Mitchell contemplates the question, as though wrestling with bad news.
“I hate to say this, Lizzie, but the last time I spoke to North he was quite hostile to me. He was spouting conspiracy theories and making all sorts of wild claims about secret transfers and hidden accounts. I told him to put together a report, but he said he didn’t trust anyone at the bank.”
“When was this?”
“About a week before he went missing. He drank almost two bottles of wine at lunch. He was a mess. Making ridiculous statements. Sounding paranoid.”
Elizabeth knows these descriptions aren’t fabrications. They are carefully chosen statements that are distorted through the lens of self-interest until facts become slurs but still look like facts. North’s reputation is being artfully dismantled, taken apart piece by piece.
A wave of nausea seizes her. She wants to argue. Defend him. A wife’s belief should be enough. Bracing her hands on each side of the armchair, she raises herself up. One hand automatically cups her pregnancy, as though reassuring Claudia that she’s in control.
“You’re a shit, you know that? You’ve always been a shit.”
Mitchell lets her go.
Ruiz and Alistair are still in the garden when Elizabeth emerges from the house. She has fixed her make-up and brushed her hair, pulling it back from her face with a hairband. She has also changed her clothes and is dressed in a high-necked white blouse that makes her look like a pregnant choirgirl. The angel waif. With all the detachment of someone who has witnessed a car wreck, she tells her father she needs him to look after Rowan for a few hours.
“Where are you going?”
“To see Mr. Hackett.”
Bach presses his thumbs against his closed lids, his hands holding his forehead. “I don’t think you should get involved, Lizzie.”
“I am involved, Daddy.”
8
Bernie Levinson isn’t at the pawnshop. One of the machinists from the factory downstairs says Bernie lunches at his club every day-an all-hours drinking hole in the shadows of Spitalfields Market. “Hole” being the optimum word. Darker than a cave, the only light comes from a neon advertising sign above the bar and the copper lamps on the tables. No windows. No clocks. Time doesn’t matter in a place like this. Life is put in abeyance, chemically or alcoholically.
The barman is young, good-looking, dressed in a black T-shirt and Levi’s. Eyes only for Holly. “What can I get you?”
“Mineral water.”
“That’s not a real drink.”
“Alcohol goes straight to my head. Makes me do dangerous things.”
She’s flirting. He’s hooked.
“Is Bernie about?”
“Why do you want Bernie?”
“He promised to look after me.”
“I could do that.”
“Maybe later.”
The barman points across the warped wooden floor that is dotted with old cigarette burns. Up a handful of stairs there is a raised restaurant area with private booths. Only one of them is occupied. Bernie Levinson is sitting by himself, a serviette tucked into his collar, dipping bread into a broken piecrust.
Holly takes her glass of water to a table near the fire doors where Joe O’Loughlin is waiting.
“He’s here. Maybe I should talk to him first,” she says. “You might make him nervous.”
“You’re mistaking me for Ruiz.”
“OK then.”
They cross the floor and climb the stairs, slipping into the bench seat opposite Bernie. The pawnbroker grimaces at the sight of Holly as though something has given him heartburn or blocked his colon. Then he looks at the professor. “Who the fuck are you?”
“Joe O’Loughlin. I’m a friend of Holly.”
Bernie ignores his outstretched hand and goes back to eating, keeping both elbows on the table.
“That stuff I brought you, Bernie. I need it back,” says Holly.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The nice leather briefcase and the laptop.”
“Huh?”
“This isn’t a set-up, Bernie. I’m not wearing a wire. See?” Holly lifts her top, showing her pale stomach and light blue bra. She turns left and right, showing her back. Bernie waves his hand dismissively.
“How do I know you’re not wearing a wire down there?” He points to her jeans.
“You’ll have to take my word for it.”
“ Your word!” He laughs.
“I just want the stuff. I know you haven’t sold it.”
Bernie covers his ears. “I’m not listening.”
Joe notices the enlarged tips of his fingers and nail clubbing, which suggest low oxygen levels in his blood and congenital heart disease. Mid-fifties, overweight, a signet ring on the little finger of his right hand, a plain wedding band on his left; married, children most likely. Bernie puts down his knife and fork and pats the breast pocket of his coat. There’s something important inside. Not a weapon. Not a mobile phone. Medication.
“Someone killed Zac,” says Holly.
Bernie searches her face, looking for a lie. He shakes his head, wobbling his chins. “Oh, no, no, no, I’m not involved in this shit. I’m just a businessman. I buy things. I sell things.” He’s addressing Joe now, trying to convince him. “I run a family business. My grandfather. My father…”
Bernie has taken a phone from his pocket and placed it on the seat beside him. The screen is lit up. He’s calling someone… sending a message.
“We just want the stuff back,” says Holly. “We’ll pay you the money.”
Bernie’s lips peel away from his teeth. “Let me get this straight. You came to me with certain items-which, by the way, I had no idea were stolen-and you sold me these items in good faith, but now you want them back?”
Holly nods.
“That suggests to me that someone has made you a better offer. Maybe I should negotiate with them directly.”
“It’s not a question of money.”
“In my experience, it’s always a question of money. What’s this item that’s so valuable?”
“We’re not sure,” says Joe.
“You’re not sure?”
“Holly is hoping she’ll know it when she sees it.”
Bernie laughs but it turns into a coughing fit. Tugging his serviette from his collar, he tosses it on his plate and calls for the bill. Beneath the table, Holly’s hand touches Joe’s thigh. She leans closer, cupping his ear.
“Something isn’t right,” she whispers.
“What do you mean?”
“He’s lying.”
Joe glances at Bernie, who is peeling off two ten-pound notes.
