The Wreckage - Michael Robotham [68]
“Did you see him on Friday?” she asks.
“I beg your pardon?”
“North. Did you see him on Friday? He came home from work. He must have forgotten something.”
Polina chews on the soft inside of her cheek as if she’s trying to remember.
“I must have gone to the shops.”
“He was home for more than three hours.”
“How do you know?”
Elizabeth doesn’t want to explain about the private detective.
“He mentioned it,” she lies.
Polina’s eyes seem to glitter. “I must have been in and out. Perhaps he was working upstairs.”
She makes it sound so obvious. Problem sorted.
Mid-morning, late summer hazing the air, Elizabeth drives east along the river until the glass and chrome towers of Canary Wharf come into view, gleaming in the sunlight. This view of London could grace the cover of a science fiction novel, but it’s also a reminder of the 1980s, the decade that was brash, assertive and not very British at all. Margaret Thatcher. The Miners’ Strike. Heysel. Hillsborough. The IRA. Elizabeth had been a young girl but she remembers these events because her perfect childhood had seemed so often under threat.
The foyer of Mersey Fidelity is tiled in black Italian marble and has matching leather sofas. Rupert and Frank are behind the security desk. Elizabeth has known them for years—ever since she’d visit her father after school, trying to get money for chips or chocolate.
The receptionist is a new face, immune to her smile.
“I was hoping to see Mitchell Bach.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“I’m his sister.”
She rings upstairs. Cups the phone.
“I’m afraid Mr. Bach is busy.”
“How long will he be?”
“Perhaps you could come back later or make an appointment.”
“I’ll wait.”
The receptionist punches the number again. Whispers. “No… yes… that’s right… she wants to wait… I see… OK.”
Addressing Elizabeth, “Someone is coming down to collect you.”
Felicity Stone, the head of public relations, is in her forties with blonde cropped hair and very white teeth, which are too large for her mouth. She is masculine looking. Businesslike. She presses Elizabeth’s right hand in both of hers for a fraction of a second before leaving it suspended in mid-air.
“We haven’t been introduced. I’m Felicity. What a terrible way to meet. How are you holding up? We’re all so concerned about North. I’m sure everything is going to be fine. I once had an uncle who went missing for a week and we found him in a homeless shelter in Manchester. Transient Global Amnesia, they called it—short-term memory loss. You’re so pregnant. You must want to sit down.”
A lift carries them to the upper floors. Miss Stone continues talking, as though worried about losing her turn. They cross a large open-plan office dotted with computer screens. The European Desk. Global Equities. Forex. Futures. The traders are cradling phones beneath their chins and staring at charts and numbers.
They arrive at Mitchell’s office. Miss Stone takes a seat and logs on to a computer screen.
“How long will Mitchell be?” asks Elizabeth.
“He’s a very busy man. He’s asked me to co-ordinate things. We’re liaising with the police, calling hospitals, checking passenger manifests… We’re most concerned about your welfare. I’ve arranged for you to have a full check-up. Dr. Shadrick is a Harley Street OB…”
“I have my own doctor.”
“Yes, but Dr. Shadrick is the best. I’ve made a provisional appointment for tomorrow at eleven, but change it if you need to.” Miss Stone taps at the keyboard again. “Where are you going to stay?”
“At the house.”
“By yourself?”
“I have Rowan and the nanny.”
“Mitchell has suggested you move in with your father.”
“I want to stay in Barnes.”
“Oh!”
“He is coming home, you know.”
“Who?”
“My husband.”
“Of course, I didn’t mean to suggest otherwise.” Miss Stone smiles apologetically. Her mobile is ringing. The sound is coming from a leather pouch clipped to her belt. Drawing it out like a gunslinger, she flips the phone open.
“Yes… No… I didn’t approve that… Nothing goes out unless I read it first… Tell them to wait… I don’t care what that arsehole wants, we’re not releasing