spread out on the kitchen table. Nearby the refrigerator door is open. A milk carton lies on its side and a large tortoiseshell cat licks at the edge of the puddle.
Luca scrambles higher and lowers himself down into the garden. He calls Bridget Lindop’s name. The cat comes to him, weaving figure-of-eights between his legs. In the kitchen he calls out again. The newspaper is a day old. A full cup of tea has grown cold on the table, leaving a milky skin on the surface. Woman’s Hour is playing on the radio.
Luca unlocks the front door. Leaves it open.
“What are you doing?” hisses Daniela. “You can’t just break in.”
“The back door was open. She might be hurt.”
They move through the house going from room to room. The dining area has a display case with more turtles-figurines made of jade, amethyst, quartz and mother of pearl. An oversized couch faces a television in the living room. The coffee table is laden with books on interior design and gourmet food.
“You want to wait here,” says Luca, climbing the stairs. On a landing there is a potted plant that has been knocked over. The damp dark earth has stained the carpet. The main bedroom smells of talcum powder and aromatherapy candles.
There are small signs of a search but none to indicate a struggle. Her jewelry is still on the dressing table along with her purse and her mobile phone. Not a robbery. Not a trip to the shops.
The second bedroom is a sewing room and office. The door is splintered. It was locked. Someone kicked it open from inside.
Luca looks over the banister. “You should come and see this.”
Ruiz pulls into an empty parking space and checks the house numbers. Elizabeth is still pale and shaking beside him. He offered to take her home. She refused.
“Is that the place?”
She nods.
The front door is open. A woman living alone doesn’t leave her door wide open. Ruiz scans the street, studying the cars parked on either side. Across the road is a playground with brightly colored climbing frames and swings. A British Gas van moves slowly past.
He approaches the house from the north side, pauses at the front door, listening. There are voices upstairs. Male and female. American.
Glancing along the hallway, he can see as far as the kitchen where a milk carton lies in a shiny puddle. His fingers slide inside his jacket, finding the butt of the Glock. Four paces. He’s at the bottom of the stairs, looking up, listening.
He climbs, putting as little weight as possible on each step. Eyes up. He can no longer hear their voices, but can feel their presence. He reaches the landing. The main bedroom is on the left, second bedroom on the far right, a bathroom in between. There is a man squatting in the doorway, examining something. A woman is standing beside him, silhouetted against the haze of white light. Both of them turn in unison, looking down the barrel of the Glock.
“Stand up! Hands against the wall!”
“You got this all wrong,” says Luca.
“Shut up!”
Ruiz kicks Luca’s legs apart, using one hand to pat him down-shoulders, chest, back, right leg, left leg.
“Are you a policeman?” asks Daniela.
Ruiz ignores her. “Where’s Bridget Lindop?”
“I don’t know,” says Luca.
“What are you doing in her house?”
“We were looking for her. I’m a journalist.”
“What paper?”
“ Financial Herald.”
Ruiz pushes Daniela hard against the wall.
“I didn’t think British police officers carried guns,” she says.
“That’s an urban myth.”
She lowers her arms. “I don’t think you’re a policeman at all.”
“You want to test that theory?”
She’s a ballbreaker, thinks Ruiz, either crazy-brave or stupid. Her off-sider is more diplomatic. He’s explaining how he found the back door open and thought Miss Lindop might be hurt.
“She’s been gone a while. Her cat hasn’t been fed.”
Elizabeth calls from below. “Is everything all right?”
“I told you to wait in the car,” says Ruiz.
“I heard you talking.”
Elizabeth has reached the landing. “Who are they?”
“They broke in.”
“I didn’t break in,” says Luca. “I’m a reporter.” He takes a moment to recognize Elizabeth-the missing banker’s wife, heavily pregnant. He’s seen her photograph and watched her media appeal. “We were looking for Bridget Lindop. If you call Keith Gooding at the paper he’ll vouch for us.”
That name again.
Ruiz and Elizabeth exchange a glance. At that moment her uterus contracts and she hollows out her cheeks in a whistling intake of breath. Eyes shut, she exhales in shallow puffs, trying to ease the pain.
Daniela glares at Ruiz like he’s personally responsible for making a pregnant woman climb the stairs.
“When are you due?”
“A few weeks.”
“You should sit down.”
Luca points to the broken door. “Someone was locked inside and had to break out.”
Ruiz runs his finger over the splintered frame. It was kicked open. Someone strong did this. A man. A prisoner.
20
Are you going to hypnotize me?”
“No.”
“Then why do I have to lie down?”
“I just want you to be comfortable.”
Holly is dressed in a thin floral-print cotton dress, machine faded, which clings to her body like wet tissue paper. She looks at the bed, which is covered with an old lady bedspread.
“Lie down, close your eyes and relax,” says Joe.
She shoots him a look. “You better not try anything.”
“I’m going to sit over here by the window. I won’t leave this chair.”
Holly stares at the ceiling, which has water stains and a cracked plaster rosette.
“So what is this called if it’s not hypnosis?”
“A cognitive interview.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’m going to take you back to the night you met Richard North. I’m going to ask you lots of questions. Some things you won’t remember. Some things will come back to you.”
“I’ve already told Vincent…”
“We’re going to do it again.”
“I’m hungry.”
