The Wreckage - Michael Robotham [97]
“You really should listen, Lizzie,” says Mitchell, nursing his cheek.
“I’m not going to shut up. I’m not going to stay quiet. And I’m not going to hide myself away.”
21
LONDON
Low tide. A long thin shingle beach has appeared during the night, exposed by the tide. Holly has slept all morning and into the early afternoon, the water and the birds entering her dreams. Now she can hear Pete moving outside the caravan, laboring with a heavy object and running the outboard engine to clear the water intake pipe.
Rising from the narrow bed, she runs barefoot to a drop toilet surrounded by hessian curtains. She squats, urinating, wishing she’d worn shoes. Dog is watching her. She tries to shoo him away, but he cocks his head and wags his body.
After washing her hands in the river, she walks back to the camp.
Pete is cooking over a gas burner. He’s dressed in a rugby jumper that’s too big for him—more Ruiz’s size. The mental comparison makes Holly angry because she feels betrayed by the former detective. One more act of betrayal in a life littered with them.
Sitting on a stool beneath the awning, she watches Pete cook her scrambled eggs for breakfast. She eats hungrily, avoiding his gaze, feeling the heat of the Tabasco sauce on her lips.
Pete takes the saucepan to the river, crouching on the edge of the shingle spit. When he’s out of sight, Holly opens the drawers and cupboards in the van, searching the pockets of Pete’s clothes. She finds ten quid and coins. Staring at the crumpled bill, she contemplates what to do.
She has two pounds and fifty-three pence. She needs money and somewhere to stay. What would Zac do? He’d scam someone. Pete would be an easy mark—innocent as a puppy—but it doesn’t seem fair after what he’s done for her.
She puts the money back where she found it and steps out of the caravan. Pete is wiping his hands on his trousers.
“Do you want to know why those men were chasing me?”
“I figure you’ll tell me or you won’t.”
“Do you think I’m a criminal?”
Pete scratches his cheek. “You are what you are.”
“They weren’t the cops… at least I don’t think so.”
“I’m not so fond of coppers.”
Pete packs away the frying pan and lets the knives and forks dry by resting upright in a can. A boat putters past them, invisible behind the willow trees.
“You can stay here for a while… I mean, if you want to… until you decide.”
“I don’t have any money.”
“I got enough.”
Holly eyes him carefully. She can smell the dampness of the river and the sweat on his clothes.
“You wouldn’t take advantage of me, would you, Pete? I mean… you wouldn’t… you know.”
Pete adamantly shakes his head. Then he packs a satchel with envelopes and a pen.
“I have to post some letters and pick up supplies.”
“Where?”
“I usually go to Richmond.”
“Can I come?”
“Sure.”
They take the fishing boat downriver. Holly isn’t sure of the direction because the sun has disappeared behind a high layer of cloud. They pass lovely houses on the river’s edge, with manicured lawns and small jetties jutting out into the water. Pete waves to a woman hanging her washing and a man mowing his lawn. There are people cycling along the river paths and waterfowl that flap from the reeds, clumsy until airborne.
They moor in the shadow of Richmond Bridge near the floating restaurant and the “boats for hire.” Holly steps ashore. Pete has some shopping bags and a list.
“Is there anything you don’t eat?”
“I’m not very fond of baked beans.”
“I’ll get something else.”
They walk up the worn granite steps.
“Pete?”
“Yeah.”
“I need to pick up a few things, women’s stuff, you know, and I don’t have any money.”
“I can get them.”
“Women’s products?”
“Oh. Right.” He fumbles in his pockets and gives her a ten-pound note.
“I don’t know how much… if you need more…”
“Maybe just a little.”
He gives her another tenner. She unfurls the crumpled notes and folds them neatly.
“How long will you be?”
“An hour.”
“I’ll meet