“Why did you stop?”
“I retired.”
“Why did you get tired?”
Ruiz smiles. “I decided to give someone else a turn at being detective.”
“You were sharing?”
“That’s right.”
Rowan sticks his finger through an eyehole, scratching an itch.
“Are you getting a rash again?” asks Elizabeth. “You should take off that mask for a while.”
Rowan shakes his head. “Spiderman never shows his face.”
“Can’t you be Peter Parker today?”
His head shakes again.
“Come on, my little Spider hero-I have some cream upstairs.”
“Superpower cream?”
“Good for defeating rashes.”
Ruiz watches them go and can hear their echoing conversations from a bathroom at the top of the stairs. Moving through the house, he examines the door and window locks, noticing the movement sensors blinking from an upper corner of each ceiling. The alarm was turned off last night. The shattered window had broken the connection. The intruder planned this carefully, watching the house, waiting for Elizabeth and Rowan to be alone. No sign of forced entry. Elizabeth would have locked the doors. Whoever broke into the house could well have had a key.
Ruiz walks into the back garden where the sun shines in a glitter of green. He passes the rose bushes and an old rain barrel beneath a downpipe. In a soggy patch of ground near the paling fence he notices a set of footprints. They are deeper where someone jumped and then paused to stamp them down, smearing mud with his soft shoes. There is also mud on top of the fence. On the far side, beyond a thicket of shrubs and trees, he notices a flash of silver from the railway line.
Returning to the house, he finds Elizabeth upstairs. Rowan is playing with Lego blocks, building cities for Spiderman to protect. She cups her pregnancy in both hands.
“Who has keys to the house?” he asks.
“North. Polina. Me.”
“Polina?”
“Our nanny, but she resigned yesterday.” Elizabeth’s mind starts to wander. “I don’t know what I’m going to do now. She used to look after my brother’s children and Mitchell passed her on to me.”
“Where is Polina’s key?”
“She left it on the mantelpiece.”
Ruiz ponders the timeline. If Elizabeth is right, the only key not in the house belongs to Richard North.
“I found something else this morning,” she says, leading him across the landing.
The folder and sheets of paper are still scattered on the floor of Rowan’s room where she threw them. Crouching clumsily, she tries to collect the pages.
“There was an envelope under Rowan’s mattress. My name was on the front.”
“It was hidden?”
“He must have known I’d find it-either me or Polina.”
Ruiz is reading the handwritten pages. Numbers but no account names. The right-hand column must be amounts, thousands or tens of thousands, unless there are zeroes missing.
“Why would he leave this for you?”
Elizabeth shakes her head.
“I was going to call Bridget Lindop, North’s secretary at the bank. I talked to her last week. She was anxious. Secretive. North told her a terrible thing had happened and it was his fault. He thought the auditors would find out.”
“Have you mentioned this to anyone else?”
“Only my brother.”
Ruiz notices the name and phone number written inside the folder. He goes to the study to use the phone, punching the digits. Speakerphone.
Hello, you’ve reached Keith Gooding at the Financial Herald. I’m not available at present, but leave a name, number and short message and I’ll get back to you.
Ruiz replaces the receiver in the cradle.
“That’s the man who left a message,” says Elizabeth.
“When?”
“It was on the answering machine after North went missing. He said something about rearranging their meeting.”
“You didn’t call him back.”
“I was told not to talk to journalists.” She’s gnawing at her bottom lip, leaving a crimson mark. “We have to call the police. We have to tell them about the girl and the notebook.”
“OK, but first I want to talk to the private detective.”
4
Chalcott is walking uphill on a treadmill with sweat dripping from his nose. He can see an aerobics class through the glass windows of the gym, a young blonde wearing a black leotard and loose vest. She pauses and drinks from a water bottle, her throat moving rhythmically. If only he were twenty years younger, he thinks. Ten would do.
Upping the speed, he begins running, his waistline shifting beneath his T-shirt, bouncing with each stride. He’s concerned about London. Years of planning and millions of dollars are in jeopardy. It was supposed to be a career-defining operation. Pull it off and Arthur Chalcott would be talked about in the same breath as legendary spymasters like Allen Dulles, Miles Copeland and even Markus Wolf. Not household names, but what spies ever are?
September 11 had caught them bare-assed, pants around their ankles. The Cold War had been fought and won, but they didn’t see the next one coming. First they were blamed for supplying bad information; then for not finding Osama bin Laden or predicting the insurgencies. Of course we fucking predicted them, he thinks. Stevie fucking Wonder could have predicted it, but Cheney and the hawks weren’t listening.
For almost a decade the Agency had been scrambling to catch up, while the government prosecuted two wars and spent billions on homeland security. Every success had been short-lived. It was like playing a game of Whac-a-Mole with the “mole” being a skinny, ragged man living in the caves of Tora Bora-the world’s most famous phantom, holed up in a mountain complex built with CIA money back when America was fighting the communists instead of the terrorists.
Chalcott’s phone is buzzing. Slowing the treadmill, he hooks a wireless earpiece over the pink shell of his ear. Recognizes Sobel’s number.
“The police have issued a warrant for Richard North. They think he might have left the country. They’re checking airport car parks and passenger manifests.”
“What about the girl?”
“We’re doing everything we can.”
“That’s so reassuring.”
Sobel doesn’t let the sarcasm distract him. “We think she’s with a psychologist-a friend of the ex-cop.”
“Where is Ruiz now?”
“He’s talking to the banker’s wife.”
“You’re following him?”
