The Wreckage - Michael Robotham [160]
“This is me calm, OK. You don’t want to see me upset.”
The door seems to narrow as he enters with the nurse hanging on to his left arm, but not in a romantic way.
Joe looks at him for the single longest second of his life. Tries to speak. The sound is a strangled croak.
“What’s wrong with his voice?” Ruiz asks the nurse.
“His voice box was damaged.”
“Is he going to be able to talk?”
“In a few days.”
Ruiz pulls up a chair and reaches across the sheet, taking Joe’s hand in both of his. Squeezes. It’s the most intimate physical contact they’ve ever shared.
Joe tries to speak, mouthing the word “Holly.”
“She’s gone. I’m going to get her back. How many?”
Joe raises one finger.
“Recognize him?”
He shakes his head.
“If he hurts her I’ll kill him. I’ll rip out his arsehole and stitch it into his mouth.”
A police officer appears, puffing, having run down the corridor. Uniformed. Nervous at the sight of Ruiz, he has one hand on his radio.
“Step back from the bed, sir. No visitors are allowed.”
Ruiz asks for a moment longer. Joe is trying to say something. “Where were you?”
“I fucked up. I’m sorry.”
He’s about to stand. Joe pulls him closer, mouthing words.
“Find her.”
“I will.”
Ruiz nods to the police officer and apologizes to the nurse. Then he takes the corridor and the stairs. Crossing the foyer, he passes Campbell Smith, who is dressed in full uniform, marching like he’s on parade. Ruiz doesn’t stop.
“Where are you going?”
No answer.
“What are you, Vincent? Not a police officer. Not a private detective. All you do is make things worse.”
Still no response. The doors are closing. Campbell again.
“This is your fault. We could have protected her.”
34
LONDON
Luca and Daniela are waiting for Ruiz at the hotel, fear hanging over them like a curse. Nothing they say can make him feel any less responsible. His fault. His guilt.
They take a table at a café. The morning well advanced.
“This should have been over,” says Ruiz. “People got what they wanted.”
“Ibrahim didn’t,” says Daniela.
“Nor did the bank,” adds Luca.
Studying his scarred hands, Ruiz closes his eyes, warding off a fresh wave of hurt. He should call Julianne, Joe’s estranged wife. Explain. Apologies. What would he say? If Julianne had her way, Joe would never be friends with someone like Ruiz. She’d have him wrapped in cotton wool, safely tenured at some university, disconnected from the real world.
Daniela and Luca are talking about the money-laundering investigation. They have spent the past twenty-four hours tracing some of the transactions, following the money trail between various accounts. They are so comfortable together they’re starting to finish each other’s sentences.
“We’re concentrating on the Middle East,” says Daniela. “We’ve linked twelve accounts to Saudi Arabia, eight to Syria, five to Pakistan, fourteen to Iran and six to Indonesia. We’ve found an indirect link between one of the accounts and the militant group responsible for the Bali bombing in 2002. ATM withdrawals.”
“What about accounts linked to UK addresses?” Ruiz asks.
“Not so much,” says Daniela. “There’s an address in Luton, but that looks like a dead end. We’re looking at others in Italy and Germany.”
Ruiz is staring back at her. “What did you say?”
“About Italy and Germany?”
“Before that.”
“Luton. There were money transfers to a private postbox in Luton. A hundred thousand pounds.”
“Who owns the postbox?”
“A Muslim charity, but it looks legitimate.”
Ruiz is holding his breath. Exhales. “When Colin Hackett was following Richard North he went to a postbox in Luton. He mentioned a charity. When I talked to Hackett’s niece she told me that her uncle was in Luton looking for the missing banker on the day she called him and he came back to London. That was the day he died.”
Ruiz is already moving.
Luca has grabbed his coat. “Where are you going?”
“To find a car.”
Charlton Car Impound looks like a World War II prison camp with razor wire atop an eight-foot-high