Michael Robotham - The Wreckage

“That’s an urban myth.”

She lowers her arms. “I don’t think you’re a policeman at all.”

“You want to test that theory?”

She’s a ballbreaker, thinks Ruiz, either crazy-brave or stupid. Her off-sider is more diplomatic. He’s explaining how he found the back door open and thought Miss Lindop might be hurt.

“She’s been gone a while. Her cat hasn’t been fed.”

Elizabeth calls from below. “Is everything all right?”

“I told you to wait in the car,” says Ruiz.

“I heard you talking.”

Elizabeth has reached the landing. “Who are they?”

“They broke in.”

“I didn’t break in,” says Luca. “I’m a reporter.” He takes a moment to recognize Elizabeth-the missing banker’s wife, heavily pregnant. He’s seen her photograph and watched her media appeal. “We were looking for Bridget Lindop. If you call Keith Gooding at the paper he’ll vouch for us.”

That name again.

Ruiz and Elizabeth exchange a glance. At that moment her uterus contracts and she hollows out her cheeks in a whistling intake of breath. Eyes shut, she exhales in shallow puffs, trying to ease the pain.

Daniela glares at Ruiz like he’s personally responsible for making a pregnant woman climb the stairs.

“When are you due?”

“A few weeks.”

“You should sit down.”

Luca points to the broken door. “Someone was locked inside and had to break out.”

Ruiz runs his finger over the splintered frame. It was kicked open. Someone strong did this. A man. A prisoner.

Are you going to hypnotize me?”

“No.”

“Then why do I have to lie down?”

“I just want you to be comfortable.”

Holly is dressed in a thin floral-print cotton dress, machine faded, which clings to her body like wet tissue paper. She looks at the bed, which is covered with an old lady bedspread.

“Lie down, close your eyes and relax,” says Joe.

She shoots him a look. “You better not try anything.”

“I’m going to sit over here by the window. I won’t leave this chair.”

Holly stares at the ceiling, which has water stains and a cracked plaster rosette.

“So what is this called if it’s not hypnosis?”

“A cognitive interview.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’m going to take you back to the night you met Richard North. I’m going to ask you lots of questions. Some things you won’t remember. Some things will come back to you.”

“I’ve already told Vincent…”

“We’re going to do it again.”

“I’m hungry.”

“You’ve just eaten.”

Joe O’Loughlin takes a seat. The window provides some breeze and he can hear birds in the trees. He begins as he always does, by setting the scene-the bar on that Friday night. Where was she sitting? What was she drinking? Who else was around her? He has a nice voice, thinks Holly. Kind eyes. But he asks too many questions.

Lady Gaga was playing on the sound system. Zac had never liked Lady Gaga. Said she was a wannabe Madonna. Then again, he didn’t like Madonna, who he called “that ridiculous old bag.” Lady Gaga had the better voice. Madonna was the better dancer.

“I didn’t think he was going to notice me at first,” says Holly. “He was sitting at a corner of the bar, going through vodka like he had Smirnoff shares. I thought he might be gay.”

“Why choose him?”

“He looked rich… lonely. I like to watch them for a while-just to be sure.”

“Sure of what?”

She shrugs. “Sure they’re not rapists or psychos. I’m looking for the Good Samaritan, remember?”

“So you can rob him?”

Holly opens her eyes and looks at Joe scornfully. He marvels at how someone barely educated past fifteen can make him feel like he’s just stepped off the bus from Stupidville.

“What was he doing?”

“He looked like he was waiting for someone.”

“Did he have anything in his hands?”

“No… maybe.” She chews on the inside of her cheek. “He was writing something.”

“What was he writing on?”

“I didn’t see.”

“With a pen or a pencil?”

“A pen. He dropped it and I thought he was trying to look at my legs, but he just went back to writing. He only really noticed me when Zac and I kicked off.”

“You started arguing?”

“That was our shtick, you know. Our grift. That’s what Zac called it. We argued. He hit me. I cried.”

“Someone else could have stepped in.”

“We’ve been doing this for a while. I know how to position myself, so the mark is closest. I was just a few feet away when Zac hit me across the face. I went down, but this guy just didn’t react. I mean, Zac was standing over me and this guy was just staring straight through me like he was watching it all on TV and any moment he was going to reach for the remote and change the channel.”

“What happened then?”

“Zac calls me some names and storms out. I was sitting on the floor pretending to cry, thinking to myself, this guy must be really cold. What does a girl have to do to get his attention? Then he finally reacted.”

“He came over.”

“Yeah. He picked me up. Got some ice. Bought me a drink. He wanted to call the police, but I talked him out of it. Then I did the old, “My keys! My phone!” routine and started to cry again. He put his arm around me and I sort of leaned into him. That’s when I knew I’d hooked him, you know. Physical contact. You melt into a guy’s body and it triggers his protective instincts.”

“Where were you sitting?”

“At his table.”

“What did you talk about?”

Holly screws up her features. “It was odd.”

“What was odd?”

“He didn’t offer to let me use his phone. It was sitting on the table on top of a book.”

“What sort of book?”

“It had a dark cover.”

“He’d been reading it?”

She pauses, thinking. Then she opens her eyes and lifts her head, staring at Joe like he’s just performed a magic trick. “He’d been writing in it.”

“A notebook?”

“Yeah. Must have been.”

Holly is annoyed at herself for not remembering earlier. Joe doesn’t labor the point. He takes her through the encounter, minute by minute until she reaches a point in the story where they leave the bar.

“What did he do with the notebook?”

“How the fuck should I know?”

“Was it still on the table?”

“No…” She pauses. “He put it in his jacket pocket.”

“Which pocket?”

“Inside. Just here.”

She puts her hand on her left breast.

“I remember that jacket because Zac liked it so much.”

“What do you mean?”

“When we were robbing his place, Zac was saying how much he liked the jacket. It was camel-colored, you know. Cashmere. Expensive. Zac had his share of problems, but he knew stuff about clothes. He had this dress uniform-he kept it after he left the army-and every button on that thing shone. It was kept like brand new, folded in tissue paper and stored in a special box.”

Holly closes her eyes again and Joe takes her mind back to the house in Barnes. She has grown accustomed to describing scenes in detail, picturing them in her mind, not rushing the chronology of events, but slowing it down. Richard North had been quite drunk when they arrived at the house. He couldn’t get his key in the lock. She did it for him.

“He still wanted to get into my pants. They’re all like that. They start off telling me I can use their phone and then they offer me the spare room and then they try for the big prize.”

“Is that what Ruiz did?”

Holly opens one eye. “Not exactly.”