The Wreckage - Michael Robotham [54]
Elizabeth kept trying to call North, sending him text messages and emails. Finally she phoned her father. Sitting on the edge of the bed, cupping her hand over the mouthpiece, she spoke in whispers so that Rowan wouldn’t hear her.
The family swung into action, calling hospitals, clinics, homeless shelters and finally the police. Two young constables came the next day and took a statement about the robbery.
“You’ll need this for insurance purposes,” said the constable.
“What about my husband?”
“I don’t think your policy covers him.”
The officers laughed. It was a joke. Elizabeth stared numbly at them. By then her mind was full of terrible scenarios: North disturbing burglars or being abducted, or worse.
A large drop of honey has dripped on her blouse. Elizabeth looks at the stain and wants to cry. Hormones.
Rowan is standing at the kitchen door watching her.
“Is you all right, Mummy?”
“I’m fine.”
“Why is you crying?”
“I’m having a sad day.”
“When Daddy comes home you’ll be happy.”
“Yes, I will.”
2
LONDON
Standing outside the police station in London Road, Elizabeth gazes at the three-storey red-brick building squeezed between a hairdressing salon and the head office of the Richmond & Twickenham Times. Be polite but firm, she tells herself. Don’t be fobbed off.
Rowan is dressed in a Spiderman T-shirt and mask. The eyeholes are slightly too wide for his head, which means that only one eye is visible at any given time. He flicks his “web finger” at passing pedestrians who are either arch-villains or super-villains. Elizabeth isn’t an expert on comic book bad guys.
The uniformed officer at the front desk is a woman and she’s not carrying a gun. Rowan is a little disappointed. He was expecting a fellow crime-fighter who could compare weaponry with him and swap tales of saving the world. After waiting forty-five minutes they are taken upstairs through a cluttered open-plan office that looks reassuringly productive.
The detective constable is called Carter and he’s wearing a jacket and tie. He’s quite handsome except for a buzz-cut that makes his ears look like jug handles.
“Please sit down, Mrs. North. Tea? Coffee? Water?”
“No, thank you.”
DC Carter glances at her pregnancy and then smiles hesitantly at Rowan, who has crawled onto Elizabeth’s lap and is staring at him with the intensity that only young children can produce.
“Have you heard from your husband?”
“I wouldn’t be here if I’d heard from my husband.”
There is an awkward pause and DC Carter uses the moment to open the file on his desk.
“It has only been forty-eight hours,” he says.
“It has been five days.”
“Yes, but technically we don’t class a person as missing until a certain amount of time has elapsed.”
“How long?”
“That depends upon the circumstances.”
Rowan slips out of her arms and is now sitting on the floor linking paperclips together into a chain.
Elizabeth looks back at the detective. “What are you doing to try to find him?”
“Your husband is also over the age of eighteen and not considered vulnerable, Mrs. North.”
“What does that mean?”
“He’s not at risk of suicide or self-harm.”
The words sound too harsh. He tries to make amends. “Your husband may have decided to spend a few days away, getting his head together. It happens sometimes.”
“He wouldn’t do that without telling me.”
The detective looks at her tiredly. She’s not going to make it easy for him. Consulting her statement, he goes over the details again.
“Your husband works for a bank.”
“He’s a compliance officer at Mersey Fidelity.”
“Was he having any problems?”
“He was very busy.”
“There is evidence that he used his ATM card at a machine in Regent Street early on Saturday morning. He also bought clothes in Oxford Street on Sunday.”
“North never buys clothes—he hates shopping.”
“Somebody used his cards.”
“I told you we were robbed. It’s in my statement. My jewelry is missing… our passports.”
“Perhaps your husband was planning a trip.