“About Italy and Germany?”
“Before that.”
“Luton. There were money transfers to a private postbox in Luton. A hundred thousand pounds.”
“Who owns the postbox?”
“A Muslim charity, but it looks legitimate.”
Ruiz is holding his breath. Exhales. “When Colin Hackett was following Richard North he went to a postbox in Luton. He mentioned a charity. When I talked to Hackett’s niece she told me that her uncle was in Luton looking for the missing banker on the day she called him and he came back to London. That was the day he died.”
Ruiz is already moving.
Luca has grabbed his coat. “Where are you going?”
“To find a car.”
Charlton Car Impound looks like a World War II prison camp with razor wire atop an eight-foot-high perimeter fence. Spread over nearly four acres, the compound is covered by tarmac and a series of brick warehouses with iron roofs and roller doors.
This is where vehicles are towed if they’re involved in serious accidents, or abandoned, or used in crimes, or seized by the police or the courts.
The office has a staff of three, hardened souls with a thankless job-a twelve-hour shift full of abuse and insults from members of the public who find their cars have been towed from red routes or double-yellow lines; or because they are unlicensed, uninsured, untaxed or being driven by a drunk. Thank you, sir/madam, that’s two hundred pounds-we accept cash or credit cards. No American Express.
The guy behind the counter is black, six-two, and has granny glasses perched on the edge of his nose. It’s like seeing Mike Tyson wearing a pinafore.
“I need to look at a car,” says Ruiz.
“You got the plate number?”
“No.”
“Was it towed under your name?”
“No.”
“Registration paper or owner’s license?”
“It’s not my car.”
His eyes move from Ruiz to Luca. “Are you guys taking the piss?”
“It was towed here two days ago from Earls Court. It belonged to a Colin Hackett.”
“Are you a copper?”
“Not anymore,” says Ruiz.
“A private detective?”
“Not as such.”
“Can’t help you. You’re not authorized. Move aside. I got people in the queue.”
Ruiz can hear a scraping sound inside his head like a blade being sharpened on a stone. Holly has been missing for nearly eight hours. Getting further away. There must be four hundred cars on the lot-each with a number and grid reference. Even if they could get past the security, it could take them hours to find Hackett’s car.
Through a reinforced window, he notices a mud-streaked truck pull up at the boom gate. The driver jumps down from his cab to sign paperwork. He tucks the pen behind his ear.
Ruiz tells Luca to wait in the Merc. “I won’t be long.”
He leaps a low fence and walks towards the gates.
“How’s the Pekingese?”
Dave looks up from the clipboard.
“Shitting all over my carpets, but it’s still better company than my wife. What are you doing here?”
“I’m looking for a car, but the lads behind the counter aren’t being very helpful. I don’t have any paperwork.”
“Not official business.”
“Just as important.”
Dave glances across the lot where cars are lined up in neat rows. “Is this going to get me into trouble?”
“It could save someone’s life.”
He makes a decision. “Jump in the cab. Stay out of sight until we get inside.”
The truck passes beneath the raised boom and then through a sliding electronic gate. Dave takes a series of turns before stopping in a warehouse. He leads Ruiz to an outer office where the drivers have a tearoom with a jug and chest fridge. Page Three girls with arched backs and melon-like breasts gaze down from the walls, some of them yellowed by age and aged even further by their hairstyles.
Dave makes a call. Asks about a car towed in from Earls Court. Moments later they’re walking between rows of vehicles. Colin Hackett’s Renault is at the back of the lot parked against a brick wall. A common make, a common color, it was chosen to blend in with the traffic when Hackett was tailing unfaithful husbands or insurance cheats. There are fast-food wrappers on the floor, along with separate bottles-one for water, the other for urine-clearly marked to avoid confusion on long stakeouts.
“You got the keys?” asks Ruiz.
“It’s already unlocked.”
“Can you hotwire it?”
Dave is shaking his head, holding up his hands. “You wanted to see the car-you’ve seen it.”
“I’m not going to steal it, Dave-I need to see the satnav.”
The driver squeezes his hands against his temples, unsure of what to do next.
“A young woman was abducted a little while ago,” says Ruiz. “I was supposed to be looking after her. If I don’t find her in the next few hours I don’t know what could happen to her.”
“Abducted?”
“Yeah.”
Dave scratches his jaw and finds a pimple to squeeze. He takes a pen-torch from his pocket. “Here, hold this.”
Opening the door, he leans into the footwell of the Renault and reaches beneath the dashboard, pulling out the electrics. The engine starts on the third touching of the wires. Dave pumps the accelerator with his hand, revving the engine until it idles smoothly. Ruiz taps the screen of the satnav, which lights up with a welcome message. He looks for the last known destination. Bury Park. Luton. He jots down the street name. No number.
Dave takes him out through a side gate on to waste ground between the motorway and a set of newer factories. Following the fence, Ruiz turns the corner and crosses a forecourt before reaching the Mercedes. Sliding behind the wheel, he borrows Luca’s mobile.
“Campbell?”
“Yeah, who’s this?”
“Ruiz. I’ve got a lead on Holly Knight-an address in Luton. Colin Hackett had it programmed into his satnav when he was following Richard North.”
Campbell seems preoccupied. Ruiz wants him to listen. “Hackett and North were both killed by the same caliber pistol. They both went to Luton and both of them finished up dead.”
“Jesus, Ruiz, I told you to stay out of this.”
“I might need some local backup.”
“I can’t spare anyone. We’re pulling warm bodies into London.”
“Why? What’s wrong?”
“Counter terrorism just raised the threat level to critical. An emergency calclass="underline" a woman called 999 and said something about an attack on London tonight. Pakistani accent. She hung up before we could get details.”
“A verified threat?”
“We’re tracing the call.”
Campbell has a phone ringing in the background. “Go home, Vincent, and stop acting like some third-rate vigilante. We’ll follow your lead tomorrow.”
Ruiz hangs up and looks at the sky, the trees bending in the wind. A storm coming.
35
The rain starts falling just north of Watford, a few spits at first, mixing with dust on the windscreen and bleeding down the wipers. Then the clouds break and sheets of rain are swept across the motorway as if the air has turned to water. Ruiz drives with both hands on the wheel; his head canted forward, wanting the traffic to part. He stays in the overtaking lane, flashing his lights at any slow vehicles.
Luca is next to him, still trying to fathom how quickly the euphoria of yesterday has turned to this. Ruiz didn’t ask him to come, but some decisions have all the momentum and certainty of gravity. Nicola had once accused him of sitting on the sidelines, unwilling to get involved, watching and reporting while sharing none of the pain. Maybe she was right. Maybe this is his moment.
“Do you believe in God?” asks Ruiz.
The question is so unexpected that all Luca does is stare at him. “I have a Catholic father and a Muslim mother. I call myself confused.”
Ruiz drums his fingers on the wheel and they drive another mile in silence.