The Wreckage - Michael Robotham [98]
Holly goes into Boots and buys a toothbrush, toothpaste, tampons and deodorant, along with a cheap pair of sunglasses and two pairs of knickers. She walks outside and transfers her purchases into an old plastic bag, which she hides in a rubbish bin. Then she goes back into the Boots and picks up exactly the same items—same brands, same amounts—putting them into the original bag.
She goes to the checkout.
“I’m really sorry. I just bought all this stuff not realizing my boyfriend had already picked it up. We both had the same shopping list. Great minds, you know…”
“Do you have the receipt?” asks the checkout girl.
“Of course, it’s here somewhere.” Holly makes a show of searching her pockets. She finds the receipt. The girl checks off the items and opens the cash register. She gives Holly nineteen pounds and seventy-five pence.
“It’s nice that your boyfriend goes shopping for you,” she says.
“Yeah, he’s a real sweetheart.”
Outside Holly retrieves the stuff she hid in the bin. She can smell the coffee and muffins at Starbucks across the road. She now has money, clean underwear and toiletries… why not give herself a treat? She’s walking past the front window of Dixons and notices a bank of TV screens all showing the same images, a news report.
A photograph flashes across the multiple screens. Holly pauses, trying to remember how she knows the face. Where? When? The scrolling banner says something about a missing banker. The shot changes to a press conference. A woman is reading a statement into a microphone. Holly pushes through the glass door and stands in front of the screens.
“If you’re watching this, Richard, if you can hear me… if you’re able to call… I just want to know you’re OK. I know you can explain. I know you’re a good man…”
Holly stares at the row of TVs. She finds herself looking from one to the other, expecting the story to change. She remembers the missing banker and his house. There were toys in his living room. He said his wife was away for the weekend. They met at a bar in the City. He was drunk. Horny. Worried about something. He took her home.
The rolling banner gives his name: Richard North. Missing millions, it reads. Is this why Zac died? Is this why people are chasing her?
A shop assistant is standing next to her in a pressed white shirt and narrow tie. Indian. Early twenties.
“Can I help with something?”
“Do you have a phone?”
“Our phone section is over there?”
“I don’t want to buy one—I want to borrow one.”
The sales assistant takes out his own mobile. Emptying her pockets, Holly finds a worn square of white cardboard: Ruiz’s name and his home phone number. She punches the keys, tucking the phone between her shoulder and ear. There’s no answer. She starts to leave a message, but pauses, turning to the assistant.
“What day is it today?”
“August twenty-eighth.”
Holly looks at her watch and remembers the wedding.
22
WASHINGTON
Chalcott is on the sideline, watching his teenage son play football. His phone is ringing: Sobel from London.
“I tried you in the office.”
“It’s my day off.”
“You’re outside.”
“My boy has a game.”
“Who’s winning?”
“Forty minutes and no score—foreplay shouldn’t last that long.”
A whistle blows. Chalcott shouts at the referee, “The kid dived—are you blind?”
“What position does your boy play?”
“There are positions?” Chalcott finishes his takeaway coffee and crushes the paper mug. “What news?”
“According to the bank Richard North ran off with fifty-four million.”
“Dollars?”
“Pounds. All sorts of theories are being bandied about.”
“ ‘Bandied’? You’ve been in Blighty too long. You’re starting to sound like a Limey shirt-lifter.”
Sobel laughs hollowly. “We’ve intercepted a phone call from Holly Knight to the ex-detective. She left half a message on his answering machine. The call was traced to a shopping mall in Richmond.”
“Did you pick her up?”
“She was gone by the time we arrived, but we’ve managed to get CCTV footage of her talking to some guy. The Brits may have an ID. He’s a tramp. No fixed address.”
“What about the