Michael Robotham - The Wreckage

“Your husband works for a bank.”

“He’s a compliance officer at Mersey Fidelity.”

“Was he having any problems?”

“He was very busy.”

“There is evidence that he used his ATM card at a machine in Regent Street early on Saturday morning. He also bought clothes in Oxford Street on Sunday.”

“North never buys clothes-he hates shopping.”

“Somebody used his cards.”

“I told you we were robbed. It’s in my statement. My jewelry is missing… our passports.”

“Perhaps your husband was planning a trip.”

“We were planning a baby.”

DC Carter smiles at her as though she’s being feeble and irrational. It’s the same look her father used to give Elizabeth when they argued during her childhood.

“Is there anyone your husband could be staying with?”

“No.”

“What about the other woman?”

“What other woman?”

“You hired a private detective because you thought your husband might be having an affair.”

Elizabeth looks at Rowan, who is playing with a stapler and a piece of paper.

“I was worried about North. I knew something was bothering him.”

“So you hired someone to follow him?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you just ask him?”

Elizabeth can feel her features becoming squashed and color rising in her cheeks.

“Don’t patronize me, Detective. Of course I asked him, but he wouldn’t tell me. We argued. I got upset. Nothing changed.”

“Something made you suspicious.”

“I didn’t know what he was doing. I didn’t have any evidence. North said he loved me. I had a friend who recommended an agency. She’d been through a divorce.”

“Were you considering divorcing your husband?”

“No, not at all! Never.”

There is a cry of pain. Rowan has punched a staple through the webbing of his hand. One tooth of the staple is sticking from his skin. Elizabeth holds him tightly and pulls the barb free, kissing away his pain and his tears.

Ruiz walks the surrounding streets, interviewing neighbors and passers-by, asking questions the police should have asked. Did anyone see a young woman? She was running. Which way did she go? What sort of boat? Two fishermen. Where did they take her? Upriver.

The men who came looking for Holly were professionals. They drove all-wheel-drive vehicles with heavily tinted windows. They wore dark clothing. Soft shoes. They were trained for this. How does someone train for this? Drowning kittens? Torturing animals?

She managed to get away, but where would she go? Out of London, if she has any sense. Somewhere safe. She needs a friend with a spare room or a sofa bed, someone who doesn’t appear on her phone records or in her address book. How long can she stay hidden? If she doesn’t use her mobile, if she doesn’t call family or friends, if she doesn’t break the law and get caught, if she doesn’t visit a doctor, or withdraw money, or apply for a job…

She’s not going to call him. She probably blames him for what happened.

Ruiz thinks of his own children and how he abandoned them after Laura died. Fled the memories. Replaced one horror with another. He lost himself in Bosnia, Sarajevo under siege, where snipers gunned down people as they queued for bread and collected water. He can remember flowers in the flower boxes, climbing roses that clung to the whitewashed walls like living tapestries.

He was gone for so long that he lost touch with Claire and Michael. One night, as he lay in bed, listening to distant gunfire, he tried to picture the twins but could only see holes in his mind, blank spaces. He had forgotten what they looked like. That’s when he realized that he had to get out of that terrible place where blood ran in the gutters and bullets tore through children. If he didn’t escape he’d be swallowed by the blank spaces, the black holes.

That was nearly twenty years ago. Water under the bridge. Blood. Washed away.

Sitting on a bench, Ruiz makes a phone call. He leaves a voicemail message for Vorland asking him to trace the number plate on the dark blue Audi and the mobile phone number left beneath his windscreen. He hangs up and notices a rowing eight skim past him with oars dripping, facing backwards but going forwards. His life feels like that-as though he’s looking into the past, seeking answers to old questions, but getting further and further from them.

Back at the house, the locks have been changed and the broken glass replaced with plywood sheets. The uniformed police have been and gone, taking statements but showing little interest. Campbell Smith arrives unexpectedly to survey the damage, walking through the house like a bailiff deciding what furniture is worth seizing.

Ruiz tells him about the envelope of cash and his conversation with the mysterious American who said that Holly Knight had the key.

“Could be a key of heroin,” says Campbell.

“I don’t think he was talking about drugs. He offered me twenty-five grand if I gave her up.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him I’d think about it.”

Campbell smirks. “Maybe that’s why you wouldn’t press charges and invited her home.”

Ruiz doesn’t react. He knows Campbell is trying to wind him up.

The commander fills the silence. “Money, narcotics and violence-ticks all the boxes for me. Holly Knight was a junkie’s girlfriend.”

“She’s a victim.”

“She’s a liar.”

“She needs protection.”

“We tried to protect her, remember? But you got her released. Now if she wants our help, she can come and ask for it. She can start by telling us the truth about Zac Osborne. You tell her that.”

Campbell tears a kitchen towel from a roll and wipes his hands, folding the paper into a neat square before placing it on the sink. He leaves without shaking Ruiz’s hand, pausing at the makeshift front door to examine the damage.

One parting comment: “Enjoy your retirement.”

Ruiz sits at the kitchen table, staring at the twisted grain in the wood. His stepfather made the table after the 1987 storms brought down dozens of oak trees on the farm. Sturdy, heavy, solid, it reminds him of the man.

He kneels in front of the sink and opens a cupboard, pushing aside bottles of floor cleaner, brass polish and old rags. There is a loose brick at the very back, with worn edges. Wedging his fingers at the corners he pulls out a stained rag with something heavy wrapped inside. A Glock 17, oiled, gleaming. Unused since he last took it to the range three, no four, years ago.

Setting it on the table he goes to the freezer and has to move ice trays and a leg of lamb to reach the frozen peas. Opening the packet, he takes out a zip-loc plastic bag with two boxes of ammunition.

He weighs the Glock in his hand, enjoying the way it fits into his palm. It’s his old service pistol. He thought about getting rid of it when he retired, but there were too many skeletons rattling in his cupboards to feel completely safe. He doesn’t like guns, but they serve a purpose. They speed things up and spell things out and they win arguments without words.

Carefully loading the ammunition clip, he snaps it into place and slides the pistol into a leather holster that fits over his shoulder. He tries it on. Adjusting the straps.

Picking up his car keys, he puts in another call to Vorland. He’s gone for the day. Ruiz knows where to find him.

South of the river, opposite Battersea Park, a fitness center full of mirrors and narcissists; men with no necks and bulging forearms, women with hard bodies and little left that is feminine.

Vorland steps off a running machine. Ever since his heart attack he’s been exercising as though death were only one step behind him, walking in his shadow. He slides along a weight bench, legs apart, arms braced beneath a bar carrying close to his body weight. Blowing out his cheeks, he starts his next set, sucking in air, grunting. Eight… nine… ten. Slowing down. The veins on the back of his neck are poking out, blue and hard.