gearbox.
Heads turn as she pulls into the car wash. The young cleaners admire the car, wondering if the driver is equally sexy. They see her pregnancy and go back to their buckets and sponges.
Ordering a coffee, Elizabeth sits at a table by the window, pretending to browse through a magazine. After a few minutes she goes to the ladies and finds the fire door. Pushing it open, she steps outside, skirting rubbish bins and parked cars, wishing she’d worn more practical shoes.
Ruiz is waiting at the end of the alley.
“Do you have your mobile?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“You should turn it off. People are following me. They might also be following you.”
Elizabeth stops walking. “Did you talk to Holly Knight? Does she have the notebook?”
“We’ll talk in the car.”
“I want to meet her.”
“That’s not going to help.”
“I want to know what they talked about; what North said to her. Did he talk about me? Did she know he was married?”
“Holly didn’t start all this. She’s not the cause of North’s problems-you know that.”
They’re arguing on the street-a heavily pregnant woman and a man old enough to be her father. Ruiz puts his hands on the small of her back, steering her towards the door. Elizabeth stands her ground.
“Don’t treat me like a child. You have no stake in this.”
Ruiz stops. Holds up his hands. “You’re right. I don’t have to be here. It’s not my problem. I should go home.”
The harshness in his tone takes Elizabeth by surprise. She apologizes and gets in the car, letting Ruiz adjust her seat belt.
“They found North’s car,” she says, trying to explain. “They don’t know if he’s…” She can’t finish the sentence. Instead she grimaces and her body folds forward over the seat belt. A cramp. A contraction. She takes short breaths until the pain eases.
“How often is it happening?”
“It’s not a real contraction, only pressure pains.”
“When was the last time you saw a doctor?”
“I’m fine.”
They drive in silence across North London, taking the North Circular through Golders Green, past Brent Cross and down Hanger Lane and Gunnersbury Avenue into Chiswick.
“The photographs that Colin Hackett took-who did you show them to?”
“The police… my father… Yahya Maluk.”
“Anyone else?”
“I don’t think so.”
Ruiz changes the subject. “Can I ask you something? Your nanny… Polina.”
Elizabeth stops picking at her nail polish. “What about her?”
“Why did she leave?”
Elizabeth lifts one shoulder and drops it again. “It was all too chaotic… North had gone missing, the media were camped outside, the phone always ringing…”
“How did you come to hire her?”
“She was working for my brother and his wife. Mitchell and Inga’s children had started school. My need was greater.”
“When did she start?”
“Eight months ago.” Elizabeth has turned to look directly at Ruiz, whose eyes stay on the road. “Why are you so interested in Polina?”
He doesn’t answer.
“What is it?” she asks again.
“Nothing.”
“Tell me.”
“It’s not my place.”
“What sort of answer is that? I’m sick of people keeping secrets or telling me lies or tiptoeing around me like I’m going to break if they make a loud noise. My husband lied to me. He kept secrets. Maybe he broke the law. If you’re not going to tell me the truth, you can stop the car and let me out here.”
They’re in Chiswick, close to Bridget Lindop’s house.
“How did your husband get on with Polina?” asks Ruiz.
Elizabeth narrows her eyes. Her mouth opens but no sound emerges. She is focused on something miles away that seems to be coming closer, getting larger, like a speeding freight train.
“The police found semen stains in Polina’s bedroom,” says Ruiz. “They matched the DNA to your husband. Maybe you accidentally swapped sheets.”
“Polina’s bed is a single,” says Elizabeth.
For a moment Ruiz thinks she’s missed the point, but Elizabeth knows exactly what she’s being told. Brash, seductive, hungry Polina with her graceful body, textbook English and strangely beautiful, heavy-lidded eyes had been sleeping with North. She had ironed his shirts and folded his socks and serviced him in other ways.
Reaching back through her memories of the previous months, Elizabeth searches for evidence: North’s hand brushing Polina’s hip as he squeezed past the ironing board; another on her shoulder as he reached past her for a mug. He would tease Polina about her accent, or stay up late to watch a movie with her, or laugh at some private joke that Elizabeth could never quite understand.
Polina had denied seeing North that Friday when Colin Hackett followed him back to the house. They were three hours together. Alone.
For a moment Elizabeth’s courage seems to fail and she coughs as though she’s inhaled something toxic and has to clear out her lungs. Ruiz pulls over and opens the door. She leans out, her innards heaving. Gagging. Retching. He holds back her hair as she vomits into the gutter.
No words for her.
19
The corner house is a two-storey terrace with parrot-green window frames and flower boxes full of summer annuals. Nobody answers the turtle doorknocker. Another turtle peeks from the garden bed and a third has a metal frame for scraping mud from boots.
Luca knocks again. He crouches and opens the letterbox, peering along a hallway.
“Miss Lindop,” he calls. Listens. Nothing. She’s not at work. He phoned her office.
“Maybe she’s gone out for a while,” says Daniela, glancing up at the first floor. Luca goes to the front window and presses his face to the glass, looking through a crack in the curtains. He can see a thin strip of polished floor and an oriental rug. More turtles are visible on a mantelpiece.
“You wait here,” he tells Daniela.
“Where are you going?”
“To check out the back.”
The terrace is on a corner with one boundary on a different street. There is a garage with a raised roller door and a small Fiat hatchback parked inside. Luca tries the internal door. Locked.
Retracing his steps, he stares at the garden wall, judging the height. He runs and jumps, gripping the top of the wall and scrambling up, scraping his shoes on the painted bricks as he tries to get purchase. On his elbows, peering into the small neat garden, he can see the back of the house. The rear sliding door is open; a newspaper is
