The Wreckage - Michael Robotham [132]
“I wouldn’t recommend that.”
“Why?”
“I’m a fully paid-up pessimist.”
“I thought journalists were supposed to be idealists.”
“We start off as idealists and then we become pragmatists and finally pessimists. You can join the club. We have vacancies.”
She had laughed and he closed the cab door, giving directions to the driver.
Sitting at the computer screen, Luca waits for Gooding to type in a password.
“So where did you and Daniela meet?”
“At a hotel in Baghdad.”
“What were the first words you said to her?”
“Why?”
“I’m interested in first words. I collect them. If you remember the first words I figure you must think someone is special.”
“What were the first words you said to Lucy?”
“Pass the salt.”
Gooding laughs drunkenly, his eyes shining. Then he taps the keyboard lightly with his fingertips. A password. The archive opens. He steps back and lets Luca put in the parameters of the search, looking for links between Mersey Fidelity and Iraq. The screen refreshes. The first article is from The Economist: fifteen foreign banks had applied for a license to operate in Iraq since the relaxing of the banking laws in 2004. Five licenses had been granted—one of them to Mersey Fidelity—but none of the banks had opened local branches.
Next he searches for articles on Mohammed Ibrahim. There is a reference to his arrest in 2003, just prior to the capture of Saddam Hussein, but no mention of his accidental release from Abu Ghraib. Luca finds a black-and-white photograph taken at a military parade in Baghdad in the mid-nineties. There are three men in military uniform standing behind Saddam Hussein. The caption indicates the man on the far right is Ibrahim. He has a round face, the ubiquitous moustache and is wearing a beret at a jaunty angle.
The photo library has a dozen pictures of Yahya Maluk taken at society events: a polo tournament at Cowdray Park, a fundraiser for Great Ormond Street Hospital, the Opera at Covent Garden. Luca prints out one of the images and calls up information on Richard North, reading the various accounts of his disappearance and looking at a vodcast of a media statement made by his wife.
North’s career trajectory had been a steep curve—from public school and a third-class degree, to marrying the chairman’s daughter and heading the compliance department at Mersey Fidelity.
A new window opens on screen, headed, “News Alert.” A breaking story from Associated Press:
The search for missing banker Richard North took a new twist last night when his car was discovered in the River Lea in Hackney, East London. Police were last night examining the BMW for clues to the banker’s whereabouts. Police divers are expected to search the river at first light.
Luca looks up from the screen. Keith Gooding is dozing with his feet on the desk and his chair tilted back. Luca throws a balled-up piece of paper.
“What?”
“They just pulled Richard North’s car out of the river.”
A nerve twitches in Gooding’s jaw and something passes across his eyes that Luca can’t read. It’s the same reaction he saw at the wine bar. Gooding leans back in his chair and stares vexedly at the ceiling.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
Gooding contemplates a lie. Something sways him.
“About a month ago I called Richard North. I thought he might be a source for the book but he said he wasn’t interested. Then out of the blue, nine days ago I got a call from him. It was a Friday afternoon. He was in North London. Upset. Rambling. Saying we had to meet. I was in the middle of the afternoon news conference. We were putting the pages together for Saturday’s edition. I told him that I’d call him back, but he said it wasn’t safe to use his mobile and he wouldn’t come to the office.
“I gave him the name of a bar in Kensington High Street and told him that I’d try to meet him there by ten. I couldn’t make any promises. We were doing a special report on the last US combat troops being pulled out of Iraq.”
“Did you go to the bar?”
Gooding shakes his head. “I didn’t get away from the office until midnight. I had no