Michael Robotham - The Wreckage

“Anyone else?”

“I don’t think so.”

Ruiz changes the subject. “Can I ask you something? Your nanny… Polina.”

Elizabeth stops picking at her nail polish. “What about her?”

“Why did she leave?”

Elizabeth lifts one shoulder and drops it again. “It was all too chaotic… North had gone missing, the media were camped outside, the phone always ringing…”

“How did you come to hire her?”

“She was working for my brother and his wife. Mitchell and Inga’s children had started school. My need was greater.”

“When did she start?”

“Eight months ago.” Elizabeth has turned to look directly at Ruiz, whose eyes stay on the road. “Why are you so interested in Polina?”

He doesn’t answer.

“What is it?” she asks again.

“Nothing.”

“Tell me.”

“It’s not my place.”

“What sort of answer is that? I’m sick of people keeping secrets or telling me lies or tiptoeing around me like I’m going to break if they make a loud noise. My husband lied to me. He kept secrets. Maybe he broke the law. If you’re not going to tell me the truth, you can stop the car and let me out here.”

They’re in Chiswick, close to Bridget Lindop’s house.

“How did your husband get on with Polina?” asks Ruiz.

Elizabeth narrows her eyes. Her mouth opens but no sound emerges. She is focused on something miles away that seems to be coming closer, getting larger, like a speeding freight train.

“The police found semen stains in Polina’s bedroom,” says Ruiz. “They matched the DNA to your husband. Maybe you accidentally swapped sheets.”

“Polina’s bed is a single,” says Elizabeth.

For a moment Ruiz thinks she’s missed the point, but Elizabeth knows exactly what she’s being told. Brash, seductive, hungry Polina with her graceful body, textbook English and strangely beautiful, heavy-lidded eyes had been sleeping with North. She had ironed his shirts and folded his socks and serviced him in other ways.

Reaching back through her memories of the previous months, Elizabeth searches for evidence: North’s hand brushing Polina’s hip as he squeezed past the ironing board; another on her shoulder as he reached past her for a mug. He would tease Polina about her accent, or stay up late to watch a movie with her, or laugh at some private joke that Elizabeth could never quite understand.

Polina had denied seeing North that Friday when Colin Hackett followed him back to the house. They were three hours together. Alone.

For a moment Elizabeth’s courage seems to fail and she coughs as though she’s inhaled something toxic and has to clear out her lungs. Ruiz pulls over and opens the door. She leans out, her innards heaving. Gagging. Retching. He holds back her hair as she vomits into the gutter.

No words for her.

The corner house is a two-storey terrace with parrot-green window frames and flower boxes full of summer annuals. Nobody answers the turtle doorknocker. Another turtle peeks from the garden bed and a third has a metal frame for scraping mud from boots.

Luca knocks again. He crouches and opens the letterbox, peering along a hallway.

“Miss Lindop,” he calls. Listens. Nothing. She’s not at work. He phoned her office.

“Maybe she’s gone out for a while,” says Daniela, glancing up at the first floor. Luca goes to the front window and presses his face to the glass, looking through a crack in the curtains. He can see a thin strip of polished floor and an oriental rug. More turtles are visible on a mantelpiece.

“You wait here,” he tells Daniela.

“Where are you going?”

“To check out the back.”

The terrace is on a corner with one boundary on a different street. There is a garage with a raised roller door and a small Fiat hatchback parked inside. Luca tries the internal door. Locked.

Retracing his steps, he stares at the garden wall, judging the height. He runs and jumps, gripping the top of the wall and scrambling up, scraping his shoes on the painted bricks as he tries to get purchase. On his elbows, peering into the small neat garden, he can see the back of the house. The rear sliding door is open; a newspaper is spread out on the kitchen table. Nearby the refrigerator door is open. A milk carton lies on its side and a large tortoiseshell cat licks at the edge of the puddle.

Luca scrambles higher and lowers himself down into the garden. He calls Bridget Lindop’s name. The cat comes to him, weaving figure-of-eights between his legs. In the kitchen he calls out again. The newspaper is a day old. A full cup of tea has grown cold on the table, leaving a milky skin on the surface. Woman’s Hour is playing on the radio.

Luca unlocks the front door. Leaves it open.

“What are you doing?” hisses Daniela. “You can’t just break in.”

“The back door was open. She might be hurt.”

They move through the house going from room to room. The dining area has a display case with more turtles-figurines made of jade, amethyst, quartz and mother of pearl. An oversized couch faces a television in the living room. The coffee table is laden with books on interior design and gourmet food.

“You want to wait here,” says Luca, climbing the stairs. On a landing there is a potted plant that has been knocked over. The damp dark earth has stained the carpet. The main bedroom smells of talcum powder and aromatherapy candles.

There are small signs of a search but none to indicate a struggle. Her jewelry is still on the dressing table along with her purse and her mobile phone. Not a robbery. Not a trip to the shops.

The second bedroom is a sewing room and office. The door is splintered. It was locked. Someone kicked it open from inside.

Luca looks over the banister. “You should come and see this.”

Ruiz pulls into an empty parking space and checks the house numbers. Elizabeth is still pale and shaking beside him. He offered to take her home. She refused.

“Is that the place?”

She nods.

The front door is open. A woman living alone doesn’t leave her door wide open. Ruiz scans the street, studying the cars parked on either side. Across the road is a playground with brightly colored climbing frames and swings. A British Gas van moves slowly past.

He approaches the house from the north side, pauses at the front door, listening. There are voices upstairs. Male and female. American.

Glancing along the hallway, he can see as far as the kitchen where a milk carton lies in a shiny puddle. His fingers slide inside his jacket, finding the butt of the Glock. Four paces. He’s at the bottom of the stairs, looking up, listening.

He climbs, putting as little weight as possible on each step. Eyes up. He can no longer hear their voices, but can feel their presence. He reaches the landing. The main bedroom is on the left, second bedroom on the far right, a bathroom in between. There is a man squatting in the doorway, examining something. A woman is standing beside him, silhouetted against the haze of white light. Both of them turn in unison, looking down the barrel of the Glock.

“Stand up! Hands against the wall!”

“You got this all wrong,” says Luca.

“Shut up!”

Ruiz kicks Luca’s legs apart, using one hand to pat him down-shoulders, chest, back, right leg, left leg.

“Are you a policeman?” asks Daniela.

Ruiz ignores her. “Where’s Bridget Lindop?”

“I don’t know,” says Luca.

“What are you doing in her house?”

“We were looking for her. I’m a journalist.”

“What paper?”

“ Financial Herald.”

Ruiz pushes Daniela hard against the wall.

“I didn’t think British police officers carried guns,” she says.