The Wreckage - Michael Robotham [150]
“Maybe we should think about this more carefully,” he says, letting his fingertips rest lightly on the pages of the notebook. “You don’t have the resources to investigate something like this properly. The police can get warrants, tap phones and seize documents. SOCA specializes in this sort of thing.”
Gooding scoffs. “We’re not just handing this over to the police.”
“Why not?”
“Because our exclusive won’t be exclusive anymore.”
“You’re worried about a story.”
“In case you haven’t noticed—this is a newspaper office.”
“This isn’t just about the bank or a few big corporations,” says Ruiz. “This notebook could expose organized crime gangs, terror groups, drug cartels… It’s about terrorist funding. It’s about the end-user. It’s about thousands of transactions, every one of them a possible prosecution.”
Gooding throws up his hands. “You know it doesn’t work like that. The CPS will be happy with a handful of convictions. I say we publish first and then hand the dossier to police. Scotland Yard can share it with Interpol, the Iraqis, the Americans—it won’t matter by then.”
“It will matter if the money disappears,” says Ruiz. “It will matter if Yahya Maluk and Mohammed Ibrahim flee the country and can’t be extradited back here. Ibrahim is a wanted war criminal. He should be arrested. Prosecuted.”
Daniela looks at Luca. “He’s got a point. If you report this now they’ll go to ground. Cover their tracks. Remember how this started. You were following the money.”
She’s talking about Baghdad. The insurgency. Someone is funding them.
Luca has been silent through the argument. It can’t be a choice of one thing or the other. There has to be common ground.
“We make copies of everything. We hand everything to SOCA, but we keep investigating.”
Gooding wants to continue arguing. Holly interrupts him. She’s pointing at the TV screen, which has footage of police divers tumbling backwards from Zodiacs. A photograph appears of Richard North. A banner headline runs across the bottom of the screen. Some stories don’t need sound.
26
LUTON
Taj is sitting at the small kitchen table pushing scrambled eggs around a plate. He looks at Aisha’s hips moving beneath her long skirt as she goes about her chores. She put on weight during her pregnancy; hasn’t lost it all, but he rarely sees her eat anything.
Barefoot and bare-chested, his jeans hang low on his hips.
“You should put on a shirt before you eat,” she says.
Taj sniffs and says, “Fine,” meaning something else. He fiddles with his watchband, opening and closing the clasp.
“You’re very quiet. Is everything OK?” she asks.
He inhales. Exhales. “I have to go away for a while.”
“Is it about that job? Why won’t you tell me what it is?”
“It’s in Pakistan.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m going to Pakistan for a few months.”
She looks at him incredulously. “Why?”
“Work.”
“What work?”
He makes a line on the tablecloth with a butter knife and wets his lips with his tongue.
“First I got to do something in London, then I fly out.”
“When?”
“I’m leaving tonight.”
“You can’t just leave, Taj. Not without telling me.”
“I am telling you.”
“But we haven’t talked about it. What am I supposed to do?”
Taj drives the handle of the knife into the center of the plate with his fist. It smashes, spraying eggs and baked beans on the wall.
“This is my business,” he yells. “This is me looking after my family. You never stop wanting stuff. That baby never stops wanting stuff.”
“I never ask you for anything, Taj.”
“I babysit, don’t I? A grown man shouldn’t have to do that shit.”
She can see he’s angry. Hurt. She knows not to test his temper, but she wants to understand. For months he has been like this. Bitter. Resentful. Distant. Ever since his father died, ever since he lost his job. Mr. Farouk at the Laundromat said that Taj has stopped going to the mosque on Fridays.
The baked beans are leaking down the wall and on to the skirting board.
“This has something to do with that man, doesn’t it?”
Taj doesn’t answer. Aisha looks at the floor.
“What about