The Wreckage - Michael Robotham [136]
“Who’s conducting the audit?”
“Not one of ours.”
“Can we change the personnel?”
“This is England, we can’t just…”
“What? Change an auditor? Pardon my fucking ignorance, but aren’t we supposed to be allies? We fought two fucking wars pulling their skinny white butts out of the European mud. Where’s the quid pro quo, eh? Where’s the ‘you scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours’?
“Let me tell you something, Brendan, if this goes pear-shaped, our political friends in Washington are going to wash their hands of us. Remember the Iran-Contra Affair? Secret arms sales to fund that dirty little war in Nicaragua? This will make it look like a fucking accounting error.”
17
LONDON
Ruiz wakes mid-morning. Joe O’Loughlin is sitting in a chair beside the window, his face tilted to the light, color in his hollowed cheeks.
“I knocked. You didn’t answer. The chambermaid let me in.”
“What time is it?”
“Ten. How did you sleep?”
“Lousy.”
“You’re not very clear on this sleep concept, are you?”
“It’s overrated.”
Ruiz rubs his jaw. He needs a shave. He should have bought a razor as well as a toothbrush. Sitting on the side of the bed in his underwear, he props his forearms on his thighs.
The two men recount their yesterdays. Ruiz tells him about Elizabeth North’s photographs and Colin Hackett’s murder; worlds within worlds, bleeding into each other. Joe has a way of listening that encourages people to add the small details, but doesn’t judge the story or the way it’s being told.
“How’s Holly?” asks Ruiz.
“Demanding. Bored. Monosyllabic. It’s like being at home with my own teenage daughter.”
“Charlie is still a princess.”
“To you maybe.”
“Where is Holly now?”
“Watching DVDs in her room. She’s very fond of you—she keeps asking me questions.”
“What sort of questions?”
“She says you’re the saddest person she’s ever met.”
The statement rattles something inside Ruiz, but he refuses to let it show. He opens the curtains. A wind sweeps wetly through the trees and a damp sunlight glistens from the leaves.
“You were supposed to be finding stuff out about her.”
“I think I know why she doesn’t trust the police.”
Ruiz looks over his shoulder, waiting for the rest.
“Remember I told you about the rape allegation. It involved a twenty-year-old engineering student who she met at a party in Hounslow. The rape was supported by forensic evidence—semen and vaginal tearing—but the CPS didn’t proceed.”
“What happened?”
“Holly’s alleged rapist was the son of a senior police officer. He claimed she consented and had begged for rough sex. He produced a dozen witnesses who said Holly had initiated the encounter. His lawyers dragged up Holly’s juvenile record—the fire at her foster home. She was considered to be unstable. An unreliable witness.”
“She was shafted.”
“Poor choice of words.”
Ruiz showers and puts on the same clothes. He rubs a bar of soap beneath the arms of his shirt, trying to neutralize the odor.
Ever since he met Holly Knight, he’s been clinging to the belief that he would find someone who could answer her questions. Either that or the facts would be dragged to the surface until he had enough to form a picture. He was prepared to be patient, ignoring the background “noise,” but the mystery had merely deepened.
Joe is still sitting by the window.
“I asked Holly about the notebook. She can’t remember it.”
“Maybe you should ask her again.”
Ruiz picks up the bedside phone and punches a number.
“Capable.”
“Mr. Ruiz.”
“Don’t use my name. What have you got for me?”
Capable begins explaining how he accessed the computer records, circumventing firewalls and piggybacking from one database to the next. Ruiz interrupts. “I don’t care how you did it, Capable. That’s like wanting to know what my butcher puts in his sausages.”
“Huh?”
“I’m in a hurry. What about my mobile?”
“Oh. Right. I traced the blue Audi to a basement garage in an office block near Tower Bridge. Serviced offices. Ten floors. The parking space is reserved for a company that doesn’t put its name on the board in the foyer. It has unlisted