The Wreckage - Michael Robotham [69]
Elizabeth tries not to look surprised by the language. Miss Stone closes the phone.
“Must dash. You’ll be all right on your own? Mitchell shouldn’t be long. Don’t answer the phone. The switchboard will pick it up.”
Alone now, Elizabeth gazes out the window looking west along the Thames to the Houses of Parliament just visible through the haze. Her feet hurt. The sofa is too low. Instead she sits in Mitchell’s desk chair. Two lights are blinking on his phone. Behind her on a bookcase is a leather-bound copy of the company history: the anniversary edition. A hundred years of Mersey Fidelity—the humble building society transformed into a global bank. Elizabeth knows the story. The history of the bank is almost her own family’s history.
Her father, Alistair Bach, had started working as a trainee bank teller in 1960 when Mersey Fidelity was a Liverpool-based building society giving respectable working-class folk the chance to buy their own homes. In the mid-eighties when “demutualization” became the buzzword and Thatcher’s Big Bang revolution set free the finance markets, Alistair Bach took advantage of the changes and turned the building society into a bank which could earn profits and pay dividends to shareholders, making the directors rich in the process. Bach became the youngest chief financial officer in the history of the FTSE 100 list of companies and Mersey Fidelity grew to become the fifth biggest retail and investment bank in the UK. He only stepped down as chairman in early 2007. By then Mitchell had been groomed for a senior position—a younger version of his father, cloned from the same stem cells—with a first-class mind and degrees from Cambridge and Harvard.
Elizabeth can feel Claudia stomping on her cervix. Up until a few days ago she was kicking up near her belly button, but now she’s lower down, pressing on her pelvis. Picking up the phone, Elizabeth punches North’s extension, knowing that his secretary will most likely pick up.
“Richard North’s office.”
“Hello, Bridget, it’s Elizabeth.” There is a pause. “I know you’re busy, but I’m in the building. Can we get a coffee?”
Another pause. “I’ve been told not to talk to anyone.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
Bridget Lindop hesitates again, torn between self-preservation and common decency.
“This is me, Bridget. Elizabeth. I just want to talk.”
Silence echoes through the handset. Then comes a whispered reply. “I’ll meet you in the cafeteria.”
Opening Mitchell’s door, Elizabeth looks along the corridor. Then she walks quickly to the lift, crossing the open-plan office, keeping her head down. None of the traders take any notice of her.
The cafeteria is on the tenth floor. They order tea in mugs and take a table near the window. On the far side of fifty, Bridget Lindop is tall and straight-backed with polished silver hair bound in a tight bun. A religious woman, who goes to Mass every day, she has a small silver cross on a chain around her neck.
“How was North when you saw him last? Was he worried about anything?”
The older woman hesitates and filters her words as if straining tea leaves. “Mr. North didn’t really confide in me.”
“But you saw him every day. Did he seem preoccupied? Why was he working late so many nights?”
“We were very busy.”
Elizabeth feels a lump forming in her throat.
“I think he was having an affair.”
Miss Lindop doesn’t react. She sits with her back straight, her knees together and her hands folded in her lap.
“I’m sure you’re mistaken. Richard talked only of you and Rowan.”
“He took a woman home while I was away.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
“Did you ask him?”
“I would if I could.”
The statement vibrates in her throat. Miss Lindop reaches across the space between them and squeezes Elizabeth’s hand. Her voice drops to a whisper.
“He’s a good man, you know that.”
Elizabeth feels the skin on her face tighten. “What’s wrong?”
“He told me something a few weeks ago. He said a terrible thing had happened and it was his fault.”
“What?”
“I don’t know, but he said I wouldn’t respect him if