Elizabeth can’t think of a neighboring street. She mumbles something and Claudia kicks her as though punishing her stupidity.
“Do you have a photograph?” asks the woman.
“Pardon?”
“A picture of the dog. You could put it on lampposts.”
“Yes, what a good idea.”
Elizabeth wants to ask her about North and why he came to the house. She has the photographs in her handbag. What would the woman say if she just came straight out and showed them to her? She raises her eyes to the ceiling, hearing something upstairs. “Maybe your husband has seen Fred.”
“He’s busy.”
“What does he do?”
The woman ignores the question and stares at Elizabeth for a long time. “Why are you really here?”
Elizabeth’s skin prickles with embarrassment and Claudia squirms wetly in her belly.
“I feel so bloody silly. I didn’t work out what I was going to say.”
“I don’t understand.”
“My name is Elizabeth North. My husband came here about a week ago. It was a Friday afternoon. Now he’s missing. I’m trying to find him.”
The woman is watching her with her almond-shaped eyes, giving nothing away. Elizabeth takes the photographs from her handbag. They are curling now at the edges and stained with something sticky that Rowan put in her handbag.
“Who took these?”
“A private detective.”
Suspicion flares in the woman’s eyes. “Watching this house?”
“No. He was following my husband. I was concerned about him. I knew something was wrong. He came here. Is one of these men your husband?”
The woman stands and straightens her dress, brushing it down her thighs. “I don’t know who you are-or what you’re doing, but I want you to leave.”
“I’m telling you the truth. His name is Richard North. Can you just ask your husband?”
The woman walks to the entrance hall telephone. “Do I have to call the police?”
“I’m leaving,” says Elizabeth.
As she tries to step past the woman, a hand shoots out and grips her wrist. “Tell me why you’re following us.”
“I don’t even know who you are. I’m trying to find my husband.”
Elizabeth feels a sudden sharp cramp in her abdomen that takes her breath away. She has to lean on the edge of the table, breathing in and out against the pain.
The woman lets go and her voice softens. “You should go home.”
“I know he came here.”
“I will ask my husband-but you must leave.”
A voice from above: “Is everything all right, Maria?”
It’s one of the men from the photograph-the one with the clipped English accent. Taking off his glasses, he studies Elizabeth, his eyes neither hostile nor interested.
“I’m looking for my husband, Richard North. He met with you.”
“And what makes you say that?”
“I have photographs.”
“What photographs?”
“You were sitting at a table outside The Warrington. There was another man with you.”
“I’m afraid you’re mistaken.”
Elizabeth can feel the skin on her forehead itching. She fumbles through the photographs, looking for the right one. Pulls it free. Holds it up. The man doesn’t want to look at her pictures. He hasn’t moved from the stairs.
“The other man in the picture-do you know his name?”
Nothing alters in his face, which has all the emotion and depth of a pie plate. Elizabeth presses on. “I just want to find him. Do you know where he is?”
“Show her to the door, Maria.”
Elizabeth wants to make him listen. “I know about the transfers,” she blurts, making things up as she goes along.
The man scratches at the corner of his mouth with a fingernail. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Please leave my home.”
He turns away, pulling a mobile phone from the sagging pocket of his sweatshirt.
Elizabeth finds herself on the front steps where dead leaves are chasing each other in a circle of wind. The man was lying to her. Hiding something. Had she made a mistake coming here? Claudia has stopped kicking, but her heart still races, beating like the wings of a bird against the bars of a cage.
16
Colorful saris, black chadors, minarets and Halal butchers-it could be Bangladesh or Mogadishu or Hackney or Lambeth. Extended families. Illegal immigrants. Sweatshop workers. Flotsam washed up on British shores.
It took the Courier longer than expected to find Bernie Levinson. Following him had bordered on the banal- tracking him between his various businesses and his very ugly mock Tudor house in Ilford with its swimming pool and revolving sunroom.
A bell tinkles above his head. He spins a CLOSED sign on the back of the door. The shelves of the pawnshop are lined with DVD players, iPods, satnavs and TV sets.
“I won’t keep you,” says a voice in the back room. The Courier walks behind the counter and through the door.
“Hey, I told you to wait!” says Bernie, who is trying to repackage a CD player. “You got to stay out there-the other side of the counter.”
“How long will you be?”
“When I’m ready, I’m ready.”
The Courier walks back to the service counter, sure now that Bernie is alone. The pawnbroker appears, wiping his hands on his thighs.
“What can I do for you?”
“I’m looking for a girl called Holly Knight.”
“Never heard of her.”
“That’s a shame.”
The Courier has taken a golf club from a two-toned Slazenger bag in the corner. He holds it in his fists, more like an axe than a seven-iron.
“They’re a fine set of clubs,” says Bernie. “Belonged to a pro golfer who retired.”
“Is that right?”
“You like golf?”
“Not even a little bit.”
The Courier waggles the club.
“Hey, if you’re not into golf, have a look at these.” Bernie opens a drawer full of DVDs. “I got something for every taste in here. Fat Girls. Big tits. Nurses. Maybe you like them young. This isn’t your typical East European shit. It’s American-better production values. No dubbing. They moan in English.”
The visitor doesn’t take his eyes off Bernie. This is weird, thinks the pawnbroker; even the whacked-out crackheads and ice-addicts like porn, but not this guy. Instead he keeps grinning like he’s got dancing monkeys in
