The Wreckage - Michael Robotham [122]
Bach pauses and points to Ruiz’s chest with the neck of his beer bottle. The skin along his hairline is shiny with perspiration.
“Do you own a house, Vincent?”
“Yes.”
“Has it doubled in value? Trebled?”
“I’ve done OK.”
“More than OK, I’d say. You should thank bankers for that. All that wealth we created had a knock-on effect on property prices. Ordinary guys like you, living in suburbia, became millionaires because of what we did. You bought houses and sat back and watched the values rise. You thought you were geniuses. You thought it was down to you.”
Bach looks at the recently hoed garden. He did the work himself, churning the soil until his shirt was soaked in sweat, working through the heat of the day as though avenging himself. He sucks air through his nose and spits into the garden.
“Then it all fell apart,” he says, “the meltdown, the credit crunch, the global financial crisis. People panicked. They wanted out. They cashed in their investments, withdrew their money, and it all came crashing down. They squealed when governments bailed out the banks with taxpayer funds. Hated us even more. But none of them realized how those funds were also propping up their property prices and their jobs and the glorious consumer bubble they had grown to know and love.
“They blamed the bankers. They wanted us put in jail. They wanted to curb our bonuses and tax our salaries. But the only way America and Britain and Europe are getting out of this mess is if the banks recapitalize. And the only way taxpayers are getting their money back is if banks do what they do best. Trade. Hedge. Lend. Make profits.
“People might hate us, Vincent, but you need us. And when things turn around, when things pick up, when wealth returns, they’ll want to be just like us again. They’ll 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 Mitchell Bach has finished his phone call and comes sweeping into the sunroom, calling for “Lizzie.” Kissing both her cheeks. Keeping his hands on her shoulders. “I’m so sorry,” he says. “I should have called 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 all 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 all got mistresses or rent boys in the closet.”
Mitchell 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.”
Mitchell 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 all 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 carefully