The Wreckage - Michael Robotham [153]
The lawyer’s name is Marcus Weil.
“This is a High Court injunction that prevents you publishing anything based upon statements made by, or materials belonging to, any employee of Mersey Fidelity.”
“Materials?” asks Price. “You’ll have to be a little more specific. I’m Australian. Slow on the uptake.”
“We believe you are in possession of a notebook and other files that were obtained by theft, deception or false overtures. These materials were created by Richard North in the course of his employment at Mersey Fidelity and therefore remain the property of the bank.”
Price has resumed his seat, leaning back in his expensive leather chair; his fingertips pressed together, a frown linking him to his inner world.
“What’s in this notebook?”
“The paranoid ramblings of a disgruntled employee.”
“Oh, so you’ve read it?”
Mr. Weil dismisses the question. “Should you disseminate inaccurate and malicious opinions based on false information and flawed interpretations, you will be sued.” The lawyer then delivers an arrogant non sequitur by denying the bank is in any way suppressing or hiding information to avoid its corporate responsibilities.
“And what makes you so sure we have these materials?” asks the editor.
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
“You’re not at liberty? That sounds like scurrilous newspaper-speak. Surely you’re not going to hide behind the defense of protecting your sources?”
“Richard North was an employee of—”
“Richard North is dead.”
“His notes are covered by commercial and legal privilege.”
Price repositions his long legs and tilts his head to one side in order to observe Weil from a different angle.
“Since you seem to know quite a lot about this notebook, perhaps you could tell me what I should be looking for?” The editor turns on a tape recorder. “Just for the record.”
Blood has drained from the lawyer’s face. He blusters and whines, threatening warrants, subpoenas and writs. He looks at the detectives, demanding they take action. The most senior of them speaks.
“Have you seen this notebook, Mr. Price?”
“No.”
“Is any member of your staff in possession of such a notebook?”
“No member of my staff.”
Mr. Weil interrupts. “What about Luca Terracini?”
Price raises an eyebrow and glances at Gooding. “That name sounds familiar.”
“One of our foreign stringers—works mainly in Iraq,” says Gooding.
“Yeah. Freelance. A hired gun.” Price gets to his feet. “These stringers are always dreaming up conspiracies. We had one here the other day who accused a bank of laundering money out of Iraq and running a second set of books.”
From Weil not a flicker.
“You should go back and tell your clients not to worry. The Financial Herald doesn’t publish half-baked stories. When we go hunting for elephants we carry a big gun.”
29
LONDON
Elizabeth has pillows propped behind her and bedclothes pulled across her lap. Despite the painkillers she feels as though someone has taken a baseball bat to her during the night. Everything below her waist hurts. Everything above the waist is numb. Claudia Rosaline North arrived just before midnight, weighing in at seven pounds with all the required fingers and toes: minus only a father.
There are two detectives waiting to see her. The older one looks like an undertaker. The younger one has blond, cropped hair and nice eyes, which he casts down deferentially, uncomfortable in her presence.
“We’ve got some bad news, Mrs. North,” says the older officer.
“Is there something wrong with Claudia?”
“Who’s Claudia?”
“My baby.”
“No, I mean, we’re not here about your baby.”
Elizabeth can hear herself changing the subject. Making conversation.
“I thought it was a bit odd, them sending detectives instead of a doctor. This must be about my husband.”
The younger officer takes a deep breath. He almost speaks but doesn’t. He leaves it to his more senior colleague.
“Your husband’s body was found last evening by police divers not far from where they recovered