lawyer.
“Someone ratted on us. The bank just called in the police.”
Gooding and Luca peer through the blinds.
“Where is the notebook?” asks Price.
“Not on the premises,” says Luca. “I have copies.”
“Right, you go in there.” He points to a bathroom. “Gooding, you stay here. Let me do the talking.”
Luca follows instructions, keeping the door ajar so he can listen. The detectives and lawyer introduce themselves, handshakes all round and a discussion about the weather. The British are so very polite.
The lawyer’s name is Marcus Weil.
“This is a High Court injunction that prevents you publishing anything based upon statements made by, or materials belonging to, any employee of Mersey Fidelity.”
“Materials?” asks Price. “You’ll have to be a little more specific. I’m Australian. Slow on the uptake.”
“We believe you are in possession of a notebook and other files that were obtained by theft, deception or false overtures. These materials were created by Richard North in the course of his employment at Mersey Fidelity and therefore remain the property of the bank.”
Price has resumed his seat, leaning back in his expensive leather chair; his fingertips pressed together, a frown linking him to his inner world.
“What’s in this notebook?”
“The paranoid ramblings of a disgruntled employee.”
“Oh, so you’ve read it?”
Mr. Weil dismisses the question. “Should you disseminate inaccurate and malicious opinions based on false information and flawed interpretations, you will be sued.” The lawyer then delivers an arrogant non sequitur by denying the bank is in any way suppressing or hiding information to avoid its corporate responsibilities.
“And what makes you so sure we have these materials?” asks the editor.
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
“You’re not at liberty? That sounds like scurrilous newspaper-speak. Surely you’re not going to hide behind the defense of protecting your sources?”
“Richard North was an employee of-”
“Richard North is dead.”
“His notes are covered by commercial and legal privilege.”
Price repositions his long legs and tilts his head to one side in order to observe Weil from a different angle.
“Since you seem to know quite a lot about this notebook, perhaps you could tell me what I should be looking for?” The editor turns on a tape recorder. “Just for the record.”
Blood has drained from the lawyer’s face. He blusters and whines, threatening warrants, subpoenas and writs. He looks at the detectives, demanding they take action. The most senior of them speaks.
“Have you seen this notebook, Mr. Price?”
“No.”
“Is any member of your staff in possession of such a notebook?”
“No member of my staff.”
Mr. Weil interrupts. “What about Luca Terracini?”
Price raises an eyebrow and glances at Gooding. “That name sounds familiar.”
“One of our foreign stringers-works mainly in Iraq,” says Gooding.
“Yeah. Freelance. A hired gun.” Price gets to his feet. “These stringers are always dreaming up conspiracies. We had one here the other day who accused a bank of laundering money out of Iraq and running a second set of books.”
From Weil not a flicker.
“You should go back and tell your clients not to worry. The Financial Herald doesn’t publish half-baked stories. When we go hunting for elephants we carry a big gun.”
29
Elizabeth has pillows propped behind her and bedclothes pulled across her lap. Despite the painkillers she feels as though someone has taken a baseball bat to her during the night. Everything below her waist hurts. Everything above the waist is numb. Claudia Rosaline North arrived just before midnight, weighing in at seven pounds with all the required fingers and toes: minus only a father.
There are two detectives waiting to see her. The older one looks like an undertaker. The younger one has blond, cropped hair and nice eyes, which he casts down deferentially, uncomfortable in her presence.
“We’ve got some bad news, Mrs. North,” says the older officer.
“Is there something wrong with Claudia?”
“Who’s Claudia?”
“My baby.”
“No, I mean, we’re not here about your baby.”
Elizabeth can hear herself changing the subject. Making conversation.
“I thought it was a bit odd, them sending detectives instead of a doctor. This must be about my husband.”
The younger officer takes a deep breath. He almost speaks but doesn’t. He leaves it to his more senior colleague.
“Your husband’s body was found last evening by police divers not far from where they recovered his car. This is now a murder investigation.”
Silence.
Maybe he says more. Maybe he says nothing. The words go missing. All Elizabeth can think about is the cruel nature of the timing, to have lost a husband and gained a daughter on the same night. The car. The river. The blood. Pausing for a moment, her head bowed, shoulders sagging, she braces herself for tears but they don’t come. Instead an oddly comforting thought occurs to her.
Yes, North had been unfaithful, but he hadn’t abandoned her. He was coming home. Maybe she would have listened to his excuses. Forgiven him. Taken him back.
How quickly her circumstances have changed. Ten days ago she had been a reasonably contented, stay-at- home mother with an enviable life. Not perfect-what marriage ever is? Now she can recognize the countless foretellings, the innumerable small breaks from normalcy, the telltale signs of disintegration and decay. North’s chin unshaved, his long hours at the office, the second bottle of wine opened on a weekday night… One evening she found him in tears, but he wouldn’t tell her why. “Just a sad day,” he told her. “I’m allowed to have sad days.”
Elizabeth’s phone keeps beeping. Text messages. People are starting to send congratulations. Soon they’ll be sending commiserations. There’s an interesting dilemma: What card do you send a new mother and a widow?
The detectives apologize again and say they’ll want to interview Elizabeth when she’s out of hospital. It is all so very polite and civilized. No hysterics. No recriminations. They leave her alone and she stares at the ceiling, feeling divorced from herself, watching the scene rather than playing her part. From along the corridor she hears the scuttle of little feet. Rowan hurls himself into her arms.
“I saw Claudia,” he announces excitedly. “She’s got a squished-up face.”
“All babies look a little squished.”
“When can I play with her?”
“She’s a bit small to play with, but she’ll grow up quickly.”
“Is mine Daddy here?” he asks.
“No.”
“Doesn’t he want to see Claudia?”
