Michael Robotham - The Wreckage

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

Bridget Lindop hesitates again, torn between self-preservation and common decency.

“This is me, Bridget. Elizabeth. I just want to talk.”

Silence echoes through the handset. Then comes a whispered reply. “I’ll meet you in the cafeteria.”

Opening Mitchell’s door, Elizabeth looks along the corridor. Then she walks quickly to the lift, crossing the open-plan office, keeping her head down. None of the traders take any notice of her.

The cafeteria is on the tenth floor. They order tea in mugs and take a table near the window. On the far side of fifty, Bridget Lindop is tall and straight-backed with polished silver hair bound in a tight bun. A religious woman, who goes to Mass every day, she has a small silver cross on a chain around her neck.

“How was North when you saw him last? Was he worried about anything?”

The older woman hesitates and filters her words as if straining tea leaves. “Mr. North didn’t really confide in me.”

“But you saw him every day. Did he seem preoccupied? Why was he working late so many nights?”

“We were very busy.”

Elizabeth feels a lump forming in her throat.

“I think he was having an affair.”

Miss Lindop doesn’t react. She sits with her back straight, her knees together and her hands folded in her lap.

“I’m sure you’re mistaken. Richard talked only of you and Rowan.”

“He took a woman home while I was away.”

“Are you certain?”

“Yes.”

“Did you ask him?”

“I would if I could.”

The statement vibrates in her throat. Miss Lindop reaches across the space between them and squeezes Elizabeth’s hand. Her voice drops to a whisper.

“He’s a good man, you know that.”

Elizabeth feels the skin on her face tighten. “What’s wrong?”

“He told me something a few weeks ago. He said a terrible thing had happened and it was his fault.”

“What?”

“I don’t know, but he said I wouldn’t respect him if I knew. It was about two weeks ago. He took the day off. He said he was trying to find the owner of an account. It was some sort of unlisted charity receiving money from one of our accounts. I shouldn’t be talking to you about any of this.”

“Why?”

“I’ve been told not to say anything.”

Miss Lindop looks up and her whole body stiffens. Her lips draw back from her teeth in a pained smile. She pulls her hand away from Elizabeth, breaking physical contact. Felicity Stone has appeared in the cafeteria, flanked by two security guards. Scanning the tables, her eyes come to rest on Elizabeth. She flips open her mobile and makes a call, moving between tables, closing the gap.

Miss Lindop stands and mumbles an apology.

“I’m praying for him, Lizzie.”

“Should I be praying?”

“I find it helps.”

She leaves without saying goodbye, her sensible shoes click-clacking on the tiles.

Felicity Stone is no longer full of smiles. “I told you to wait in your brother’s office.”

“The baby was kicking. I had to move around. I think she’s going to be a dancer.”

“How nice for you.”

Mitchell has finished his meeting. Elizabeth struggles up from her chair. He kisses both her cheeks then holds her at arm’s length, a hand on each shoulder.

“Where the fuck is he, Lizzie?”

His anger shocks her. It triggers a memory from her childhood; Mitchell holding one of her dolls just out of her reach. Older. Faster. Stronger. He put the doll on a makeshift raft and launched it into the center of the pond where he bombarded it with rocks, clods and sticks until the raft tipped over and the doll bobbed face down in the water.

Her brother had always been a bully. Now he was doing it again.

“He can’t just have disappeared. He must have said something. Called. Emailed.”

Elizabeth knocks his arms away.

“No.”

“Why didn’t he go with you last weekend?”

“He said he had too much work to do.”

“You must know something, Lizzie. This is a very inopportune time for him to go missing. We have an audit…”

Elizabeth looks at him incredulously. “Is that all you care about? He’s my husband. He’s your brother-in-law. I don’t give a fuck about your audit. I want to know why everyone is being so secretive. And why was North so scared?”

“You think he was upset?”

“No, he was scared. There’s a difference.”

A secretary knocks. Mitchell has another meeting. Elizabeth doesn’t want to let him go.

“Why has Bridget Lindop been told not to talk to me? What are you trying to hide?”

Mitchell is gathering files from his desk. Elizabeth blocks the doorway. “I’m not leaving until you talk to me.”

Her brother sighs, angry but accepting. He glances at his watch.

“We’re rather concerned that North took materials with him-internal memos and sensitive documents.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Someone has been feeding information to outside parties.”

“What outside parties?”

“A journalist.” Mitchell raises his hands. “I’m not making accusations, Lizzie. We just want to talk to him. I’m sure there’s an explanation. Right now I have auditors waiting in the boardroom. I can’t stay.”

Elizabeth wants to follow him, to argue, but Felicity Stone materializes in the corridor, blocking her way. Chaperoned to the foyer and through the security barriers, Elizabeth hands over her visitor’s pass and finds herself in Cabot Square. People have to step around her to reach the revolving door.

Almost without thinking, she begins walking with no destination in mind, feeling her certainty run down inside her like a wind-up toy. Reaching the river, she watches a group of teenagers, black and white, boys and girls, hanging out on benches. One couple is French kissing with all the desperation of those too young to share a bed yet.

Elizabeth can feel objects grow bigger in her imagination, magnified by the silence of the river and the din of voices in her head. Up until six days ago, if asked, she could have taken North apart and put him back together again blindfolded, just like some people can put guns together in the dark. Now she’s not so sure. Now he seems like a stranger. An imposter. Someone who tricked his way into her heart.

Colin Hackett pauses on the landing, slightly out of breath. He should lose weight. Cut down on the carbs. In his army days he could tab eight clicks with a sixty-pound Bergan on his back, barely breaking a sweat.

He’s sweating now. Jangling.

Standing outside his office door, he listens for a noise that shouldn’t be there. Who has he upset this time? What cheating husband or insurance fraudster or child support defaulter?

Reaching for the handle, he pushes it open.

The outer office is empty. Nothing has been disturbed. Moving to the next room, he checks the office safe and the drawers of his desk. All as it should be. For the next twenty minutes he searches, running his fingers beneath the desk and windowsills, checking the electric sockets, light fittings, looking for bugs or hidden cameras.

The place is clean.

At the top of the stationery cupboard is a sports bag with his camera equipment, including a tripod and telephoto lenses. He lifts it down to his desk. Holding the smooth black camera body, he checks the battery and settings. The memory card slot is empty. Someone wanted his photographs.

Sitting in his chair, he leafs through his diary, working out which case might have triggered the robbery. Most of them were background checks, missing persons and debt recovery. He printed out photographs for Elizabeth North showing her husband with the woman he brought home. She looked more like a shopgirl than a callgirl. Pretty. Young. Dirty looking. That’s often the way with men and affairs. They can have prime beef fillet at home but they go for the cheaper cuts. When you’ve been eating steak for a long long time, brisket tastes fine.