personality.
“Let me tell you a story,” he says finally, as if he’s only just decided to share it. “I’m telling tales out of school, which could get me suspended, but maybe you should be aware of the context.”
“What context?”
“Not ten minutes after I got back to the Yard today, I had a request from the Deputy Commissioner. He wanted to see me in his office. There was someone with him. Said he was from the Home Office. I didn’t catch his name.”
“Douglas Evans?”
“That’s him,” says Campbell. “They had all your Met files. Every bit of paperwork-who you arrested, who you didn’t, every complaint, every mistake. Suspended twice. Dismissed once. Reinstated. Cautioned at least a dozen times. You went AWOL when your first wife died.”
“I don’t need a history lesson.”
“That guy wasn’t Home Office, but somewhere closer to Vauxhall Bridge Road. The spooks are all over you- your phones, your house, your car, they’ve got surveillance teams tracking you 24/7, listening to you crunching your Bran Flakes and taking a crap. You’re out on a limb, Vincent. Isolated. Even your best friends are ducking for cover. Maybe if you could give them this notebook…”
“I don’t know where it is.”
“What about Holly Knight?”
Ruiz doesn’t answer. Campbell gets to his feet again, pacing. Reaching the far wall, he turns, paces again. It’s like watching a duck in a shooting gallery.
“Do you know where she is?”
“You can’t guarantee her safety.”
“And I suppose you can?”
Campbell stares at Ruiz for a long time, but it’s not a tactic or a psychological ploy. He moves across the room to his desk. Opens a drawer. Pulls out a plain white envelope.
“We found this at the back of a filing cabinet in Richard North’s office. The London postmark is dated sixteenth June. No return address.”
Inside the envelope are a dozen photographs of Richard North with a woman who isn’t Elizabeth; a brunette with a model’s cheekbones and a tight body, dressed in jeans and a fitted top. They’re sitting in an outdoor cafe holding hands. Kissing. The trees in the background are bare. The photos were taken in winter with a telephoto lens.
“Who is she?” asks Ruiz.
“Polina Dulsanya.”
“The nanny?”
“SOCO took samples from the house and found semen stains on her sheets. Got a positive match. Richard North was shagging the nanny.”
“It says something about the man.”
“It says he cheats on his wife.”
The two men regard each other as if somehow all men have been diminished by this one act of betrayal.
“We’re looking for the nanny now, but she gave the police a fake address.”
“Does Elizabeth know?” asks Ruiz.
“I thought it could wait.”
“Where is she?”
“I had someone drive her back to her father’s place.”
Ruiz looks at the images again. “Why does someone send photographs like this to Richard North?”
“To warn him off.”
“Or to blackmail him.”
A knock on the door. DI Thompson. He’s wearing his undertaker face. He motions to the commander “Can I talk to you, guv?”
“What is it?”
“They just pulled Richard North’s car out of the River Lea.”
“Any sign of North?”
“Traces of blood.”
Campbell glances at Ruiz, wanting to say so many things.
Instead: “You’re coming with me.”
13
Chalcott is sitting in a business-class seat on the tarmac at JFK, sipping a glass of complimentary champagne. He’s not a happy flyer; hates the rigmarole of security screening, boarding queues and pre-flight safety demonstrations. The only benefit of flying long haul is being forty thousand feet above sea level and out of communication.
Not yet. His mobile is vibrating. London.
“Talk quickly,” he tells Sobel.
“They found North’s car.”
“What about North?”
“Traces of blood but no body.”
“You think he’s dead?”
“We have to consider the possibility.”
Chalcott scoops peanuts into his fist and inhales them between sentences. A stewardess leans over him.
“Excuse me, sir, but all electronic devices must be turned off for take-off.”
Chalcott waves her away. “What about Terracini?”
“He’s being monitored.”
“Has anything else changed?”
“We’re still looking for the girl.”
“Are you a religious man, Brendan?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Maybe you should say a prayer.”
He hangs up. Turns off his phone. Closes his eyes. In seven hours he’ll be in London and he can sort out this mess. So far he’s given his superiors a minimalist rendering of the situation. Two lessons he’s learned from twenty years with the Agency-refuse to recognize anything is amiss and keep your answers short.
Ibrahim is cleaning up. He’s hired himself an assassin, but this hasn’t changed the game. Every side has men who kill for a cause, but it’s easier dealing with a hired gun than a teenager with a hard-on for heavenly virgins and a vest packed full of explosives.
Money or God-some motives are easier to understand.
14
The Financial Herald has floor-to-ceiling glass doors and a marbled lobby fringed with indoor gardens. A lone security guard sits behind a brightly lit island counter. Gooding waves his ID card in front of a scanner and signs
