brendan Sobel.”
“He got a private address?
“Not that I can find.”
“OK,” says Ruiz. “I need another favor. Get a list of restaurants in the area. See if they take bookings from a Brendan Sobel.”
“You think he dines out?”
“The man has to eat.”
Walking as far as the Edgware Road, Ruiz finds a florist near the tube station. The bunch of flowers costs him twenty-five quid with a card in plain white envelope. He pays cash and is very specific about the delivery instructions to an address in Hampstead. Mrs. Elizabeth North must sign for the flowers personally. Nobody else.
He takes a moment to compose a message.
Elizabeth,
I need you to trust me. Find an excuse to leave the house. Be aware that you may be followed. There is a car wash on Archway Road in Haringey. Ask for a wash and wax. Go inside and order a coffee. After five minutes get up and go to the ladies. There is a fire door. I’ll be waiting for you.
Ruiz
PS Don’t tell anybody about this.
18
Elizabeth can hear her father arguing with someone over the intercom. A van is parked at the gates, visible on the CCTV camera. The driver is holding a bunch of flowers.
“How do I know you’re not a reporter?” asks Bach.
“Because I’m not,” says the driver, who looks bemused rather than frustrated. “The flowers are for Mrs. Elizabeth North.”
“Who sent them?”
“I don’t know. I just deliver them. I don’t grow them. I don’t pick them. I just deliver them.”
Elizabeth interrupts. “Let him in, Daddy. He’s just doing his job.”
She meets the driver at the front door with her father hovering. Then she puts the blooms in the kitchen sink. Reads the card.
“Who are they from?”
“Mitchell,” she lies.
“Is he apologizing?”
“Yes.”
Afterwards she borrows Jacinta’s car, not the matching Mercedes, but a low-slung Japanese sporty number with sleek lines, minimal headroom and a surfeit of horsepower. If ever a car suited her stepmother… Squeezing behind the wheel, she has to adjust the seat to give Claudia some room. The indicators are on the opposite side and she hasn’t driven a manual in years, but she makes the journey without destroying the clutch or the gearbox.
Heads turn as she pulls into the car wash. The young cleaners admire the car, wondering if the driver is equally sexy. They see her pregnancy and go back to their buckets and sponges.
Ordering a coffee, Elizabeth sits at a table by the window, pretending to browse through a magazine. After a few minutes she goes to the ladies and finds the fire door. Pushing it open, she steps outside, skirting rubbish bins and parked cars, wishing she’d worn more practical shoes.
Ruiz is waiting at the end of the alley.
“Do you have your mobile?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“You should turn it off. People are following me. They might also be following you.”
Elizabeth stops walking. “Did you talk to Holly Knight? Does she have the notebook?”
“We’ll talk in the car.”
“I want to meet her.”
“That’s not going to help.”
“I want to know what they talked about; what North said to her. Did he talk about me? Did she know he was married?”
“Holly didn’t start all this. She’s not the cause of North’s problems-you know that.”
They’re arguing on the street-a heavily pregnant woman and a man old enough to be her father. Ruiz puts his hands on the small of her back, steering her towards the door. Elizabeth stands her ground.
“Don’t treat me like a child. You have no stake in this.”
Ruiz stops. Holds up his hands. “You’re right. I don’t have to be here. It’s not my problem. I should go home.”
The harshness in his tone takes Elizabeth by surprise. She apologizes and gets in the car, letting Ruiz adjust her seat belt.
“They found North’s car,” she says, trying to explain. “They don’t know if he’s…” She can’t finish the sentence. Instead she grimaces and her body folds forward over the seat belt. A cramp. A contraction. She takes short breaths until the pain eases.
“How often is it happening?”
“It’s not a real contraction, only pressure pains.”
“When was the last time you saw a doctor?”
“I’m fine.”
They drive in silence across North London, taking the North Circular through Golders Green, past Brent Cross and down Hanger Lane and Gunnersbury Avenue into Chiswick.
“The photographs that Colin Hackett took-who did you show them to?”
“The police… my father… Yahya Maluk.”
“Anyone else?”
“I don’t think so.”
Ruiz changes the subject. “Can I ask you something? Your nanny… Polina.”
Elizabeth stops picking at her nail polish. “What about her?”
“Why did she leave?”
Elizabeth lifts one shoulder and drops it again. “It was all too chaotic… North had gone missing, the media were camped outside, the phone always ringing…”
“How did you come to hire her?”
“She was working for my brother and his wife. Mitchell and Inga’s children had started school. My need was greater.”
“When did she start?”
“Eight months ago.” Elizabeth has turned to look directly at Ruiz, whose eyes stay on the road. “Why are you so interested in Polina?”
He doesn’t answer.
“What is it?” she asks again.
“Nothing.”
“Tell me.”
“It’s not my place.”
“What sort of answer is that? I’m sick of people keeping secrets or telling me lies or tiptoeing around me like I’m going to break if they make a loud noise. My husband lied to me. He kept secrets. Maybe he broke the law. If you’re not going to tell me the truth, you can stop the car and let me out here.”
They’re in Chiswick, close to Bridget Lindop’s house.
“How did your husband get on with Polina?” asks Ruiz.
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.