The Wreckage - Michael Robotham [74]
Bach follows her gaze. “She’s not the wicked witch of the East.”
“Just Hampstead.”
Her father smiles wryly. “She cares about me.”
“I know.”
Elizabeth’s mother died of a brain aneurism ten years ago. Bach waited seven years before he remarried. Said he needed someone to grow old beside. Fine, thought Elizabeth, but did she have to be so young?
He’s pouring the tea, clutching the teapot in both hands to stop the lid from falling off. Elizabeth looks at her cup. He’s given her too much milk. She doubts if her father has made tea more than a handful of times in his life. Other people do it for him. Maids. Secretaries. Wives.
Elizabeth picks at her chipped nail polish.
“I think North was having an affair.”
The statement feels like it might scald her esophagus.
“You’re sure?”
She nods.
“How?”
Opening her bag, she takes out the photographs and places them on the kitchen table, not looking at them. Unable to.
“Who took these?”
“A private detective.”
“You were having him followed!”
“I know, I know, I felt guilty for not trusting him. I thought I was being paranoid, but now I’m glad.”
Bach has taken the photographs to the window where the light is better. He arranges them in some sort of sequence.
“Do you know who she is?”
“No.”
“Are there any more?”
Elizabeth retrieves the rest of the photographs. Bach pauses when he sees the images of the outdoor meeting in Maida Vale.
“Do you recognize anyone?” asks Elizabeth.
Bach doesn’t answer.
“I thought it might have something to do with the bank.”
“I don’t think so. I could be wrong. Ex-chairmen are like former prime ministers—we retire gracefully, never comment on company business and enjoy the benefits of a generous pension scheme.”
“I don’t know how you can be so flippant.”
Bach looks hurt. “I’m sorry if I gave that impression.”
He goes back to the photograph of the girl. “Are you sure you don’t know her?”
“I’m sure.” Elizabeth sighs. “I should be angry. I should want to kick his sorry arse out the door, but I just want to find him.”
“Men do foolish things sometimes.”
“Were you ever unfaithful?”
“That’s not a fair question.”
“Does that mean yes?”
“It means I’m not going to answer you.”
Elizabeth apologizes. She has no right to ask. And she has no right to blame her father for the sins of her husband.
Her mobile is ringing. She looks at the screen but doesn’t recognize the number.
“Hello?… Is anyone there?… Hello?”
There is no sound at all except for a faint pulse that might be the blood in her ears. She exhales and squeezes her eyes shut, ending the call.
12
WASHINGTON
Artie Chalcott sits in his home office, feeling his skin prickle and sweat on his forehead. His ulcer is also acting up and his bowel movements are all over the place. Stress-related. Shit-related. Things are also going south in London. First the banker gets robbed, then he goes missing and now they can’t find the girl who robbed him.
During the afternoon he’d tried to take out his frustration on the driving range, hitting balls. Smacking them with a club head the size of a Christmas ham. Made no difference to his mood.
Now he’s home and the kids are asleep upstairs and his wife is outside on a pool lounger, wrapped in a silk kimono, smoking a cigarette and getting drunk. She smokes in the same hungry way that she has sex. Not with him. He doesn’t know what gym instructor or pool boy or realtor she’s screwing now.
Chalcott can’t punch a turd, but he can punch a number. He calls Sobel in London. Apologizes for the hour.
“Don’t worry about it, Artie, sleep was so last century.”
Chalcott feels a flash of annoyance. Sobel sounds too cheerful and he should be calling him “sir.”
“What news on our banker?”
“He’ll turn up.”
“That’s the issue, isn’t it, Brendan? Where will he turn up? You should have pulled him in before he went AWOL. The list would be safe by now.”
“The robbery was a coincidence.”
“I don’t believe in coincidences. Someone killed the boyfriend.”
“Maybe it was North?”
“You don’t believe that.”
“Who then?”
“Ibrahim.”
“Ibrahim doesn’t do his own dirty