become harder to identify.
He remembers a rendition prison in Afghanistan. A Taliban leader he interrogated for three days-sensory deprivation, waterboarding, stress positions-until he broke. Cried. Scratched at his face in shame.
“I weep for my land,” he said, “but mostly I weep for yours.”
5
Rowan has stopped crying. His injured finger, wrapped in a sticking plaster, is held aloft so that everyone at the bus stop can see how brave he is. Then he imagines that his bandage is a new top secret Spiderman weapon. He aims it at an elderly gentleman who is crossing the road.
“Pchoong!”
Then he mows down a group of pre-school children who are walking in single file along the pavement.
“Perhaps you shouldn’t shoot any more people,” says Elizabeth. “It’s not very polite.”
“What should I do?”
“Say hello.”
Rowan looks at his bandaged finger and back to his mother. Then he turns to different people at the bus stop and says hello. They smile at him, wondering about the odd little boy dressed as Spiderman.
Elizabeth has a dozen messages on her mobile, none of them from her husband. Family and friends have rallied around her since North disappeared, which is why the fridge is full of casseroles and cakes. Why do people assume she wants to eat?
The bus pulls up. Elizabeth makes no attempt to get on. Rowan tugs at her hand. “Come on, Mummy.”
“We’re going somewhere else.”
“Where?”
“On an adventure.”
“I like ’ventures.”
Elizabeth hails a black cab and checks her purse to make sure she has enough money. It drops her in Old Brompton Road. Rowan wants to look at the holiday posters in the Thomas Cook window. Beautiful young people cavorting in impossibly blue water.
Phoenix Investigations is on the third floor. They take the old-fashioned lift, which rattles and bangs as it rises through the floors. Along the corridor, there is light behind the frosted glass door. The receptionist has red- rimmed eyes and a rash under her nose. The tissues in the wastepaper bin look like melting snowballs.
“I don’t have an appointment,” explains Elizabeth. “I was hoping Mr. Hackett might see me.”
The receptionist blows her nose.
“He just stepped out. Won’t be long.”
Elizabeth sits on the lone plastic chair. Rowan climbs on to her lap. There is a license in a wooden frame hanging on the wall, some sort of diploma. Elizabeth wonders what a private detective has to study. How to rifle through rubbish bins? How to peer through windows? The whole idea of seeing a private detective embarrasses her. She’s not that sort of person. She trusts her husband.
There is a photograph next to the diploma-a young soldier in battle fatigues, war paint on his cheeks; a half- forgotten conflict.
There are footsteps outside. Colin Hackett nudges the door with his hip. He’s carrying a tray of coffees and something sweet and sticky in a bag. Heavy-set with broad shoulders, he reminds her of Bob Hoskins with a full head of hair.
He hesitates for a moment, unsure if he’s missed an appointment.
“Is everything all right, Mrs. North?”
Elizabeth shakes her head, unable to speak. Hackett motions her into his office, telling his secretary to look after Rowan.
“Just don’t touch him. You’re like a bloody plague ship.” And then as the door closes, “She’s my wife’s niece, completely unemployable. I don’t think it’s contagious.”
“I should have called.”
“That’s OK.”
“Did you get my message on Saturday?”
“Yes.”
“Did you do as I asked?”
“Of course.”
“It just didn’t seem right. He’s a good man.”
Elizabeth lowers her gaze, pressing her hands in her lap.
“Now I’ve changed my mind. I want you to keep working.”
“Following your husband?”
“Finding him.”
“I don’t understand.”
“He’s missing. I came home on Sunday and he wasn’t there. Nobody has seen him.”
Hackett presses his fingertips together to form a pyramid, the apex of which touches his lower lip.
“Perhaps you should see my final report before you spend any more money.”
Opening the drawer of a filing cabinet, he pulls out a blue manila folder. The name “Richard North” is on the label. Resuming his seat, he takes a pair of half-moon spectacles from his top pocket and perches them on the tip of his nose. Running a finger down the page, he begins detailing North’s movements. What time he left home. When he returned. Meetings. Lunches. Commutes. Jogging routes. Elizabeth is mentioned once or twice, along with Mersey Fidelity.
“I followed your husband for seven days. He’s a creature of habit. Leaves the house at just after seven, walks to Barnes Station, takes the same train to work, buys his coffee and a pastry, wears the same overcoat, carries the same briefcase.
“The only change to his routine was on the Thursday.” He points to the date on the page. “He left home at his usual time, but instead of going to the office, he drove out of London, north along the M1 to Luton. I thought maybe he had a meeting, but he didn’t visit an office. He found a parking space in Bury Park Road, about a mile to the west of Luton town center. He bought himself a coffee, a bottle of water and he just waited.”
“Waited for what?”
“I don’t know. He was parked outside a company that provides private mailboxes and offers a private mail forwarding service. People either collect post personally or have it forwarded in a plain brown envelope to an address they nominate. They might have a hobby they don’t want their wives or girlfriends finding out about-know what I’m saying?”
Elizabeth doesn’t. The private detective tries again. “Some people have got a thing for latex, or ladies’ underwear, or bondage gear, or sex toys, and they don’t want this stuff delivered to their homes. So they take out a private mailbox, which guarantees them a degree of privacy. Then again, it could be a company that doesn’t have a registered office address so uses a private one.”
Hackett looks back at his notes.
“At 1518 hours a Pakistani kid arrived and picked up a package from a postbox. Your husband followed him on foot for about a quarter of a mile until the kid went into a charity shop near the big Central Mosque.
“Mr. North waited outside the shop for about twenty minutes and then went back to his car. He drove back to London. I got details of the mileage if you want them.”
Elizabeth shakes her head. Hackett turns the page.
“On Friday your husband went to work at the normal time, but came home again at 1046 hours.”
This is news to Elizabeth. She and Rowan had already left for the Lake District. Why would North have come home mid-morning? Perhaps he forgot something.
“He stayed at the house until 1430 hours,” says Hackett, “and then caught a cab to an address in Mount
