The Wreckage - Michael Robotham [72]
The dryer falls silent.
Hackett tugs at his cuffs. Straightens his tie. Smoothes down his hair. He’s waiting for someone else to come into the gents.
“You followed a banker,” says the Courier.
“Did he send you?”
“You took photographs. Who has copies of them?”
“You took the memory card from my camera. There are no more copies.”
“The banker had a notebook.”
“I never met the man. I just followed him.”
“What about the girl he was with?”
“I don’t know who she is. How about we go back to my office? We can talk about it.”
Hackett moves towards the door. If he can reach the hallway, he can turn right and run towards the stairs. The Courier is behind him. Stepping closer, something in his hand, a gun maybe, pressed hard between his shoulder blades.
Hackett pivots, aiming an elbow at his face. The Courier ducks it easily and delivers a short sharp jab to the kidneys. Hackett’s knees buckle. Pain breaks over his face. The next punch sends him to the floor, half in the room and half out. The Courier grabs the door and slams it closed across the detective’s head. He slams it again.
A forearm closes around Hackett’s throat, hinged with the opposite elbow, adding to the pressure, sealing off his windpipe. Hackett’s fingers claw at the arm. Kicking. Jerking. He can see a pinpoint of brightness in front of him and feels his mind drifting to a distant battlefield, a rocky island in the Atlantic, where pissing rain has turned to sleet and artillery shells are shaking the ground with a deafening roar.
Squashed flat against the frozen earth, he crawls forward and swings himself into an Argentine trench. Then he sees a soldier wearing a grey poncho, a teenager, sitting in the mud, mouth open in a scream.
The soldier has taken a direct hit from a phosphorous grenade. His head rocks back and forth. Blood pumps from his stomach. Still he screams, the same word, over and over. “Madre! Madre! Madre!”
The Company Commander yells, “Will you shut that fucker up!” He’s talking to Hackett, who tries to make the boy be quiet, holding a finger to his lips. Covering his mouth. Making shushing sounds. Still the kid screams for his mother until Hackett puts a hand over his mouth and nose, squeezing them shut, telling him to be quiet, holding him until he falls silent.
The kid’s eyes are open. Watching. Welcoming the darkness.
11
LONDON
Elizabeth is late picking up Rowan from nursery. The center manager has heard all the excuses before. Polina is never late. Polina doesn’t leave Rowan’s raincoat behind, or forget to pack his painting smock, or leave his fruit salad in the fridge. Polina has wet wipes to clean his face after an ice cream. Elizabeth has to spit on a tissue.
Strapping Rowan into his car seat, she heads north to Hampstead to see her father. The gates are open and she parks opposite a garage that holds matching silver Mercedes side by side.
She follows the crushed marble path around the side of the house. The lawns are mown into green strips and the garden beds turned and composted. Rowan runs ahead to the rear terrace. Shielding her eyes from the sun, Elizabeth spies her father kneeling on the turf, turning the soil with a hand fork.
Alistair Bach looks up. As brown as a medicine bottle, with a tangle of grey hair poking out from an old hat, he dresses like a younger version of David Attenborough in chinos and a heavy cotton shirt rolled up to below his elbows. Soft spoken. Gentle. Conservative. Someone from another age. This is his life now—gardening. Planting. Watering. Trimming the topiary into geometric patterns that seem to float above the flowerbeds.
Bach takes a moment to rise from his knees. Rowan runs to him and is hoisted aloft, spun around until his legs are horizontal with the ground.
“Careful, he’s just had an ice cream.”
“The lucky sod!” He kisses Rowan’s cheek. “Let me guess. Chocolate?”
“Is you a magician,