“I can’t imagine a banker being the sort who would torture someone. It takes a very special individual to rip off pieces of flesh with a set of pliers.”
“I take it you mean ‘special’ in a negative way.”
“A psychopath or someone wired to the eyeballs.”
“Maybe the guy had a meltdown.”
“Over what?”
“Embezzling funds. Laundering money. Something illegal.”
“That still doesn’t explain why everyone is so interested in finding Holly Knight. What did they steal?”
“Good question.”
“She must have some idea.”
“Maybe it’s not obvious. Maybe she doesn’t know.”
The two men drink in silence, contemplating the path ahead. Ruiz raises his glass and works his throat, wipes his lips, belches quietly.
“I want you to look after her.”
“Me?”
“My phones are being tapped and they’re following me, so you might have to keep her safe.”
“Where is she?”
“A tourist hotel in Bayswater.” Ruiz scratches at his jaw, making a sandpaper sound. “You should talk to her. Do that thing you do.”
“What thing?”
“The mental picturing.”
“A cognitive interview?”
“That’s it. Find out what she can’t remember. If she’s hiding something.” Ruiz glances at a kissing couple. One of the bridesmaids is giving mouth-to-mouth to her boyfriend. “You can’t go home to Rainville Road. Stay at the hotel with Holly. Do you have any cash?”
“A little.”
“Find a hole in the wall and get cashed up. After that don’t use credit or debit cards. Cabs rather than public transport. No Oyster cards.”
“Is all that really necessary?”
“They’re trying to get to Holly through me and they’ll know about you soon enough.”
Ruiz still has the professor’s mobile. He removes the SIM card and hands it back.
“How do I contact you?”
Ruiz scrawls a phone number on the back of a business card. “You call and leave a message with Capable Jones. Use a public call box well away from the hotel. Don’t use my name on an open connection or the computers will kick in. Don’t stay too long on the line.”
“Now you’re starting to scare me.”
“It’s going to be fine. I’m just thinking ahead.”
“I hear that great chess players can think five moves ahead.”
“I’m not a great chess player.”
“How many moves ahead are you?”
“One.”
“That doesn’t seem like enough.”
“It is when it’s the right one.”
28
Late evening, the weather has turned. Wind thrashes branches against the sides of houses and rattles rain against the windows. Keeping to the shadows, he approaches the house from the darkest end of the street, using the trees to shield himself. Rain sluices off the brim of his baseball cap as he studies the rear facade, noticing the downpipes and windows. There is a light on in the upstairs bathroom, a woman moving behind the frosted glass. Steam rolling across the light, fogging the mirror, condensing on the tiles.
Leaves cling to his wet shoulders, making him look like an extension of the hedge, more plant than animal, more animal than human. He doesn’t like the set-up. He prefers long-range targets viewed through the scope of a rifle.
She has read her little boy a story. Put him to bed. Brought him a glass of water.
Peering through a downstairs window, he looks for the security panel on the wall. It’s not armed. The broken window did its job.
Gloves on. The key. Upstairs.
Elizabeth soaks in the bath, her eyes closed, her head resting on a towel. She hears something outside and holds herself, listening. The wind and rain are like watery insects in her ears. A car engine starts then disappears down the street.
When the water begins to cool she pushes herself up, wrapping a robe around her body. She pauses at the fogged mirror, rubbing a hole to examine her face. There are lines she hasn’t noticed before. Delicate cracks like soft pencil marks.
Pulling on a nightdress, she crawls into bed, asleep almost immediately, dreaming she can feel North’s warm body next to her. In the early years of their marriage, before Rowan was born, North would sometimes wake her in the middle of the night, kissing her nipples and stroking her stomach and thighs. She would moan and smile with drowsy expectation, her legs opening almost instinctively.
At some point she wakes. The wind seems to breathe through the upper windows, locked open a few inches to create a cross draught. Rowan is snuffling on the monitor. He snores like his father, only softer.
“Hello, Elizabeth,” rasps a voice.
Her eyes are wide open now. She looks around the room.
“Can you hear me?”
It’s coming from the monitor; from lips pressed against the plastic microphone.
“Such a fine-looking boy, he sleeps so peacefully.”
Out of bed she crosses the floor, running along the corridor. Rowan’s bedroom door is open. The nightlight casts a soft yellow halo. Her eyes search for him. They open to someone else.
A gloved hand covers her mouth and nose, warm and hard against her lips and teeth. He wrenches her head back into his own, drawing her body into his loins, a belt buckle hard-edged against the small of her back, his unshaved jaw scraping like emery paper across her cheek.
He drags her along the corridor into the darkness of her bedroom, throwing her on to the mattress, where he presses the gun to her temple.
Elizabeth pulls the bedclothes around her.
“Please don’t hurt us. Take whatever you want. My purse is over there, but I don’t have any money.”
“You utter another sound and you die here and now.”
She nods. The cold ring of steel is pressed above her left eye. His face is covered in a handkerchief like a cowboy. His sodden black shirt is molded to his chest.
He twists the gun into her temple. “Who else is in the house?”
“Nobody.”
He presses the barrel to her mouth, forcing it between her lips, into her throat, making her gag.
“Who else is in the house?”
Her lips move around the barrel. She shakes her head, pleading with her eyes.
Pulling the gun free, he wipes the barrel on the bedding.
“Are you afraid?” he asks.
“Yes.”
