Michael Robotham - The Wreckage

The driver motions to the house.

“Fine day for a wedding,” he drawls. “Who’s getting married?”

“The bride and groom.”

“Well, you make sure you pass on our good wishes.”

“I’ll do that,” says Ruiz, who can feel his molars grinding saliva. He tucks his hands into his pockets. “Maybe we can come to an arrangement.”

“What would that be?”

“How about we agree to meet up tomorrow? I can make myself available all day. I’ll even come to the office… meet your boss. That way you guys can go home and gel each other’s hair and my daughter can get married.”

The skin tightens around the driver’s eyes. “You’re a funny guy. Is that what you Brits call irony?”

“You want me to explain irony?”

The driver closes his fingers, all except the longest, and pushes his sunglasses up his nose. That’s his answer.

Ruiz walks away. Twenty yards down the street he pauses at a builder’s skip full of debris and broken bricks. The red-black color is rising from his chest to his face and he can hear a tearing sound behind his eyes like fabric shredding. Picking up a half brick, he weighs it in his hand.

The driver and passenger of the Audi are laughing about something. The side window shatters with the sound and fury of a shotgun. Ruiz reaches through the window and bounces the passenger’s head off the dashboard, making his nose bloom. He’s a bleeder.

The driver reaches below the seat, but Ruiz has already taken a gun from his partner’s hand. Now he’s aiming it across his crumpled body with one eye closed, the other looking along the barrel, his hand steady as a barber with a cutthroat razor.

A thought passes across the driver’s face. Ruiz has always referred to it as the Dirty Harry moment-that fleeting instant when a person wonders: Am I fast enough or lucky enough?

Something tells him no.

Ruiz takes out his mobile and punches the number that was left beneath the wiper blades of the Merc, along with the envelope of cash. It’s ringing… being answered. There are five seconds of dead air.

“Mr. Ruiz?”

“You still want the girl?”

“That was our deal.”

“Don’t talk to me about deals. You kicked in my front door.”

“A mistake, I admit.”

Another long pause, a low rumble in the background-aircraft noise.

“The price has doubled.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m pissed off.”

The American mulls this over. “How can I be sure that you’ve got her?”

“You can’t.”

“Where do we meet?”

“I choose the location, but it won’t be today. In the meantime, call off your dogs. One of them might need a vet.”

Ruiz hangs up and turns the phone to silent. Blood is pouring from the passenger’s nose and across his lips and chin, staining his shirtfront. Tiny cubes of glass decorate his lap like diamonds on a jeweler’s cloth.

“You hear that, ladies? You get off early today.”

He leans through the window and presses the release on the ammunition clip, letting it drop into the lap of the passenger, who has his hand cupped under his nose.

As the pistol falls to the floor, Ruiz simultaneously drops his mobile behind the bucket seat. Then he turns away, joining the professor on the footpath. The entire wedding party is standing on the steps of the house-Claire, her bridesmaids, Miranda and Daj. Claire looks ready to throw the first punch, but Miranda has a dangerous left hook.

“Very smooth,” says Joe.

“I was being diplomatic.”

“I’d hate to see you go to war.”

Ruiz gives him a smile that means nothing.

“Can I borrow your mobile?”

“What happened to yours?”

“I must have left it somewhere.”

The TV lights leave white spots swimming behind Elizabeth’s eyelids. She tries to blink them away, but the cameras are recording every twitch and grimace. She reaches for a glass of water. A few droplets spill, beading like mercury on the smooth table. She wipes up the water with her sleeve, worried it might leave a mark.

Campbell Smith whispers in her ear. “I’ll give you the signal. Then you just read the statement.”

All the seats are taken. It’s standing room only in the briefing room at New Scotland Yard. The TV cameras are at the back; press photographers at the front. Radio microphones hooked up to the feed.

The police have talked Elizabeth into this-an emotional plea from a pregnant wife to her husband. Not running. Missing. She said no at first, afraid of the publicity. The shame. The thought of people recognizing her in the street, whispering, pointing; not just her neighbors and friends, but the mothers at Rowan’s nursery and in her Pilates class or complete strangers passing her in supermarket aisles. Then she realized that she couldn’t care less about what people thought.

Speaking with deliberate slowness, Campbell Smith calls for order. Waits. Elizabeth seems to be growing smaller beside him.

“As of 1200 hours today a warrant was issued for the arrest of Richard North. Interpol has also been advised and we’re monitoring departure points. Mrs. Elizabeth North is now going to make a statement. She won’t be taking questions and I would ask you to respect her privacy.”

He signals to Elizabeth. She stares at the page, trying to focus on the words.

“If you’re watching this, Richard, if you can hear me… if you’re able to call…” A barrage of flashguns are firing, recording every pause. “I just want to know you’re OK. I know you can explain. I know you’re a good man…”

She doesn’t finish the sentence. Raising her eyes, she concentrates on a point at the back of the room, above their heads.

“Rowan misses you. We all do… Whatever has happened, whatever you think you’ve done, nothing could be as bad as not knowing… worrying…”

The words dry up, evaporating in her mouth. Her mind becomes lost in the flashguns. Questions are being shouted from the floor. A field of hands are raised. Campbell takes Elizabeth by the forearm and leads her through a side door to a long corridor. Polished. Brightly lit. Felicity Stone is bustling towards her with a wide smile, air kissing her cheeks.

“You were marvelous, grace under pressure and all that. Is there anyone I can call? Do you have a rabbi or a priest?”

“No.”

“I can find you a counselor-a woman, perhaps. There are some very good trauma specialists. Caring. Discreet.”

“I’m fine.”

Miss Stone is tapping on the screen of her mobile. “We’ve found a quiet house, somewhere away from London and all the attention. You can be anonymous, recover your balance.”

“I’m going home.”

“Right. OK. Of course you should avoid commenting. No press interviews. You’re perfectly entitled to say nothing at all. Don’t even say, No comment.’ ”

They have reached the lift.

“I just want to reassure you that, whatever happens, Mersey Fidelity will look after you. You don’t have to go through this alone. Mitchell will make sure-”

“Where is Mitchell?”

“He’s talking to the police.”

Elizabeth turns away from her and walks back down the corridor. Banging on the doors, she starts yelling. “Mitchell? Are you here? I want to talk.”

Faces emerge. A female officer tries to stop her, but she pushes past her.

“I want to see my brother. Mitchell? Where are you?”

Turning a corner she sees him. He’s talking to a man in a suit. Heads together. Whispering.

“You should have warned me,” she shouts, storming towards him.

Mitchell raises his hands submissively. “I’m sorry, Lizzie. I wanted to call you but the lawyers told me not to interfere. I have a duty to shareholders and investors…”