Michael Robotham - The Wreckage

“Why did you sleep here, Mummy?”

“I had a nightmare.”

“What about?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

There is a faint pervasive scent in the room that transports her back to last night and she feels her stomach cramp and the vomit rising. A man had wanted to kill her. Her life meant nothing to him until he saw that she was pregnant. Maybe he drew the line at murdering an unborn child.

Why hadn’t she called the police? She had lain awake thinking about it, ashamed of how he had touched her; embarrassed by how her hands had hung stiff and useless at her sides. This time the vomit reaches her mouth and she has to swallow hard.

She picks up the phone and starts to dial. Stops, uncertain what number she’s calling. She puts the receiver back in the cradle. What would she say? What would they say? They’d want to know why she waited. It would all come back to North’s guilt, just like the needle of a compass.

Elizabeth goes to the bathroom and scoops water into her mouth. Rinsing. Then she turns on the shower, keeping her head under the hot water for a long time, scrubbing at her skin. Dressing in her elasticized denim skirt and a cotton shirt, she strips the beds and washes the sheets. She shouldn’t be doing any of these things. There might be DNA. Fibers. Evidence. She doesn’t care.

As she takes the mattress protector from Rowan’s bed, she notices a large white envelope sticking out from between the base of the bed and the mattress. Pulling it free, she recognizes North’s handwriting on the cover. A message is written in thick black capitals, half an inch high:

KEEP THIS SAFE LIZZIE

Tearing open the flap, she pulls out a folder containing a dozen sheets of paper, written in North’s hand. A list. Deposits and withdrawals. Accounts that have numbers instead of names. Some of them are circled or underlined. Grouped. He was hiding it from someone. Leaving it for her to find.

There is a name and phone number scrawled on the inside cover of the folder. North’s handwriting is messy at the best of times. She spells out the letters: G.O.O.D.I.N.G.

Instead of being intrigued, she’s annoyed. Why the secrecy and the cryptic message? This is North acting like a criminal. She hurls the file in disgust, sending pages into the air where they rock and turn and settle like falling leaves.

Claudia chooses that moment to kick Elizabeth in the cervix and she doubles over. Punishment delivered from her unborn child. Breathing through the pain, she goes downstairs and pulls back the curtains. The reporters have returned, fewer than yesterday.

An early model Mercedes pulls up beneath the branches. The driver gets out and walks towards the house. He’s dressed in a shabby raincoat with stretched pockets. Unkempt. Bear-like. He rings the doorbell.

Elizabeth shouts from within. “Please leave me alone.”

“I need to talk to you.”

“I don’t talk to reporters.”

“I’m not a reporter. I may have information about your husband.”

A tremor passes through Elizabeth, a hopeful surge. “Do you know where he is?”

“No.”

“Then I have nothing to say.”

Ruiz tries again. “You were robbed a week ago. You lost a jewelry box, a camera, a laptop… and they took a small crystal swan from your dressing table, which held some of your rings.”

There is a pause. Elizabeth opens the door.

“I didn’t tell the police about the crystal swan.”

“I know.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m just trying to help someone.”

Ruiz waits in the lounge while Elizabeth makes tea. He notices the broken window, sealed with a sheet of plywood. The sound of a children’s TV show drifts from another room. It’s a nice place with polished floors and oriental rugs. Tasteful. Homely. The bookcase is full of holiday reads by Marian Keyes and Michael Connelly. On the mantelpiece there are several framed photographs. A wedding shot of a bride sitting on her husband’s lap. He’s tipping her back and she’s laughing.

Elizabeth North is haughty and beautiful in a cultured way, like a woman captured in a painting. She sits upright, hands on her lap, nervously appraising him.

“When are you due?”

“Three weeks. How do you know what was stolen?”

“I’ve met the person who took it.”

Ruiz tells her the story of meeting Holly and Zac. Seeing them argue. Stopping their fight. Consoling Holly. Letting her use his phone. Taking her home.

Elizabeth grows impatient. “Why are you telling me this?”

“I was drugged and robbed. I believe the same thing happened to your husband.”

Elizabeth is staring straight through him. “What does she look like-this woman?”

“Blue eyes, black hair…”

“Cut short?”

“Yes.” Ruiz knows something is wrong.

“She met him at a bar in the City.”

“How did you know?”

Rising unsteadily, Elizabeth crosses the room and stands for a moment at the broken bay window, wrestling with a thought. Anguish in her voice.

“A private detective took photographs of North leaving a bar with a girl and bringing her home.”

“Here?”

“Yes.”

“You were having him followed?”

“I thought he was having an affair.” Her eyes meet his, looking for understanding. “But you’re saying that he tried to help her. And she stole from us?”

“She did.”

Elizabeth sharpens her tone. “Did she do something to North? Does she know where he is?”

“No.”

“Did she sleep with my husband?”

“No.”

“Is that what she told you?”

“Yes.”

“I want to meet her.”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

“I want to meet her.”

Ruiz isn’t an expert on human behavior like the professor, but Elizabeth is a woman on the edge of reason. Humiliated. Betrayed. Abandoned. He makes her sit, waits for the tension to leave her shoulders.

“What did your husband do for the bank?”

“He was a compliance officer.”

“Did he ever bring files home, documents, sensitive material?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Why?”

He speaks softly. “The boyfriend I mentioned-he was tortured and murdered five days after the robbery.”

Elizabeth’s eyes are like black marbles. “My husband isn’t a killer.”

“I’m not suggesting-”

“What are you suggesting?”

“I think the people who killed Zac Osborne were looking for something that your husband had with him.”

“A notebook.”

Ruiz stops and studies her almost scientifically. Elizabeth crosses the room and picks up the phone. “You have to tell the police. You have to tell them.”

Ruiz takes the receiver from her hand. “First tell me about the notebook.”

Elizabeth shakes her head, caught between wanting to unburden herself and remembering the intruder’s last words. In the same breath she rediscovers her doubts. Why should she trust this man? How does he know about the notebook?

Elizabeth backs away. “Did he send you? Did he tell you about the notebook?”

“Who are you talking about?”

“Why are you here?”

“I’m trying to help someone.”

“That girl!”

“Not just her.”

“Get out! Get out or I’ll call the police!”

Elizabeth is screaming at him, fighting at his arms. Ruiz takes her punches on his chest, waiting until she runs down like the spring of an alarm clock. He sits her on the sofa where she grows smaller and more distant, hiding behind a fringe of hair. For a long time nothing is said. Breathless and a little dazed, Elizabeth feels embarrassed by her outburst. Exhausted.

Ruiz continues. “How long had the private detective been following your husband?”

“About a week. He made notes and took photographs.”