The Wreckage - Michael Robotham [140]
“Shut up!”
Ruiz kicks Luca’s legs apart, using one hand to pat him down—shoulders, chest, back, right leg, left leg.
“Are you a policeman?” asks Daniela.
Ruiz ignores her. “Where’s Bridget Lindop?”
“I don’t know,” says Luca.
“What are you doing in her house?”
“We were looking for her. I’m a journalist.”
“What paper?”
“Financial Herald.”
Ruiz pushes Daniela hard against the wall.
“I didn’t think British police officers carried guns,” she says.
“That’s an urban myth.”
She lowers her arms. “I don’t think you’re a policeman at all.”
“You want to test that theory?”
She’s a ballbreaker, thinks Ruiz, either crazy-brave or stupid. Her off-sider is more diplomatic. He’s explaining how he found the back door open and thought Miss Lindop might be hurt.
“She’s been gone a while. Her cat hasn’t been fed.”
Elizabeth calls from below. “Is everything all right?”
“I told you to wait in the car,” says Ruiz.
“I heard you talking.”
Elizabeth has reached the landing. “Who are they?”
“They broke in.”
“I didn’t break in,” says Luca. “I’m a reporter.” He takes a moment to recognize Elizabeth—the missing banker’s wife, heavily pregnant. He’s seen her photograph and watched her media appeal. “We were looking for Bridget Lindop. If you call Keith Gooding at the paper he’ll vouch for us.”
That name again.
Ruiz and Elizabeth exchange a glance. At that moment her uterus contracts and she hollows out her cheeks in a whistling intake of breath. Eyes shut, she exhales in shallow puffs, trying to ease the pain.
Daniela glares at Ruiz like he’s personally responsible for making a pregnant woman climb the stairs.
“When are you due?”
“A few weeks.”
“You should sit down.”
Luca points to the broken door. “Someone was locked inside and had to break out.”
Ruiz runs his finger over the splintered frame. It was kicked open. Someone strong did this. A man. A prisoner.
20
LONDON
Are you going to hypnotize me?”
“No.”
“Then why do I have to lie down?”
“I just want you to be comfortable.”
Holly is dressed in a thin floral-print cotton dress, machine faded, which clings to her body like wet tissue paper. She looks at the bed, which is covered with an old lady bedspread.
“Lie down, close your eyes and relax,” says Joe.
She shoots him a look. “You better not try anything.”
“I’m going to sit over here by the window. I won’t leave this chair.”
Holly stares at the ceiling, which has water stains and a cracked plaster rosette.
“So what is this called if it’s not hypnosis?”
“A cognitive interview.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’m going to take you back to the night you met Richard North. I’m going to ask you lots of questions. Some things you won’t remember. Some things will come back to you.”
“I’ve already told Vincent…”
“We’re going to do it again.”
“I’m hungry.”
“You’ve just eaten.”
Joe O’Loughlin takes a seat. The window provides some breeze and he can hear birds in the trees. He begins as he always does, by setting the scene—the bar on that Friday night. Where was she sitting? What was she drinking? Who else was around her? He has a nice voice, thinks Holly. Kind eyes. But he asks too many questions.
Lady Gaga was playing on the sound system. Zac had never liked Lady Gaga. Said she was a wannabe Madonna. Then again, he didn’t like Madonna, who he called “that ridiculous old bag.” Lady Gaga had the better voice. Madonna was the better dancer.
“I didn’t think he was going to notice me at first,” says Holly. “He was sitting at a corner of the bar, going through vodka like he had Smirnoff shares. I thought he might be gay.”
“Why choose him?”
“He looked rich… lonely. I like to watch them for a while—just to be sure.”
“Sure of what?”
She shrugs. “Sure they’re not rapists or psychos. I’m looking for the Good Samaritan, remember?”
“So you can rob him?”
Holly opens her eyes and looks at Joe scornfully. He marvels at how someone barely educated past fifteen can make him feel like he’s just stepped off the bus from Stupidville.
“What was he doing?”
“He looked like he was waiting for someone.”