Michael Robotham - The Wreckage

“I’ll defend Scousers,” he once told Elizabeth. “I’ll support their football teams and I’ll give money to their charities, but don’t ask me to live with them.”

Elizabeth turns to gaze at the house. She can see her old bedroom on the second floor, the window surrounded by ivy. This is where she grew up, surrounded by bankers, financiers and money people.

Bach pulls off his gloves, flexing his hands as though fighting arthritis.

“Come inside. Let’s have a cup of tea.”

They leave Rowan running around the garden, chasing an overweight Labrador called Sally, who is the latest in a long line of “Sallys”-each one related to the one before. The Bachs keep everything in the family.

Elizabeth’s stepmother is in the kitchen talking to a tradesman on the phone. Wearing gym leggings and a tracksuit top, Jacinta is thirty years younger than Elizabeth’s father, with well-cut white blonde hair and breasts that cost as much as a small car. She gives Elizabeth a little wave but nothing shows in her eyes. It’s different when she smiles at Bach, who she treats like a sex god. All praise to the properties of Viagra.

Bach begins opening cupboards and drawers looking for the teabags. “You really don’t have to bother, Daddy.”

“Nonsense. I could use a cup.”

He calls out to Jacinta. “Have you seen the teabags?”

She goes straight to the correct cupboard without interrupting her conversation. Then she smiles at him with such total and unprompted love that it’s like a fourth person has walked into the room.

Bach continues talking to Elizabeth. “What do the police say?”

“They think he’s run off.”

“Who’s handling the case?”

“A Detective Constable Carter.”

“A constable! Sounds as if they’re not taking this seriously. I’ll make a few calls. Get them to re-prioritize.”

That’s how her father talks. It can be like listening to a management seminar.

“Have you talked to Mitchell?”

“He says North was leaking information to a journalist.”

Bach blows out his cheeks. “I don’t believe it for a minute.”

Elizabeth runs her finger along the curve of the sink.

“He’s more worried about the bank than about North.”

“I’m sure that’s not true.”

“I was escorted from the building.”

“I’ll talk to him.”

Elizabeth turns away. On the opposite side of the lawn, past the pond, over the sandstone wall that surrounds the gardens, she can see the treetops of Hampstead Heath, an ocean of greenery in a broken landscape of rooftops, chimney pots, TV aerials and satellite dishes.

“You should come and stay with us-just until North shows up,” says Bach.

Elizabeth turns and sneaks a glance through to the sunroom where Jacinta is still on the phone.

Bach follows her gaze. “She’s not the wicked witch of the East.”

“Just Hampstead.”

Her father smiles wryly. “She cares about me.”

“I know.”

Elizabeth’s mother died of a brain aneurism ten years ago. Bach waited seven years before he remarried. Said he needed someone to grow old beside. Fine, thought Elizabeth, but did she have to be so young?

He’s pouring the tea, clutching the teapot in both hands to stop the lid from falling off. Elizabeth looks at her cup. He’s given her too much milk. She doubts if her father has made tea more than a handful of times in his life. Other people do it for him. Maids. Secretaries. Wives.

Elizabeth picks at her chipped nail polish.

“I think North was having an affair.”

The statement feels like it might scald her esophagus.

“You’re sure?”

She nods.

“How?”

Opening her bag, she takes out the photographs and places them on the kitchen table, not looking at them. Unable to.

“Who took these?”

“A private detective.”

“You were having him followed!”

“I know, I know, I felt guilty for not trusting him. I thought I was being paranoid, but now I’m glad.”

Bach has taken the photographs to the window where the light is better. He arranges them in some sort of sequence.

“Do you know who she is?”

“No.”

“Are there any more?”

Elizabeth retrieves the rest of the photographs. Bach pauses when he sees the images of the outdoor meeting in Maida Vale.

“Do you recognize anyone?” asks Elizabeth.

Bach doesn’t answer.

“I thought it might have something to do with the bank.”

“I don’t think so. I could be wrong. Ex-chairmen are like former prime ministers-we retire gracefully, never comment on company business and enjoy the benefits of a generous pension scheme.”

“I don’t know how you can be so flippant.”

Bach looks hurt. “I’m sorry if I gave that impression.”

He goes back to the photograph of the girl. “Are you sure you don’t know her?”

“I’m sure.” Elizabeth sighs. “I should be angry. I should want to kick his sorry arse out the door, but I just want to find him.”

“Men do foolish things sometimes.”

“Were you ever unfaithful?”

“That’s not a fair question.”

“Does that mean yes?”

“It means I’m not going to answer you.”

Elizabeth apologizes. She has no right to ask. And she has no right to blame her father for the sins of her husband.

Her mobile is ringing. She looks at the screen but doesn’t recognize the number.

“Hello?… Is anyone there?… Hello?”

There is no sound at all except for a faint pulse that might be the blood in her ears. She exhales and squeezes her eyes shut, ending the call.

Artie Chalcott sits in his home office, feeling his skin prickle and sweat on his forehead. His ulcer is also acting up and his bowel movements are all over the place. Stress-related. Shit-related. Things are also going south in London. First the banker gets robbed, then he goes missing and now they can’t find the girl who robbed him.

During the afternoon he’d tried to take out his frustration on the driving range, hitting balls. Smacking them with a club head the size of a Christmas ham. Made no difference to his mood.

Now he’s home and the kids are asleep upstairs and his wife is outside on a pool lounger, wrapped in a silk kimono, smoking a cigarette and getting drunk. She smokes in the same hungry way that she has sex. Not with him. He doesn’t know what gym instructor or pool boy or realtor she’s screwing now.

Chalcott can’t punch a turd, but he can punch a number. He calls Sobel in London. Apologizes for the hour.

“Don’t worry about it, Artie, sleep was so last century.”

Chalcott feels a flash of annoyance. Sobel sounds too cheerful and he should be calling him “sir.”

“What news on our banker?”

“He’ll turn up.”

“That’s the issue, isn’t it, Brendan? Where will he turn up? You should have pulled him in before he went AWOL. The list would be safe by now.”

“The robbery was a coincidence.”

“I don’t believe in coincidences. Someone killed the boyfriend.”

“Maybe it was North?”

“You don’t believe that.”

“Who then?”

“Ibrahim.”

“Ibrahim doesn’t do his own dirty work.”

“Maybe he hired someone. North was getting nervous and making threats. He made a phone call on Friday from a call box to a journalist.”

“Who?”

“Keith Gooding on the Financial Herald. He left a message.”

“Had they ever met?”

“We’re going back over his phone records.”

Chalcott has the television muted. Pictures of a building in Baghdad with shattered windows and curtains flapping through the holes. The Finance Ministry. A crowd outside being kept back by soldiers. A rolling banner on the screen: Missing UN auditor found dead in Iraq.