The Wreckage - Michael Robotham [75]
“Maybe he hired someone. North was getting nervous and making threats. He made a phone call on Friday from a call box to a journalist.”
“Who?”
“Keith Gooding on the Financial Herald. He left a message.”
“Had they ever met?”
“We’re going back over his phone records.”
Chalcott has the television muted. Pictures of a building in Baghdad with shattered windows and curtains flapping through the holes. The Finance Ministry. A crowd outside being kept back by soldiers. A rolling banner on the screen: Missing UN auditor found dead in Iraq.
“What about the wife?”
“North hasn’t been in touch with her.”
“And the girl?”
“MI6 are looking.”
“Six couldn’t find their ass-cheeks with both hands.” Chalcott belches. “While we’re on the subject of Ibrahim?”
“He’s dropped out of sight.”
“Christ almighty! This is a clusterfuck, Brendan. You know how much time and money have gone into this. Remember Afghanistan? Khost? We lost seven agents in one day. They trusted al-Balawi—they made him a fucking birthday cake—and the prick was playing them all along. He walked right into a secure base wearing a suicide vest and blew them all to pieces.”
“The Jordanians vouched for al-Balawi.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t trust any of these cunts. We control that list and we’re two years ahead of the game. We’ll nail every last one of the murdering scumbags.”
13
LONDON
Joe O’Loughlin is slowly crossing the concourse at Paddington Station. Ruiz recognizes the professor’s distinctive stoop and stiff-legged gait. He looks like a scientist or a doctor, more Einstein than Freud, with unkempt hair and a tweed jacket. Some weeks he forgets to shave and a salt-and-pepper stubble covers his chin and cheeks.
Ruiz takes his suitcase. Judges the weight. “You bought me a present?”
“It’s a bottle of something.”
“If I were a religious man I’d bless you.”
“If you were a religious man the bells would be ringing at Westminster Abbey.”
The two men weave through the crowds. Ruiz has to wait for the professor to catch up.
“Can you move any slower?”
“We’re all slow in the West Country.”
Through the automatic doors, they reach the cab rank where Ruiz has double-parked and displayed a disabled sign in his windscreen.
“Does that still work?”
“I got shot in the leg—there have to be some perks.”
Joe looks around. “So where is the young lady?”
“Now that’s a good question.”
Ruiz drives and talks—telling him about Zac Osborne’s death, the bribe and Holly running away. The professor interrupts occasionally to ask a question, focusing on the murder scene and the injuries inflicted.
“It had to be personal,” he says. “Very few people can torture someone so directly, hands-on, inflicting injuries over a long period, ignoring their pain… you’re dealing with a sadist who was very comfortable in a strange environment. He wasn’t panicked. He didn’t rush. He took his time, looking for information or waiting for the girl. What do the police say?”
“They’re calling it a drug turf war.”
“You don’t agree?”
“They found no drug paraphernalia in the flat.”
“Which doesn’t prove anything.”
“I talked to the pathologist this morning. Osborne had no drugs in his system. The tox screen came back negative.”
Joe leans over the seat and unzips a pocket on his suitcase.
“I had to call in some favors at Social Services. It’s not easy getting someone’s juvenile files.”
“What did you find?”
“Both of Holly Knight’s parents are dead. A murder suicide.”
“Domestic?”
“Her father strangled her mother and then hung himself. Holly’s brother died the same year. Brain aneurism. Holly must have been seven, maybe eight. She was made a ward of the court and fostered to six different families before she was fifteen. That’s when she ran away. She was found living with a man twice her age and was sent to another foster home, which she burnt down.”
“Did she give a reason?”
“Wouldn’t talk about it.”
Ruiz has seen how Holly reacts to authority figures. Her resentment borders on hatred.
“At seventeen she spent a year as a kitchen hand. Then she took a job waitressing. She was arrested