Ruiz rubs his jaw. He needs a shave. He should have bought a razor as well as a toothbrush. Sitting on the side of the bed in his underwear, he props his forearms on his thighs.
The two men recount their yesterdays. Ruiz tells him about Elizabeth North’s photographs and Colin Hackett’s murder; worlds within worlds, bleeding into each other. Joe has a way of listening that encourages people to add the small details, but doesn’t judge the story or the way it’s being told.
“How’s Holly?” asks Ruiz.
“Demanding. Bored. Monosyllabic. It’s like being at home with my own teenage daughter.”
“Charlie is still a princess.”
“To you maybe.”
“Where is Holly now?”
“Watching DVDs in her room. She’s very fond of you-she keeps asking me questions.”
“What sort of questions?”
“She says you’re the saddest person she’s ever met.”
The statement rattles something inside Ruiz, but he refuses to let it show. He opens the curtains. A wind sweeps wetly through the trees and a damp sunlight glistens from the leaves.
“You were supposed to be finding stuff out about her.”
“I think I know why she doesn’t trust the police.”
Ruiz looks over his shoulder, waiting for the rest.
“Remember I told you about the rape allegation. It involved a twenty-year-old engineering student who she met at a party in Hounslow. The rape was supported by forensic evidence-semen and vaginal tearing-but the CPS didn’t proceed.”
“What happened?”
“Holly’s alleged rapist was the son of a senior police officer. He claimed she consented and had begged for rough sex. He produced a dozen witnesses who said Holly had initiated the encounter. His lawyers dragged up Holly’s juvenile record-the fire at her foster home. She was considered to be unstable. An unreliable witness.”
“She was shafted.”
“Poor choice of words.”
Ruiz showers and puts on the same clothes. He rubs a bar of soap beneath the arms of his shirt, trying to neutralize the odor.
Ever since he met Holly Knight, he’s been clinging to the belief that he would find someone who could answer her questions. Either that or the facts would be dragged to the surface until he had enough to form a picture. He was prepared to be patient, ignoring the background “noise,” but the mystery had merely deepened.
Joe is still sitting by the window.
“I asked Holly about the notebook. She can’t remember it.”
“Maybe you should ask her again.”
Ruiz picks up the bedside phone and punches a number.
“Capable.”
“Mr. Ruiz.”
“Don’t use my name. What have you got for me?”
Capable begins explaining how he accessed the computer records, circumventing firewalls and piggybacking from one database to the next. Ruiz interrupts. “I don’t care how you did it, Capable. That’s like wanting to know what my butcher puts in his sausages.”
“Huh?”
“I’m in a hurry. What about my mobile?”
“Oh. Right. I traced the blue Audi to a basement garage in an office block near Tower Bridge. Serviced offices. Ten floors. The parking space is reserved for a company that doesn’t put its name on the board in the foyer. It has unlisted numbers and a high-speed broadband connection. Serious firewall protection.”
“How many employees?
“No way of telling.” Capable is tapping at a keyboard. “I managed to get into the garage. The Audi had a service sticker on the windscreen. A dealership in West London does the work.
“The Audi has false plates, but the chassis number was sold to a dealer in Watford in 2009. Then it was leased to a private company in London that quoted a non-existent VAT number. I’ve been through Companies House. It was a shelf company set up in the mid-nineties by a firm of accountants in Hampstead. The company was first registered in July 1997. Listed as an IT security operation. It’s the affiliate of a Washington-based company called Holyrod Limited. The company director is listed as an Andrew Broderick who works for a law firm in Washington. Four identical Audis are listed at the same office address. The bills are paid on a company credit card owned by a Brendan Sobel.”
“He got a private address?
“Not that I can find.”
“OK,” says Ruiz. “I need another favor. Get a list of restaurants in the area. See if they take bookings from a Brendan Sobel.”
“You think he dines out?”
“The man has to eat.”
Walking as far as the Edgware Road, Ruiz finds a florist near the tube station. The bunch of flowers costs him twenty-five quid with a card in plain white envelope. He pays cash and is very specific about the delivery instructions to an address in Hampstead. Mrs. Elizabeth North must sign for the flowers personally. Nobody else.
He takes a moment to compose a message.
Elizabeth,
I need you to trust me. Find an excuse to leave the house. Be aware that you may be followed. There is a car wash on Archway Road in Haringey. Ask for a wash and wax. Go inside and order a coffee. After five minutes get up and go to the ladies. There is a fire door. I’ll be waiting for you.
Ruiz
PS Don’t tell anybody about this.
18
Elizabeth can hear her father arguing with someone over the intercom. A van is parked at the gates, visible on the CCTV camera. The driver is holding a bunch of flowers.
“How do I know you’re not a reporter?” asks Bach.
“Because I’m not,” says the driver, who looks bemused rather than frustrated. “The flowers are for Mrs. Elizabeth North.”
“Who sent them?”
“I don’t know. I just deliver them. I don’t grow them. I don’t pick them. I just deliver them.”
Elizabeth interrupts. “Let him in, Daddy. He’s just doing his job.”
She meets the driver at the front door with her father hovering. Then she puts the blooms in the kitchen sink. Reads the card.
“Who are they from?”
“Mitchell,” she lies.
“Is he apologizing?”
“Yes.”
Afterwards she borrows Jacinta’s car, not the matching Mercedes, but a low-slung Japanese sporty number with sleek lines, minimal headroom and a surfeit of horsepower. If ever a car suited her stepmother… Squeezing behind the wheel, she has to adjust the seat to give Claudia some room. The indicators are on the opposite side and she hasn’t driven a manual in years, but she makes the journey without destroying the clutch or the
