The Wreckage - Michael Robotham [16]
Ms. Carlson taps a keyboard. Her pink nail polish stands out brightly against the keys.
“What time?”
“Between eight p.m. and ten p.m.”
She swivels a joystick control. Fast forwards through archival footage. There are four views of Greek Street. One of them shows the Coach & Horses. The screen has a red square box in the top right corner.
“That signifies the street is an area of suspicion,” explains Ms. Carlson. “We focus on hotels, nightclubs and alleyways.”
“Must be riveting.”
“If you have nothing to hide, you have nothing to fear.”
“Did Stalin write that?”
The time code is running along the bottom of the screen. It slows as the footage decelerates. Ruiz sees the boyfriend walking towards the camera carrying two motorcycle helmets. He must have stashed them somewhere.
Fast-forwarding again, the time code says 21.24. Ruiz sees himself emerging from the pub and shoving the boyfriend into a parked car. The barman appears. The boyfriend walks away from the camera. At 22.08 Ruiz leaves the pub and hails a cab. The actress is wearing her red coat. The door closes and the cab pulls into the traffic. Moments later a motorbike passes the camera. The number plate has been obscured.
“Did you get what you wanted?” asks Ms. Carlson, clearly proud of the technology.
“Tell me something,” asks Ruiz. “If your cameras see a crime being committed, what do you do?”
“We alert the police.”
“And you keep filming?”
“Of course.”
Ruiz grunts dismissively.
“We’re fighting crime,” she says defensively.
“No, you’re recording crime. Your cameras can’t intervene to stop a rape or a murder or a robbery, which makes you just another bystander, sitting on the sidelines, watching it happen.”
The Coach & Horses is busy with a lunchtime crowd. Ruiz recognizes the Aussie barman. His name is Craig and he has freckles on his eyelids.
“You remember me?”
He nods and keeps stacking drinks.
“The girl who was in here last night, the one who wore a fist from her boyfriend; ever seen her before?”
“Nope.”
“What about her charming fella?”
“You should have hit him harder.”
“She was reading a copy of The Stage. You must get a lot of actors in here.”
Craig grins. “You want to see my show-reel?”
“Maybe never.”
Ruiz orders a steak-and-Guinness pie and a pint of ale. While he’s waiting he ducks outside to a newsstand and buys a copy of The Stage. Turning to the listings, he runs a finger down the page. Most are by appointment only. She was looking for an open casting. His finger stops. Taps the page.
Speed Dating, a romantic comedy.
Alasdair has been dumped by his girlfriend and is convinced to go to a speed dating night. Rehearsals begin September 18.
We are looking for:
—Alasdair 25–35. Northerner. Slim, a little clumsy around women.
—Jenny 20–30. Confident and sassy with a bruised heart.
—Felicity 20–30. Jenny’s best friend.
—Chris 25–35. Jenny’s fiancé.
Casting at Trafalgar Studios in Whitehall, 3 p.m. to 5 p.m.
(Please bring headshots and a brief resume.)
Ruiz looks at his watch. It’s almost two now. Lunch first and then a look-see.
7
BAGHDAD
The helicopters are flying close tonight. Luca can hear the whump whump of the propellers concussing the air as they pass overhead. American troops are patrolling, searching for weapons and insurgents and “wanted” faces on playing cards.
They’re early. Most of the raids don’t happen until after midnight. The Apaches hover above convoys of armored Humvees that will seal off entire streets. The phys-ops vehicles are fitted with loudspeakers broadcasting messages in Arabic or Farsi or Kurdish, telling people to put their weapons next to the front door and walk outside. Few have time to comply.
Five soldiers will enter the house while five wait outside. They go upstairs first, grabbing the man of the house, dragging him out of bed in front of his wife and children, forcing him up against a wall. Other family members are corralled into the same