The Wreckage: A Thriller (40 page)

“People might hate us, Vincent, but you
need
us. And when things turn around, when things pick up, when wealth returns, they’l want to be just like us again. They’l want what we have.”

His face flexes in an idle thought, as though an annoying insect has buzzed across his field of vision. Then he looks back towards the house, thinking of Elizabeth.

“Why are you doing this?” he asks.

“I’m trying to help.”

“In my experience, Vincent, most people don’t do anything unless they see something in it for themselves.” He looks at Ruiz for a long moment. “Why don’t you leave this alone and let my daughter get some rest? She’s about to have a baby.”

Never blinking, he raises the bottle to his lips and drinks it dry.

Inside the house Mitchel Bach has finished his phone cal and comes sweeping into the sunroom, cal ing for “Lizzie.” Kissing both her cheeks. Keeping his hands on her shoulders. “I’m so sorry,” he says. “I should have cal ed you. It was stupid. Thoughtless.” He leads her to a chair, insisting she sit down. He kneels, not wanting to break physical contact.

“I hear the reporters have been giving you a tough time. They’re al shits. I wish someone would doorstep them for a change. We should rent a mob and send them around to the editors’ houses. I bet they’ve al got mistresses or rent boys in the closet.”

Mitchel looks for agreement, but Elizabeth isn’t about to let him change the subject.

“Why was North so worried about some of the transactions?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“Not to me.”

Mitchel contemplates the question, as though wrestling with bad news.

“I hate to say this, Lizzie, but the last time I spoke to North he was quite hostile to me. He was spouting conspiracy theories and making al sorts of wild claims about secret transfers and hidden accounts. I told him to put together a report, but he said he didn’t trust anyone at the bank.”

“When was this?”

“About a week before he went missing. He drank almost two bottles of wine at lunch. He was a mess. Making ridiculous statements. Sounding paranoid.” Elizabeth knows these descriptions aren’t fabrications. They are careful y chosen statements that are distorted through the lens of self-interest until facts become slurs but stil look like facts. North’s reputation is being artful y dismantled, taken apart piece by piece.

A wave of nausea seizes her. She wants to argue. Defend him. A wife’s belief should be enough. Bracing her hands on each side of the armchair, she raises herself up. One hand automatical y cups her pregnancy, as though reassuring Claudia that she’s in control.

“You’re a shit, you know that? You’ve always been a shit.”

Mitchel lets her go.

Ruiz and Alistair are stil in the garden when Elizabeth emerges from the house. She has fixed her make-up and brushed her hair, pul ing it back from her face with a hairband. She has also changed her clothes and is dressed in a high-necked white blouse that makes her look like a pregnant choirgirl. The angel waif. With al the detachment of someone who has witnessed a car wreck, she tel s her father she needs him to look after Rowan for a few hours.

“Where are you going?”

“To see Mr. Hackett.”

Bach presses his thumbs against his closed lids, his hands holding his forehead. “I don’t think you should get involved, Lizzie.”

“I
am
involved, Daddy.”

8

LONDON

Bernie Levinson isn’t at the pawnshop. One of the machinists from the factory downstairs says Bernie lunches at his club every day—an al-hours drinking hole in the shadows of Spitalfields Market. “Hole” being the optimum word. Darker than a cave, the only light comes from a neon advertising sign above the bar and the copper lamps on the tables. No windows. No clocks. Time doesn’t matter in a place like this. Life is put in abeyance, chemical y or alcoholical y.

The barman is young, good-looking, dressed in a black T-shirt and Levi’s. Eyes only for Hol y. “What can I get you?”

“Mineral water.”

“That’s not a real drink.”

“Alcohol goes straight to my head. Makes me do dangerous things.”

She’s flirting. He’s hooked.

“Is Bernie about?”

“Why do you want Bernie?”

“He promised to look after me.”

“I could do that.”

“Maybe later.”

The barman points across the warped wooden floor that is dotted with old cigarette burns. Up a handful of stairs there is a raised restaurant area with private booths. Only one of them is occupied. Bernie Levinson is sitting by himself, a serviette tucked into his col ar, dipping bread into a broken piecrust.

Hol y takes her glass of water to a table near the fire doors where Joe O’Loughlin is waiting.

“He’s here. Maybe I should talk to him first,” she says. “You might make him nervous.”

“You’re mistaking me for Ruiz.”

“OK then.”

They cross the floor and climb the stairs, slipping into the bench seat opposite Bernie. The pawnbroker grimaces at the sight of Hol y as though something has given him heartburn or blocked his colon. Then he looks at the professor. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Joe O’Loughlin. I’m a friend of Hol y.”

Bernie ignores his outstretched hand and goes back to eating, keeping both elbows on the table.

“That stuff I brought you, Bernie. I need it back,” says Hol y.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The nice leather briefcase and the laptop.”

“Huh?”

“This isn’t a set-up, Bernie. I’m not wearing a wire. See?” Hol y lifts her top, showing her pale stomach and light blue bra. She turns left and right, showing her back. Bernie waves his hand dismissively.

“How do I know you’re not wearing a wire down there?” He points to her jeans.

“You’l have to take my word for it.”

“
Your
word!” He laughs.

“I just want the stuff. I know you haven’t sold it.”

Bernie covers his ears. “I’m not listening.”

Joe notices the enlarged tips of his fingers and nail clubbing, which suggest low oxygen levels in his blood and congenital heart disease. Mid-fifties, overweight, a signet ring on the little finger of his right hand, a plain wedding band on his left; married, children most likely. Bernie puts down his knife and fork and pats the breast pocket of his coat. There’s something important inside. Not a weapon. Not a mobile phone. Medication.

“Someone kil ed Zac,” says Hol y.

Bernie searches her face, looking for a lie. He shakes his head, wobbling his chins. “Oh, no, no, no, I’m not involved in this shit. I’m just a businessman. I buy things. I sel things.” He’s addressing Joe now, trying to convince him. “I run a family business. My grandfather. My father…”

Bernie has taken a phone from his pocket and placed it on the seat beside him. The screen is lit up. He’s cal ing someone… sending a message.

“We just want the stuff back,” says Hol y. “We’l pay you the money.”

Bernie’s lips peel away from his teeth. “Let me get this straight. You came to me with certain items—which, by the way, I had no idea were stolen—and you sold me these items in good faith, but now you want them back?”

Hol y nods.

“That suggests to me that someone has made you a better offer. Maybe I should negotiate with them directly.”

“It’s not a question of money.”

“In my experience, it’s
always
a question of money. What’s this item that’s so valuable?”

“We’re not sure,” says Joe.

“You’re not sure?”

“Hol y is hoping she’l know it when she sees it.”

Bernie laughs but it turns into a coughing fit. Tugging his serviette from his col ar, he tosses it on his plate and cal s for the bil . Beneath the table, Hol y’s hand touches Joe’s thigh.

She leans closer, cupping his ear.

“Something isn’t right,” she whispers.

“What do you mean?”

“He’s lying.”

Joe glances at Bernie, who is peeling off two ten-pound notes.

Hol y confronts him outright. “You’re lying.”

Bernie looks offended. “What are you talking about?”

“I don’t think you have the gear anymore.”

“Maybe we should give him the benefit of the doubt,” says Joe.

Hol y looks at him angrily. “Why doesn’t anyone believe me?”

She needs the bathroom. She makes her way across the dance floor to the ladies. Joe fol ows Bernie outside into the whiteness of the afternoon. The pawnbroker holds open the heavy door.

Two paces into the al ey, Joe is shoved from behind, driven hard into the wal . Bouncing back, he meets a man who delivers a short sharp punch to his stomach, enough to deny him air and double him over.

Bernie puts his face close. His breath smel s of steak-and-kidney pie.

“This is my employee, Mr. Tommy Boyle. He used to box. Now he breaks things for a living. He works in a wrecker’s yard. Bones break easier.” Bernie takes Joe’s wal et from his coat pocket and checks his driver’s license.

“So tel me, Professor Joseph O’Loughlin of Station Road, Wel ow, near Bath, what are you doing with that moist little bint and why is someone so interested in what she stole?”

“What do you mean?”

“Other parties are looking for her—one man in particular. You’re going to tel me why.”

The door opens. Hol y emerges, holding something behind her back. She doesn’t seem particularly surprised to see Tommy Boyle.

“Ah, here she is, my little princess,” says Bernie.

Hol y raises a short crowbar above her head and brings it down on Tommy’s shoulder, raking down his arm. In a blur of movement, she swings it again, this time connecting just below his right knee. Tommy goes down like a fel ed tree, groaning and clutching his leg.

“Get up and fight,” says Bernie.

Hol y raises it again, aiming at the pawnbroker, but he reels away with his hands in the air like a mime artist in a glass room.

“OK, OK, settle down.”

“She broke my fucking leg,” moans Tommy.

Hol y looks at Joe. “Did I hit him too hard?”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Of course it’s
her
fault!” says Bernie.

“You started it,” says Hol y, sounding like a petulant child. “You shouldn’t have lied.”

“You’re a freak!” Bernie spits the words. “I haven’t got your stuff, OK? A guy came and took it. Cleaned me out.”

“What guy?”

“A total nutjob—he didn’t like Jews or women or porn or golf.”

“Golf?”

“That’s not the point. This complete psycho came to see me last Friday; grinning at me like every sentence was a punchline. He wanted to see everything I’d bought from that evil bint.” He points his chin at Hol y. “I was six hours locked in a storeroom. I’m lucky the guy didn’t kil me.”

“What was he looking for?” asks Joe.

“Some notebook.”

“Did you report the robbery?”

Bernie hoots sarcastical y. “Rozzers would have laughed me out of the station.”

Joe looks at Hol y for confirmation.

“He’s tel ing the truth.”

Bernie lowers his hands and jabs a finger at her, spitting the words. “What have you got me mixed up in?” Adjusting the side mirror, the Courier keeps Hol y Knight in view, marveling at how much anger and energy are contained in her smal frame. How brittle she seems, yet strong. How fragile, yet unbreakable. He wants to take this girl in his arms, to feel her ribs against his chest, to cup her delicate throat in his palm and taste the salty ichor of her fear.

Screwing up his eyes to see her better, he congratulates himself. He knew if he waited long enough she’d visit Bernie.

“You shouldn’t park there,” says a voice. An office worker has stepped outside for a cigarette. “The weasels wil get you.”

“Weasels?”

“Wardens.”

Short and rather plump, she touches the corners of her mouth as though checking to see that she’s smiling.

“I won’t be staying, but thanks for the tip.”

The woman continues puffing and talking, tel ing him how many times the wardens have given her parking tickets. Maybe she’s flirting with him. Is she batting her eyelids or blinking away smoke?

“Do you know what you tel a woman with two black eyes?” he asks.

“What?”

“Nothing. She’s already been told twice.”

9

LONDON

She’s lower today.”

“Lower?”

“Her head is engaged. It means she’s upside down, ready to come out.”

“Does that mean…”

“She’s just ready. It doesn’t mean she’s knocking.”

Elizabeth gazes out of the window of the Merc, feeling Claudia moving inside her, fighting for room in a shrinking world. Her conversation with Mitchel has been replaying in her head. What he said. What she said. He had lied to her. In her overheated imagination it feels like something final, as though he’s broken more than some bond of filial love.

Ruiz parks in a street of white Victorian terraces with iron railing fences and front doors that are set above street level up a dozen stone steps. Lower stairs lead to basement flats where leaves and rubbish have col ected against the doors.

Even before they turn into Old Brompton Road, they see flashing lights reflecting from the windows. Police cars have blocked the traffic in both directions and a white, tunnel-like tent covers a doorway.