The Wreckage - Michael Robotham [89]
This time her mobile is ringing. Her father’s voice: “Have you seen the TV?”
“What is it? Is it North?”
“I’m so sorry, Lizzie.”
Her throat closes. She fights against the panic.
“What? Tell me.”
“It’s absolutely foul. So fucking unfair.”
Sinking to her knees in front of the television, Elizabeth holds the remote control in both hands. She flicks through the channels. Stops. BBC News. There are images of Mersey Fidelity’s head office, footage of a trading room, dealers waving their arms and shouting. The banner says: MILLIONS MISSING IN HUNT FOR ROGUE BANKER.
She turns up the volume.
“A fugitive banker is being hunted today following the discovery of a ‘black hole’ in the bank’s accounts. Mersey Fidelity, one of Britain’s biggest investment banks, says it is investigating a series of suspicious trades and transfers following an official audit. Fiona Gallagher reports.”
The camera switches to a reporter standing on the steps of Mersey Fidelity, a skinny woman with big hair who Elizabeth is sure has never been eight months pregnant.
“Authorities have spent the morning retrieving hundreds of documents and computer disks from the banker’s office. Forensic accountants have also been brought in to trace transactions.
“Today’s revelations follow in the wake of Mersey Fidelity announcing record profits and being praised by the government and the Bank of England for having weathered the global financial crisis. Chancellor of the Exchequer George Osborne told Parliament last week that Mersey Fidelity would provide the blueprint for new banking laws in the UK, which he would take to the G20 summit in South Korea in November…”
As she watches the coverage and commentary, the ache of uncertainty inside Elizabeth is replaced by a dull thudding like clods of earth rattling on a coffin lid. Her father is still talking. “It must be a mistake. The wrong end of the stick.”
“Are they talking about North?” she asks.
“We’ll get to the bottom of this…”
“Why would they say such things?”
She doesn’t hear what he says next. Her mind has gone to Rowan. She has to go shopping. She promised him pasta shapes for dinner. He likes the spirals or the tubes but not the shells.
“Did you hear me, Lizzie?”
“Sorry.”
“The police will want to talk to you. They’ll want to search the house.”
“Why?”
“In case he left something.”
“Left what?”
“It’s a mistake, I know, but we have to co-operate.”
Polina is standing in the open doorway, listening to her conversation. She’s carrying a box of Rowan’s toys and his favorite bath towel.
“I’ll send Jacinta over,” says Alistair Bach.
“No.”
“You shouldn’t be alone. Come and stay with us.”
Elizabeth doesn’t want to see her stepmother. She wants to talk to Mitchell. She wants to know why he hasn’t called to explain. Why didn’t he warn her?
The landline is ringing. “I have to go.”
She picks up the new call. It’s an unfamiliar voice.
“Mrs. North?”
“Yes.”
“I’m from the Daily Mail. Can you confirm that your husband is being sought by the police?”
“I have nothing to say.”
“Do you know where your husband is?”
“Please don’t call this number again.”
She drops the handset as though scalded.
“Is everything all right?” asks Polina.
“Fine. I’m going to pick up Rowan.”
“It’s not even midday.”
“He had a sore throat this morning. I should have kept him at home.”
“Do you want me to fetch him?”
“No, I’ll go.”
Elizabeth grabs her coat and her keys. She needs to be outside. Moving. Thinking.
It takes her fifteen minutes to reach the nursery. The carers don’t seem surprised to see her. Rowan is playing in the sandpit. She collects his things. Forgets his lunchbox. One of his shoelaces is undone, but she doesn’t stop.
“Slow down, Mummy, you’re hurting.”
His coat sleeve has been pulled off one of his arms.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart.”
“Is Daddy home?”
“Not yet.”
As they turn the final corner she spies the police