Michael Robotham - The Wreckage

Later he wakes in hospital, his neck smothered in ointment where the nylon rope chaffed and broke his skin. Ruiz is outside his room, bellowing something at an unfortunate nurse.

“This is me calm, OK. You don’t want to see me upset.”

The door seems to narrow as he enters with the nurse hanging on to his left arm, but not in a romantic way.

Joe looks at him for the single longest second of his life. Tries to speak. The sound is a strangled croak.

“What’s wrong with his voice?” Ruiz asks the nurse.

“His voice box was damaged.”

“Is he going to be able to talk?”

“In a few days.”

Ruiz pulls up a chair and reaches across the sheet, taking Joe’s hand in both of his. Squeezes. It’s the most intimate physical contact they’ve ever shared.

Joe tries to speak, mouthing the word “Holly.”

“She’s gone. I’m going to get her back. How many?”

Joe raises one finger.

“Recognize him?”

He shakes his head.

“If he hurts her I’ll kill him. I’ll rip out his arsehole and stitch it into his mouth.”

A police officer appears, puffing, having run down the corridor. Uniformed. Nervous at the sight of Ruiz, he has one hand on his radio.

“Step back from the bed, sir. No visitors are allowed.”

Ruiz asks for a moment longer. Joe is trying to say something. “Where were you?”

“I fucked up. I’m sorry.”

He’s about to stand. Joe pulls him closer, mouthing words.

“Find her.”

“I will.”

Ruiz nods to the police officer and apologizes to the nurse. Then he takes the corridor and the stairs. Crossing the foyer, he passes Campbell Smith, who is dressed in full uniform, marching like he’s on parade. Ruiz doesn’t stop.

“Where are you going?”

No answer.

“What are you, Vincent? Not a police officer. Not a private detective. All you do is make things worse.”

Still no response. The doors are closing. Campbell again.

“This is your fault. We could have protected her.”

Luca and Daniela are waiting for Ruiz at the hotel, fear hanging over them like a curse. Nothing they say can make him feel any less responsible. His fault. His guilt.

They take a table at a cafe. The morning well advanced.

“This should have been over,” says Ruiz. “People got what they wanted.”

“Ibrahim didn’t,” says Daniela.

“Nor did the bank,” adds Luca.

Studying his scarred hands, Ruiz closes his eyes, warding off a fresh wave of hurt. He should call Julianne, Joe’s estranged wife. Explain. Apologies. What would he say? If Julianne had her way, Joe would never be friends with someone like Ruiz. She’d have him wrapped in cotton wool, safely tenured at some university, disconnected from the real world.

Daniela and Luca are talking about the money-laundering investigation. They have spent the past twenty-four hours tracing some of the transactions, following the money trail between various accounts. They are so comfortable together they’re starting to finish each other’s sentences.

“We’re concentrating on the Middle East,” says Daniela. “We’ve linked twelve accounts to Saudi Arabia, eight to Syria, five to Pakistan, fourteen to Iran and six to Indonesia. We’ve found an indirect link between one of the accounts and the militant group responsible for the Bali bombing in 2002. ATM withdrawals.”

“What about accounts linked to UK addresses?” Ruiz asks.

“Not so much,” says Daniela. “There’s an address in Luton, but that looks like a dead end. We’re looking at others in Italy and Germany.”

Ruiz is staring back at her. “What did you say?”

“About Italy and Germany?”

“Before that.”

“Luton. There were money transfers to a private postbox in Luton. A hundred thousand pounds.”

“Who owns the postbox?”

“A Muslim charity, but it looks legitimate.”

Ruiz is holding his breath. Exhales. “When Colin Hackett was following Richard North he went to a postbox in Luton. He mentioned a charity. When I talked to Hackett’s niece she told me that her uncle was in Luton looking for the missing banker on the day she called him and he came back to London. That was the day he died.”

Ruiz is already moving.

Luca has grabbed his coat. “Where are you going?”

“To find a car.”

Charlton Car Impound looks like a World War II prison camp with razor wire atop an eight-foot-high perimeter fence. Spread over nearly four acres, the compound is covered by tarmac and a series of brick warehouses with iron roofs and roller doors.

This is where vehicles are towed if they’re involved in serious accidents, or abandoned, or used in crimes, or seized by the police or the courts.

The office has a staff of three, hardened souls with a thankless job-a twelve-hour shift full of abuse and insults from members of the public who find their cars have been towed from red routes or double-yellow lines; or because they are unlicensed, uninsured, untaxed or being driven by a drunk. Thank you, sir/madam, that’s two hundred pounds-we accept cash or credit cards. No American Express.

The guy behind the counter is black, six-two, and has granny glasses perched on the edge of his nose. It’s like seeing Mike Tyson wearing a pinafore.

“I need to look at a car,” says Ruiz.

“You got the plate number?”

“No.”

“Was it towed under your name?”

“No.”

“Registration paper or owner’s license?”

“It’s not my car.”

His eyes move from Ruiz to Luca. “Are you guys taking the piss?”

“It was towed here two days ago from Earls Court. It belonged to a Colin Hackett.”

“Are you a copper?”

“Not anymore,” says Ruiz.

“A private detective?”

“Not as such.”

“Can’t help you. You’re not authorized. Move aside. I got people in the queue.”

Ruiz can hear a scraping sound inside his head like a blade being sharpened on a stone. Holly has been missing for nearly eight hours. Getting further away. There must be four hundred cars on the lot-each with a number and grid reference. Even if they could get past the security, it could take them hours to find Hackett’s car.

Through a reinforced window, he notices a mud-streaked truck pull up at the boom gate. The driver jumps down from his cab to sign paperwork. He tucks the pen behind his ear.

Ruiz tells Luca to wait in the Merc. “I won’t be long.”

He leaps a low fence and walks towards the gates.

“How’s the Pekingese?”

Dave looks up from the clipboard.

“Shitting all over my carpets, but it’s still better company than my wife. What are you doing here?”

“I’m looking for a car, but the lads behind the counter aren’t being very helpful. I don’t have any paperwork.”

“Not official business.”

“Just as important.”

Dave glances across the lot where cars are lined up in neat rows. “Is this going to get me into trouble?”

“It could save someone’s life.”

He makes a decision. “Jump in the cab. Stay out of sight until we get inside.”

The truck passes beneath the raised boom and then through a sliding electronic gate. Dave takes a series of turns before stopping in a warehouse. He leads Ruiz to an outer office where the drivers have a tearoom with a jug and chest fridge. Page Three girls with arched backs and melon-like breasts gaze down from the walls, some of them yellowed by age and aged even further by their hairstyles.

Dave makes a call. Asks about a car towed in from Earls Court. Moments later they’re walking between rows of vehicles. Colin Hackett’s Renault is at the back of the lot parked against a brick wall. A common make, a common color, it was chosen to blend in with the traffic when Hackett was tailing unfaithful husbands or insurance cheats. There are fast-food wrappers on the floor, along with separate bottles-one for water, the other for urine-clearly marked to avoid confusion on long stakeouts.