“What’s this?”
“A copy of a notebook belonging to Richard North and a file he collected. A forensic accountant will be able to explain what it means.”
“Perhaps you could precis it for me.”
“A banking scandal.”
“Another one.”
“This one is special. Iraq reconstruction funds, the proceeds of crime, tax avoidance, the sponsoring of terrorism-money that shouldn’t be in a UK bank. I’m assuming that you’ll pass this information on to the relevant authorities.”
Evans rolls the information around in his cheeks as if sipping sherry. He opens the envelope and leafs through the pages.
“Where are the originals?”
“Safe.”
“In the hands of your journalist friends?”
Ruiz has already reached for the door handle.
“They cannot publish,” says Evans. “We need time to study this.”
“Your problem, not mine.”
33
Arched like a bent bow, Joe O’Loughlin’s head is pulled backwards by the noose around his neck that leads to his bound wrists and ankles. Curled on the floor of the hotel room, he cannot straighten his legs without tightening the noose.
Using his hands, he tries to relieve the pressure on his neck, but eventually he gets tired and his legs drop, cutting off his air supply.
He endures on the edge of consciousness, picturing his own funeral, imagining the eulogies, putting words in people’s mouths. Julianne inconsolable. Wanting him back.
“You will not see the morning,” the man had said when he pressed the gun to Joe’s forehead, waking him from a dream. A good dream, Julianne had been in it. They were reconciled. Getting physical. Oxygen deprivation is supposed to heighten sexual pleasure.
Joe rolls on to his stomach feeling four gospels and two testaments of pain. He rolls again, resting his head against the inside of the door. If he loses consciousness he’ll suffocate. Raising his head an inch, he takes a breath and brings it down against the door. It rattles with a dull thunk. Back and forth he rolls, his bruises like burning charcoal.
The night manager is complained to. Summoned. The door unlocked. Ropes untied. Tape cut away. An ambulance called. The journey to the hospital made in a haze of opiates and questions. His voice box has been bruised. He can’t make them understand.
Later he wakes in hospital, his neck smothered in ointment where the nylon rope chaffed and broke his skin. Ruiz is outside his room, bellowing something at an unfortunate nurse.
“This is me calm, OK. You don’t want to see me upset.”
The door seems to narrow as he enters with the nurse hanging on to his left arm, but not in a romantic way.
Joe looks at him for the single longest second of his life. Tries to speak. The sound is a strangled croak.
“What’s wrong with his voice?” Ruiz asks the nurse.
“His voice box was damaged.”
“Is he going to be able to talk?”
“In a few days.”
Ruiz pulls up a chair and reaches across the sheet, taking Joe’s hand in both of his. Squeezes. It’s the most intimate physical contact they’ve ever shared.
Joe tries to speak, mouthing the word “Holly.”
“She’s gone. I’m going to get her back. How many?”
Joe raises one finger.
“Recognize him?”
He shakes his head.
“If he hurts her I’ll kill him. I’ll rip out his arsehole and stitch it into his mouth.”
A police officer appears, puffing, having run down the corridor. Uniformed. Nervous at the sight of Ruiz, he has one hand on his radio.
“Step back from the bed, sir. No visitors are allowed.”
Ruiz asks for a moment longer. Joe is trying to say something. “Where were you?”
“I fucked up. I’m sorry.”
He’s about to stand. Joe pulls him closer, mouthing words.
“Find her.”
“I will.”
Ruiz nods to the police officer and apologizes to the nurse. Then he takes the corridor and the stairs. Crossing the foyer, he passes Campbell Smith, who is dressed in full uniform, marching like he’s on parade. Ruiz doesn’t stop.
“Where are you going?”
No answer.
“What are you, Vincent? Not a police officer. Not a private detective. All you do is make things worse.”
Still no response. The doors are closing. Campbell again.
“This is your fault. We could have protected her.”
34
Luca and Daniela are waiting for Ruiz at the hotel, fear hanging over them like a curse. Nothing they say can make him feel any less responsible. His fault. His guilt.
They take a table at a cafe. The morning well advanced.
“This should have been over,” says Ruiz. “People got what they wanted.”
“Ibrahim didn’t,” says Daniela.
“Nor did the bank,” adds Luca.
Studying his scarred hands, Ruiz closes his eyes, warding off a fresh wave of hurt. He should call Julianne, Joe’s estranged wife. Explain. Apologies. What would he say? If Julianne had her way, Joe would never be friends with someone like Ruiz. She’d have him wrapped in cotton wool, safely tenured at some university, disconnected from the real world.
Daniela and Luca are talking about the money-laundering investigation. They have spent the past twenty-four hours tracing some of the transactions, following the money trail between various accounts. They are so comfortable together they’re starting to finish each other’s sentences.
“We’re concentrating on the Middle East,” says Daniela. “We’ve linked twelve accounts to Saudi Arabia, eight to Syria, five to Pakistan, fourteen to Iran and six to Indonesia. We’ve found an indirect link between one of the accounts and the militant group responsible for the Bali bombing in 2002. ATM withdrawals.”
“What about accounts linked to UK addresses?” Ruiz asks.
