Michael Robotham - The Wreckage

Stepping into a doorway on Holborn Road, she takes off her coat and pulls on a cashmere cardigan before brushing her hair. Using a small compact, she paints her lips and checks her make-up, pouting at her reflection. Finally she unwraps the delicate hair-comb from tissue paper, sliding it into her hair and looking at the result in a shop window. Satisfied, she turns into Hatton Garden and chooses a jewelry shop that is clear of customers.

An assistant is returning a tray of engagement rings to a display case.

“Can I help you?”

“I’m not sure. I haven’t done this sort of thing before,” says Holly, putting on a perfect Sloane Square accent. “My mother wanted a few pieces of jewelry valued. She’s looking to sell them. They were gifts from Daddy, who isn’t her favorite person.”

Holly takes out a small velvet box and places it on the glass counter-top. The assistant fetches the owner, who emerges from the back room as though he’s been interned there since the war. Blinking at her shyly, the old jeweler examines each stone and setting with an eyeglass.

Holly leans closer. She’s wearing an expensive watch on her wrist. She wants the jeweler to notice.

“There’s nothing here of particular value,” he says. “Apart from the sentimental sort,” he adds.

“Oh, Mummy will be disappointed. I think she was hoping… well, it doesn’t matter. Thank you anyway.”

As she’s talking, Holly takes out the hair-comb and tosses her hair back before reinserting it again.

“That’s a very interesting piece,” says the jeweler. “May I see it?”

“What? This old thing.”

Even before she places the hair-comb in the old jeweler’s hands, she can see the hunger in his eyes. Desire is something Holly understands, particularly in men.

“It belonged to my grandmother.”

“And perhaps to her grandmother,” he says.

“Is it that old?”

“Indeed it is.”

The jeweler motions to his assistant, who unfurls a dark velvet cloth. The hair-comb is placed carefully at the center of the fabric.

“Would you consider selling it?”

“But it’s an heirloom.”

“A shame.” His fingers tap thoughtfully on the counter. “I could give you seven hundred pounds.”

Holly has to stop herself from looking surprised. “Really? I didn’t think…”

Opening the cash register, the jeweler begins counting out notes in front of her. “Perhaps I could go as high as a thousand.”

“No, really, I couldn’t.”

The stack of notes has grown higher.

“What about these?” Holly motions to the velvet box.

“Fourteen hundred for the lot.”

“If I change my mind?”

“By all means-come back. I am a reasonable man.”

The door opens behind her and a man enters. Holly turns. She recognizes him but it takes a moment for her mind to put him in any sort of context. Then it dawns on her. The robbery… last night… the ex-copper!

Panic prickles on both sides of her skin and she hears a sad little squeak in the back of her throat.

“That’s stolen property! She stole those from me,” says Ruiz, pointing to the jewelry.

Holly blinks at him, shocked, telling herself not to lose control.

“Is there a problem?” asks the jeweler.

“Yes, there’s a problem,” says Ruiz. “This girl is a thief.”

Holly clutches her bag to her chest. “Stay away from me, you pervert!” She turns to the jeweler. “This man has been following me. He’s a stalker. There’s a court order out against him. He’s not supposed to come within a hundred yards of me.”

The old jeweler looks alarmed. “Should I call the police?”

“Good idea,” says Ruiz. “Let’s do that.”

Holly doesn’t flinch. She scoops the hair-comb into her hand and jabs her finger at him. “Don’t touch me! Don’t come near me!”

The door opens. A security guard enters. Short and muscular, he’s carrying a baton and every pie he’s ever eaten around his waist. Holly takes one look at him and collapses in a dead faint, scythed down like a stalk of wheat.

Ruiz catches her before she hits her head on a display case. Her eyes are shut. She’s unconscious. Out cold. Her arms flung wide.

“This man has been stalking her,” says the jeweler.

“That’s not true.”

“Step back, sir,” says the guard. “Did you hit her?”

“No, you moron, I caught her as she fell.”

Holly’s eyes open and she blinks at him.

“Did I do it again?” she asks.

“Just lie still,” says Ruiz. “Someone call an ambulance.”

She shakes her head. “I just fainted.”

“You were out cold.”

“It happens sometimes.” She sits up. Pushes hair from her eyes. “Something about my blood sugar level.”

“You’re diabetic.”

“No. I just sort of fall down. It’s no big deal.”

Someone has brought her a glass of water. She needs some fresh air. The security guard walks her out on to the pavement. Holly asks for more water. The guard takes the glass from her and turns his back. In that moment, she’s gone, sprinting down the street, dodging pedestrians and shoppers.

The guard has no chance of catching her.

Holly doesn’t stop moving. Doesn’t look back. When she reaches an intersection with a red “don’t walk” sign, she turns left and heads down the road, trying to lose herself in the crowds of shoppers, tourists and commuters. Further along the street, she makes the crossing, skipping between cars and buses.

The Underground is just ahead. No, not the tube, she could be too easily cornered. She walks past the station entrance and heads south towards the Thames.

On Waterloo Bridge a jaundiced sun is setting through the haze. Finally she pauses, sweating under her clothes, cold on her face. For twenty minutes she studies the pedestrians and cars. How did he find her-the man from last night? The ex-copper. He said his name was Vincent. He looked harmless. Old. Crippled.

She calls Zac. He’s not answering. He was the person who taught her about counter-surveillance: how to blend in with a crowd and lose a pursuer. For the next thirty minutes she continues south, occasionally doubling back and ducking into shop doorways where she can watch the street behind her. Her feet are hurting. She’s thirsty.

The streets become shabbier as she gets closer to the Hogarth Estate. Shops give way to factories, railway yards and seventies tower blocks that rise above the rooftops like tree stumps in a nuclear winter.

It’s almost dark on the estate. Children have been summoned indoors and TV sets drown out the arguments. Pushing through the entrance, Holly steps past old food containers and discarded Styrofoam cups.

Why isn’t Zac answering his phone?

She doesn’t trust the lift. Takes the stairs. A smell she can’t place in the stairwell mingles with other odors that she doesn’t want to name.

The door is open. The frame splintered. At first she thinks Zac has locked himself out and broken into the flat. She looks into the living room. The sofas have been disemboweled. Drawers pulled out. Furniture broken. Clothing scattered. A pressure band tightens around her skull.

Stepping across the threshold she can see through the partially opened door of the bedroom. The mattress is no longer on the bed.

Then she sees the chair. Zac sitting upright, his skin slick with blood, his arms bound behind him, his feet tethered together at his ankles. His eyes open at the sound of her cry. She wants to go to him, but he mouths a word through broken lips.

She stops.

He says it again.

“Run!”

As Holly turns she catches a glimpse of a hand reaching for her. She ducks, falling, scrambling on her knees. The hand comes again. She knocks it away, scuttling backwards, kicking with her legs.