The Wreckage - Michael Robotham [60]
Elizabeth studies the photographs. She wants them to be clearer. She wants to see North’s eyes.
“They talked for about twenty minutes,” says Hackett. “I recorded some of their conversation with a directional microphone, which is illegal, of course, and cannot be used in any court of law. It doesn’t make a great deal of sense because of the gaps and background noise, but I have provided you with a copy.
“Your husband left the restaurant and I followed him to a phone box in Clifton Gardens. He made a two-minute phone call.”
Hackett shows her another photograph. The old-fashioned red phone box has clear glass panels decorated with escort agency flyers and the business cards of sex workers. North is just visible through the door, resting his head against the metal casing of the phone as though exhausted or upset.
Elizabeth wants to reach into the photograph and comfort him at the same time as she’s asking herself questions. What is he doing? Why use a public phone box and not a mobile? Who were those men at the restaurant?
The private detective has paused. He has reached a point where the message is harder to deliver. He places another photograph in front of Elizabeth.
“Your husband then caught a cab to Kensington High Street. He went to a basement bar called The Chess Club.”
Although poorly lit, the photograph shows North sitting with a woman. Young, attractive, well groomed, she looks barely old enough to be drinking legally.
The next image is clearer. They’re outside on the street, getting into a cab. A third photograph shows the cab arriving at the house in Barnes. The woman is wearing North’s leather jacket around her shoulders.
Something soft breaks inside Elizabeth, a single thread no thicker than a spider’s web that has been holding her self-respect and her dignity in place.
“How long did she stay?”
“It’s in the report.”
“How long?”
Hackett takes a deep breath. “I left at two a.m. She was still there.”
Elizabeth is willing herself not to cry. Forbidding it.
“I’m sorry to be giving you this news, Mrs. North. In my experience a wife’s intuition is her most valuable instinct. You considered something untoward was happening, which is why you hired me. Your instincts proved correct.”
Elizabeth is barely listening.
“Mrs. North?”
She whispers. “I need to know who she is.”
The private detective scratches his jaw and grimaces. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Please?”
Hackett pushes the manila envelope across his desk. “It’s all in the report, Mrs. North.”
“But I want you to find him.”
“Did you bin-bag him?”
“Sorry?”
“Kick him out. You suspected he had a girlfriend and you told him to leave.”
“It wasn’t like that. I didn’t know about the girl until now.”
“But you suspected.”
“Maybe if you find her, you’ll find my husband.”
Colin Hackett sighs. “Listen, Mrs. North, take the file home. Read it or burn it. Have a good night’s sleep. If you still think this guy is worth finding, give me a call.”
“I don’t need to sleep on it. I’m having a baby any day now. I want you to find him.”
Hackett nods. He wants to tell her not to waste her money and warn her that some rocks should never be turned over, but he can see a steely resolve in her gaze.
Elizabeth’s feet manage to take her outside, where she sits at a café next to Rowan. An ice-cream seller is pushing a barrow along the pavement. Elizabeth searches for spare change. A tear springs from her right eye and runs down her cheek. The ice-cream seller gives her an extra napkin so she can blow her nose.
A small explosion has detonated within her. She is no longer solid, no longer pristine. Everything that she knows about her life now carries a question mark. This sort of thing doesn’t happen to people like her. Her husband doesn’t have affairs or sleep with prostitutes or keep secrets from her. Her entire life has been one of money, privilege and being envied rather than pitied. All that has changed in the click of a camera shutter.
“Why is you crying, Mummy?”
“I’m just having a sad day.”
“Because