notices Elizabeth’s pregnancy and is trying to place Luca and Ruiz in the picture as either a husband or a father.

Elizabeth speaks. “I’m looking for Bridget Lindop. I know she comes here.”

“What makes you sure she’s here now?”

“Is she?”

“I’m not in a position to discuss-”

Elizabeth interrupts him. “I’m sorry, Father, but they found my husband’s car in a river last night. Some people think he’s dead. Some think he stole a lot of money. I have a little boy at home… a girl coming. Please don’t lie to me or treat me like an idiot.”

Father Michael passes his hand over his jaw. Before he can answer there is a movement from deeper in the church. Bridget Lindop emerges from the shadows where she’s been kneeling in prayer.

The two women embrace. Elizabeth’s shoulders are shaking, but there are no tears. This is an English middle-class grief. Reserved. Contained. They sit down, holding hands, their knees touching, as though drawing strength from each other. Miss Lindop’s dress has a ruffled collar that has collapsed like a chain of wilting flowers around her neck.

Father Michael offers to make tea. He and Luca retreat to the sacristy.

“I come here every day,” says Miss Lindop. “Father Michael gives me chores to do.”

“We’ve been to your house,” says Ruiz.

“Is Tinker all right? I’ve been worried about him. I didn’t leave him any milk.”

“He found some,” says Ruiz.

“Did he open the fridge again? He’s learned how to do that. He’s very cheeky.”

“He’s very fat,” adds Ruiz.

Miss Lindop stiffens, less than impressed. “He’s not fat. He’s big boned.” She turns away from him and seems to be talking to the shadows. “A man came and said he was a detective. I asked to see his badge and he held something up in front of the peephole, but it was too quick for me to read. He knew about you being pregnant, Lizzie, and about your little boy, so I let him in.”

“What did he look like?” asks Ruiz.

“Dark hair. Medium height. Foreign looking. I couldn’t place his accent. There was something different about him. His eyes. Something cruel. It was like he hated being in his own skin.”

Ruiz presses her again, wanting more detail, but she gives him a disapproving scowl. “I don’t have a photographic memory, sir.”

He apologizes. “What did this man want?”

“Mr. North had a small Moleskine notebook about this big. It was black with an elastic strap.” She uses her fingers to show the dimensions.

“What was in it?”

“Lists of some kind.”

“Lists?”

Miss Lindop cocks her head to one side. Her opinion of Ruiz isn’t improving because he keeps repeating things that she’s said.

Luca and Father Michael have returned with a tray of mugs. Miss Lindop delves into her bag and produces a small pillbox of saccharine tablets. She smiles at Luca, perhaps imagining having a son his age.

“North was always scribbling notes,” she says, “but he stopped whenever I walked in.”

“This man that came to your house-did he say anything else?”

Miss Lindop gazes sadly at Elizabeth. “He said Mr. North was sleeping with someone. He wanted to find her.

“I called him a liar and said Richard was a good husband and father, but the man just laughed.”

“Did he mention a name?” asks Elizabeth.

Miss Lindop hesitates, not wanting to inflict more heartache.

“What name?”

“Polina.”

Ruiz checks himself. How did this man know about North and the nanny? The police only made the connection in the past twenty-four hours. At some point during the winter, somebody photographed North and Polina together at a cafe. The images were sent to him as a warning or a threat.

“The man wanted an address for Polina,” says Miss Lindop. “I told him that I might have one upstairs. I thought if I could distract him I could use the phone and call the police. But he followed me.”

“How did you get away?” asks Luca.

“He was searching the spare bedroom when I locked him inside.” She looks at her hands. “He was yelling terrible things and kicking at the door, but I ran… I have a bicycle; I know the cycle paths and shortcuts. I can pedal pretty fast for someone my age.”

Behind them a door opens and an elderly man in a homburg dips his hand in the holy water, making a sign of the cross, before taking a seat in the shadows. Kneeling. Praying.

“Why didn’t you call the police?” asks Luca.

Miss Lindop frowns. “Afterwards, I thought maybe he was a detective and I was going to be in trouble for locking him up. I didn’t go to work today. It’s the first day I’ve missed in eight years, but ever since Mr. North went missing I’ve had nothing to do. They took everything away.”

“The police?”

“The lawyers. They went over his appointments book and diary, wanting to know who he spoke to and where he went…” She glances at Luca. “They asked me about a journalist: Keith Gooding. Is that you?”

“A friend of mine.”

“They wanted to know if Mr. North had ever spoken to him.”

“What did you say?”

“I had no idea. I don’t think so. Then they made me sign a confidentiality document. They said I’d go to prison if I talked to anyone. Am I going to get into trouble?”

“No,” says Ruiz.

Elizabeth squeezes the older woman’s hand, surprised at the shallowness of her own grief. Ruiz glances over his shoulder. The man praying in the rear pew has gone. The church is empty again.

Outside the sun is coming and going, giving little warmth. Ruiz pauses on the pavement. Ponders his next move. Every new detail comes back to the notebook. The murder of Zac Osborne. The break-in at Elizabeth’s house. The search for Holly Knight. Richard North had been investigating certain accounts, according to his secretary. That was his job as a compliance officer, but these inquiries were private. Hidden.

Elizabeth lets out a cry of pain and muffles the sound with her fist. Another contraction, this one is real. It forces her to lean back, legs splayed slightly, trying to take pressure off her cervix.

“How often are they coming?” asks Ruiz.

“I don’t know.”

“Since the last one?”

“Ten minutes maybe.”

Ruiz holds his hand to her forehead. “You’re burning up.”

“I’m fine. Claudia isn’t due for three weeks.”

“I don’t think Claudia is going to wait.”

Chelsea and Westminster Hospital is less than fifteen minutes away. Ruiz parks and waits as Elizabeth fills in a form and changes into a hospital gown. A midwife is summoned, bell-shaped with blue trousers and a white blouse. Ruiz feels clumsy and out of place.

“I can wait outside,” he says, fidgeting with his car keys. “Is there someone I can call?”

“You can give me my phone back,” says Elizabeth, who is sitting on the bed, her knees together and hands flat on the mattress. Ruiz puts the SIM card in her mobile.

“How long since you’ve been in a place like this?” she asks.

“Thirty-two years. My wife was having twins. They wouldn’t let me stay. Not that I minded. I didn’t really want to see the business end of things.”

“The business end?”

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