Elizabeth touches Ruiz’s shoulder. “Don’t tell him about what happened. Not until we’ve talked to the police.”
“Someone broke our window,” Rowan announces breathlessly. “And Mummy slept in my room because of the monsters.”
Bach glances at Elizabeth looking for confirmation and then back at his grandson, who has spotted the Labrador and is squirming to be put down. Soon he’s running across the grass calling Sally’s name.
“Does he ever take off that costume?” asks Bach.
“When he has a bath,” replies Elizabeth.
“I don’t know if it’s a healthy obsession.”
“He doesn’t want to save the world… just his daddy.”
Bach notices Ruiz for the first time.
“This is Vincent Ruiz,” explains Elizabeth. “He’s a former detective.”
Bach shakes hands. He has the sort of handshake and “look-’em-in-the-eyes” attitude that has been practiced in a thousand business meetings.
“What’s this about a broken window?”
“A glazier is coming today,” says Elizabeth, pulling an overnight bag from the boot of the Merc. “I just saw Polina. Was she visiting?”
“She came to see Mitchell.”
“Is he here?”
“Upstairs. He wants to talk to you.”
Elizabeth doesn’t show any emotion. “I thought Rowan and I might stay for a few days,” she says. “If that’s all right.”
“Of course it is.”
He pries Elizabeth’s fingers from the handle of her luggage and carries it inside. She goes through to the sunroom where she can watch Rowan from the French windows and wait for Mitchell to finish his phone call.
Ruiz feels he shouldn’t be here. This is a family matter. He wanders on to the terrace, overlooking the garden where Rowan is throwing a ball for Sally to fetch. Elizabeth and her father are arguing inside. Loud whispers. Pleadings. Recriminations. A door slams and the dog looks up towards the house.
Alistair Bach joins Ruiz on the terrace. He’s carrying two long-necked beer bottles. Imported lager. Cold.
“Thank you for bringing Lizzie.”
“That’s OK.”
Bach’s nostrils swell with air and he looks genuinely unsure of what to do. Like a lot of powerful men, every word he’s ever spoken and every action he’s ever taken has been an attempt to control his environment, but now he’s frustrated by his inability to comfort his daughter.
“Lovely place,” says Ruiz.
“I bought at the right time.”
“When was the right time?”
“The eighties.”
“Early 1800s I might have had a chance.”
Bach chuckles hollowly. “It’s not rocket science.”
“What isn’t?”
“Being a banker.”
Ruiz doesn’t respond.
“You don’t like bankers, do you?” says Bach.
“I don’t know any,” says Ruiz, which is a diplomatic answer. Even before the recession he had never given much thought to whether bankers were the architects of global prosperity or the sackers of civilizations. He had always been more worried about gangbangers dealing crack to black teenagers and bikers selling crystal meth into school playgrounds.
“You don’t like what we represent,” says Bach. “What you perceive we’ve done. You think we’ve caused nothing but grief.”
“I try not to judge people.”
“You’re a lousy liar, Vincent. Once upon a time we were the good guys. People admired us. They wanted to be like us. When Gordon Gekko said, ‘Greed is good,’ people lapped it up. They wanted our Italian silk suits, our Porsches and our penthouse flats. The tabloids wrote stories about East End barrow boys without an O-level who were pulling in six-figure salaries and seven-figure bonuses. We made money. We created jobs. We paid most of your taxes. We turned the City of London into the second biggest financial capital in the world.”
Bach pauses and points to Ruiz’s chest with the neck of his beer bottle. The skin along his hairline is shiny with perspiration.
“Do you own a house, Vincent?”
“Yes.”
“Has it doubled in value? Trebled?”
“I’ve done OK.”
“More than OK, I’d say. You should thank bankers for that. All that wealth we created had a knock-on effect on property prices. Ordinary guys like you, living in suburbia, became millionaires because of what we did. You bought houses and sat back and watched the values rise. You thought you were geniuses. You thought it was down to you.”
Bach looks at the recently hoed garden. He did the work himself, churning the soil until his shirt was soaked in sweat, working through the heat of the day as though avenging himself. He sucks air through his nose and spits into the garden.
“Then it all fell apart,” he says, “the meltdown, the credit crunch, the global financial crisis. People panicked. They wanted out. They cashed in their investments, withdrew their money, and it all came crashing down. They squealed when governments bailed out the banks with taxpayer funds. Hated us even more. But none of them realized how those funds were also propping up their property prices and their jobs and the glorious consumer bubble they had grown to know and love.
“They blamed the bankers. They wanted us put in jail. They wanted to curb our bonuses and tax our salaries. But the only way America and Britain and Europe are getting out of this mess is if the banks recapitalize. And the only way taxpayers are getting their money back is if banks do what they do best. Trade. Hedge. Lend. Make profits.
“People might hate us, Vincent, but you need us. And when things turn around, when things pick up, when wealth returns, they’ll want to be just like us again. They’ll want what we have.”
His face flexes in an idle thought, as though an annoying insect has buzzed across his field of vision. Then he looks back towards the house, thinking of Elizabeth.
“Why are you doing this?” he asks.
“I’m trying to help.”
“In my experience, Vincent, most people don’t do anything unless they see something in it for themselves.” He looks at Ruiz for a long moment. “Why don’t you leave this alone and let my daughter get some rest? She’s about to have a baby.”
Never blinking, he raises the bottle to his lips and drinks it dry.
Inside the house Mitchell Bach has finished his phone call and comes sweeping into the sunroom, calling for “Lizzie.” Kissing both her cheeks. Keeping his hands on her shoulders. “I’m so sorry,” he says. “I should have called you. It was stupid. Thoughtless.” He leads her to a chair, insisting she sit down. He kneels, not wanting to break physical contact.
“I hear the reporters have been giving you a tough time. They’re all shits. I wish someone would doorstep them for a change. We should rent a mob and send them around to the editors’ houses. I bet they’ve all got mistresses or rent boys in the closet.”
Mitchell looks for agreement, but Elizabeth isn’t about to let him change the subject.
“Why was North so worried about some of the transactions?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“Not to me.”
