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 tell 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 tell 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
Elizabeth has pillows propped behind her and bedclothes pulled across her lap. Despite the painkillers she feels as though someone has taken a baseball 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 all 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 deferentially, 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 colleague.
“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. All 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 foretellings, the innumerable small breaks from normalcy, the telltale 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 tell her why. “Just a sad day,” he told her. “I’m allowed to have sad days.”
Elizabeth’s phone keeps beeping. Text messages. People are starting to send congratulations. Soon they’ll 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’ll want to interview Elizabeth when she’s out of hospital. It is all 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.”
“All babies look a little squished.”
“When can I play with her?”
“She’s a bit small to play with, but she’ll 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 finally breaks.
Alistair Bach is standing in the doorway. Mitchell appears behind him, carrying flowers. Elizabeth speaks quietly and calmly.
“Get him out of here. I don’t want to see him. I never want to see him.”
Bach tries to intervene, but Elizabeth stops him. “Stay out of this, Daddy.”
“I’m just saying that, whatever you think has happened, you should remember that Mitchell is family.”
“Don’t try to guilt me,” she says sharply. “North is dead. I know he’s involved.”
Mitchell wants to defend himself but doesn’t know how to begin. The look of contempt on Elizabeth’s face is too much for him. He places the flowers on a chair and leaves without saying a word.
30
Standing beneath the colonnaded arches, Ruiz watches the lift doors open and three men emerge. One of them is the driver of the blue Audi; the others are slightly older, dressed in suits, one with a black umbrella and the other wearing a light overcoat. Staying out of sight, Ruiz lets them pass.
They cross Fenchurch Street and turn into Mark Lane. Once they’re around the corner, Ruiz doesn’t alter his pace. He knows where they’re going.
The restaurant is modern Italian with Polish waitresses, French kitchen staff and an English chef: a microcosm of the New Europe. The private dining room is in a mezzanine area, overlooking the main restaurant. Earlier Ruiz had watched two other men arrive and sweep the room for listening devices.
Luca and Daniela are sitting at a table by the window. Luca hands a camera to a waitress. It’s their anniversary, he says. They pose. Behind them the door opens and the three men enter. The shutter blinks. Take another one just to be sure. It blinks again.
Moments later a cab pulls up outside. A fourth man has arrived, this one more surprising. Yahya Maluk hands his hat and coat to a waitress.
Ruiz enters a few minutes later, not making eye contact with Luca or Daniela.
“I’m with Mr. Sobel’s party,” he tells the maitre d’. “A late addition. Did someone call? No, not to worry.”
Taking the narrow stairs, he arrives at the lone table.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, gentlemen. Bloody traffic. Grind to a standstill one day.”
Bernard Sobel looks up from the menu. Ruiz takes a chair and shrugs off his coat.
Sobeclass="underline" “Hey buddy, you’re in the wrong place.”
“This is a private dining room,” echoes Artie Chalcott.
“But you guys know me.” Ruiz opens his arms. Then he motions to the driver. “We’re old friends. How’s your mate? Sorry about his nose. Didn’t know he was a bleeder.”
The driver’s first instinct is to reach inside his jacket. Ruiz fixes him with a stare. “I had you pegged as stupid, but not that stupid. Are we really going to compare weapons in a public place like this? Is yours bigger than mine? Is mine bigger than yours? I don’t like to boast, but I think size does count and now isn’t the time for you to grow a pair.”