The Wreckage - Michael Robotham [59]
“I should have called.”
“That’s OK.”
“Did you get my message on Saturday?”
“Yes.”
“Did you do as I asked?”
“Of course.”
“It just didn’t seem right. He’s a good man.”
Elizabeth lowers her gaze, pressing her hands in her lap.
“Now I’ve changed my mind. I want you to keep working.”
“Following your husband?”
“Finding him.”
“I don’t understand.”
“He’s missing. I came home on Sunday and he wasn’t there. Nobody has seen him.”
Hackett presses his fingertips together to form a pyramid, the apex of which touches his lower lip.
“Perhaps you should see my final report before you spend any more money.”
Opening the drawer of a filing cabinet, he pulls out a blue manila folder. The name “Richard North” is on the label. Resuming his seat, he takes a pair of half-moon spectacles from his top pocket and perches them on the tip of his nose. Running a finger down the page, he begins detailing North’s movements. What time he left home. When he returned. Meetings. Lunches. Commutes. Jogging routes. Elizabeth is mentioned once or twice, along with Mersey Fidelity.
“I followed your husband for seven days. He’s a creature of habit. Leaves the house at just after seven, walks to Barnes Station, takes the same train to work, buys his coffee and a pastry, wears the same overcoat, carries the same briefcase.
“The only change to his routine was on the Thursday.” He points to the date on the page. “He left home at his usual time, but instead of going to the office, he drove out of London, north along the M1 to Luton. I thought maybe he had a meeting, but he didn’t visit an office. He found a parking space in Bury Park Road, about a mile to the west of Luton town center. He bought himself a coffee, a bottle of water and he just waited.”
“Waited for what?”
“I don’t know. He was parked outside a company that provides private mailboxes and offers a private mail forwarding service. People either collect post personally or have it forwarded in a plain brown envelope to an address they nominate. They might have a hobby they don’t want their wives or girlfriends finding out about—know what I’m saying?”
Elizabeth doesn’t. The private detective tries again. “Some people have got a thing for latex, or ladies’ underwear, or bondage gear, or sex toys, and they don’t want this stuff delivered to their homes. So they take out a private mailbox, which guarantees them a degree of privacy. Then again, it could be a company that doesn’t have a registered office address so uses a private one.”
Hackett looks back at his notes.
“At 1518 hours a Pakistani kid arrived and picked up a package from a postbox. Your husband followed him on foot for about a quarter of a mile until the kid went into a charity shop near the big Central Mosque.
“Mr. North waited outside the shop for about twenty minutes and then went back to his car. He drove back to London. I got details of the mileage if you want them.”
Elizabeth shakes her head. Hackett turns the page.
“On Friday your husband went to work at the normal time, but came home again at 1046 hours.”
This is news to Elizabeth. She and Rowan had already left for the Lake District. Why would North have come home mid-morning? Perhaps he forgot something.
“He stayed at the house until 1430 hours,” says Hackett, “and then caught a cab to an address in Mount Street, just off Park Lane. The house is leased to a private company called May First Limited. A woman answered the door. In her fifties. Well preserved. Hardly the mistress type. Your husband seemed agitated. She wouldn’t let him inside.
“He kept ringing the doorbell until she gave him a piece of paper. Maybe it was an address. He left and caught a cab to a restaurant in Maida Vale: The Warrington. Gordon Ramsay’s pub.”
The detective slides several photographs across his desk. Time coded. Shot from a distance. Grainy. Three men are sitting at an outside table beneath the plane trees. North is the clearest figure. A second man is sitting beside him, his face partially obscured by North’s body. A third man is seated opposite. Overweight with a heavy