The Wreckage - Michael Robotham [142]
“What about the jacket?”
Holly purses her lips. “It was hanging over the banister.”
“Did Zac take it?”
“I don’t know. I don’t remember seeing it again.”
Something bothers her. She falls silent, going over the events.
“He went to the kitchen to get a plastic bag.”
“Zac?”
“He must have wanted to protect the jacket from the rain.” Holly opens her eyes. “He must have taken it with him, but I don’t remember seeing it again.”
“Relax. Go back there… to the house… you’re in the hallway, deciding what to take…”
“We were loading the panniers. I put on my coat. A helmet… We found a nice briefcase in the study. I had to carry it on my lap. Zac drove carefully. No point in taking risks. Being picked up by the cops would be silly.”
“Where did you go?”
“Back to the flat.”
“Where did you park?”
“Zac has this lockup around the corner. That’s where he leaves his bike.”
“A lockup?”
“Yeah.”
“Where is the bike now?”
Holly shrugs. “Still there, I guess.”
Joe looks at the phone on the bedside table. First he’ll leave a message for Ruiz.
“Come on,” he tells Holly.
“Have we finished?”
“Yes.”
“Where are we going?”
“To get a notebook.”
21
LONDON
The Shelby Arms had been one of Ruiz’s favorite watering holes when he was running the Serious Crime Squad in West London. Back then it had been a dive with decent beer and passable grub. Now it’s a gastro-pub with a dozen different boutique beers on tap and cooling cabinets full of imported lagers. The menu has also been tarted up: a ham-and-cheese toasted sandwich is called a croque-monsieur. Potato and leek soup is vichyssoise.
Elizabeth and Daniela are sitting opposite each other, sipping soda waters. Ruiz has ordered a Guinness and Luca the same, sipping it somewhat curiously but trying hard to win respect.
Ruiz studies him, scratching an eyebrow, giving nothing away. The journalist is carrying scars, mental, not physical, but he’s a tough son-of-a-bitch. Daniela is interesting. She has a chill, scientific detachment. Dynamite between the sheets, he suspects. The cool ones often are. Why does he bring everything back to sex? Hard-ons of the mind.
Through a picture window, he sees a line of schoolchildren wearing hats and holding hands. Two women teachers at either end, cajoling them to stay in line and “walk don’t run.” Advice for life.
Now Luca begins talking, starting in Iraq with the bank robberies and missing reconstruction funds. He mentions an attack on the Finance Ministry, people dying. Friends. Cash smuggled across borders. Mersey Fidelity. The name Yahya Maluk seems to electrify Elizabeth.
“I’ve met him,” she says. “I’ve been to his house. He lives in Mayfair.”
Everyone is looking at her. “North visited Yahya Maluk the day before he disappeared. I asked Maluk about the meeting, but he denied it ever happened.”
“How do you know they met?” asks Luca.
“I saw the photographs.”
Luca reaches into the pocket of his shirt and unfolds the photocopies that he made last night at the newspaper office. “Is that the man?”
Elizabeth nods. “He’s on the board of Mersey Fidelity.”
Luca puts another picture in front of Elizabeth.
“What about this man?”
Three men in uniform are standing behind Saddam Hussein. She places her fingers around the face of the man on the far right, framing his portrait.
“That’s the other one.”
“Are you absolutely sure?” asks Luca, glancing at Daniela.
“I’m sure,” says Elizabeth.
“What is it? Who is this guy?” asks Ruiz.
Daniela answers, giving details of Mohammed Ibrahim Omar al-Muslit, the former Baath Party moneyman who helped Saddam Hussein steal billions from his own people.
“He should be in Abu Ghraib, but he escaped four years ago.”
“What’s he doing in London?”
“That’s a very good question.”
Ruiz silently places the details in context. A wanted war criminal, a terrorist—that could explain why the Americans are so interested.
Luca continues. “We’ve established a link between money stolen