Michael Robotham - The Wreckage

“Did you hear me, Lizzie?”

“Sorry.”

“The police will want to talk to you. They’ll want to search the house.”

“Why?”

“In case he left something.”

“Left what?”

“It’s a mistake, I know, but we have to co-operate.”

Polina is standing in the open doorway, listening to her conversation. She’s carrying a box of Rowan’s toys and his favorite bath towel.

“I’ll send Jacinta over,” says Alistair Bach.

“No.”

“You shouldn’t be alone. Come and stay with us.”

Elizabeth doesn’t want to see her stepmother. She wants to talk to Mitchell. She wants to know why he hasn’t called to explain. Why didn’t he warn her?

The landline is ringing. “I have to go.”

She picks up the new call. It’s an unfamiliar voice.

“Mrs. North?”

“Yes.”

“I’m from the Daily Mail. Can you confirm that your husband is being sought by the police?”

“I have nothing to say.”

“Do you know where your husband is?”

“Please don’t call this number again.”

She drops the handset as though scalded.

“Is everything all right?” asks Polina.

“Fine. I’m going to pick up Rowan.”

“It’s not even midday.”

“He had a sore throat this morning. I should have kept him at home.”

“Do you want me to fetch him?”

“No, I’ll go.”

Elizabeth grabs her coat and her keys. She needs to be outside. Moving. Thinking.

It takes her fifteen minutes to reach the nursery. The carers don’t seem surprised to see her. Rowan is playing in the sandpit. She collects his things. Forgets his lunchbox. One of his shoelaces is undone, but she doesn’t stop.

“Slow down, Mummy, you’re hurting.”

His coat sleeve has been pulled off one of his arms.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

“Is Daddy home?”

“Not yet.”

As they turn the final corner she spies the police cars parked in front of the house.

“It must be Daddy,” Rowan cries, pulling free from her hand.

Elizabeth tries to stop him. Calls out. He’s running and she can’t keep up because she risks giving birth to Claudia on Barnes Green. Rowan runs with his head down and a loping stride like a puppy let off a leash.

Polina is standing outside the open front door. She catches Rowan before he can get inside. A detective emerges from the house. He hands Elizabeth a search warrant and delivers a speech warning her not to interfere.

“There has been some mistake,” Elizabeth tells him.

“Please step aside, Mrs. North.”

“We’ve done nothing wrong.”

Four officers move past them, each dressed in light blue cotton overalls carrying aluminum cases. They’re not just searching the house, they are vacuuming and scraping and dusting for evidence.

“Do you know the whereabouts of your husband?”

“No.”

“Has he been in contact with you?”

“No.”

Rowan is tugging at her hand, wanting to ask a question. “Not now, sweetheart.”

The detective has moved her into the garden. She can feel the neighbors’ eyes upon her from across the road, their fingers creasing the venetians. Rushing to judgment.

“I need you to come to the station with me,” the detective says. “We’ll need a statement.”

“I’ve given you one.”

“That was before.”

Elizabeth glances at Rowan and then looks to Polina. “Can you stay? Just until I get back.”

The nanny nods.

Elizabeth follows the detective to a waiting police car. She’s told to mind her head. At the last moment she looks up at the sound of an approaching car. A black Lexus parks across the driveway, blocking the unmarked police car. Felicity Stone emerges; her only wrinkle in the lap of her tight skirt. The young detective watches her approach, his eyes on her hips and her calves. Miss Stone gives him her widest smile.

“You’ll have to move your car.”

“Of course, whatever you say. I’m here with Mrs. North’s lawyer. Nobody is to speak to her unless he’s present.”

A large man struggles with his seat belt as he emerges from the Lexus. He has a fringe of brown hair combed over his head. He reaches up to pat his scalp, checking that everything is still in place.

“You don’t have to say anything,” says Marcus Weil. “You don’t have to comment at all.”

“I don’t need a lawyer. I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Of course not, but Mitchell wants to be reassured,” says Miss Stone.

“Where is he?”

“Busy. But he’s on your side.”

Elizabeth looks at her and wonders why there are “sides.”

Hustled through a side door and up a set of internal stairs, Elizabeth follows a new police officer, a florid, beefy man, who carries his weight like a weapon. Uniformed. More senior. A commander. How different this is from her last visit to the police station. Now everybody wants to talk to her.

“Sorry about the stairs,” says Campbell Smith. “We thought it best to bring you in the back… away from the cameras.”

The lawyer is puffing behind them, dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief, which he tucks into his breast pocket. When they reach the interview suites he demands a private consultation with Elizabeth. Campbell Smith grudgingly agrees and clears the room.

“The police make this sort of thing seem so dramatic,” says Mr. Weil. “The sirens and flashing lights-they do it to intimidate people.”

“I’m not intimidated.”

“Good.”

He takes a legal pad from his briefcase. “You cannot be compelled to give evidence against your husband, Mrs. North. You do not have to say anything, but you may get in trouble if you fail to mention something that comes up later in a court case.”

“I have nothing to hide.”

A pen clicks beneath his thumb. “You haven’t seen or spoken to your husband?”

“No.”

“Did he show you anything?”

“Like what?”

“Documents. Papers.”

“No.”

“Did you share or otherwise have access to your husband’s laptop?”

“No.”

“Are there any documents or computer disks in your possession either at your home or in some other location that are the property of Mersey Fidelity? This relates also to copies of documents or disks as well as your husband’s notes.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Did he take notes?”

“Pardon?”

“Some people use notebooks. Seems very old-fashioned, I know.”

“Why is this important?”

“I’m just saying that if you become aware of anything or if you discover any sensitive materials they would be better off in the bank’s hands than any third party.”

“By ‘third party’ you mean the police?”

Mr. Weil puts down his pen and leans back, lacing his fingers together on his stomach like a man about to pontificate on the state of the world.

“People don’t like banks, Mrs. North. They’ll happily rake up muck or blow things out of proportion. Do you understand what I’m saying? If you have confidential information-either written or passed on orally-it remains the intellectual and commercial property of the bank. If your husband whispered any secrets in the bedroom, or made any remarks about Mersey Fidelity, you should be wary of repeating them.”

Elizabeth hesitates. The lawyer wets his lips with the tip of his tongue. It’s a nervous, almost reptilian mannerism.

“Who do you work for, Mr. Weil?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Who is paying you?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Are you here to represent Mersey Fidelity or me?”

The lawyer pauses with the pen resting on the page. “I have been retained by Mersey Fidelity.”

“I see.”