I don’t have the answers. Softell glances at Billy Marsh. There is a beat of silence and something invisible passes between them.
“Why didn’t you report any of this earlier?”
“I couldn’t be sure.”
“So you went looking for evidence. You broke into the house.”
“No.”
“Then you tried to cover your tracks with a can of lighter fluid and a cock-’n’-bull story.”
“Not true.”
Ruiz is nearby, clenching and unclenching his fists. For the first time I notice how old he looks in a shapeless overcoat, worn smooth at the elbows.
“Hey, Detective Sergeant, I know what you’re thinking,” he says. “You want some kitchen-sink, bog-standard example of foul play you can solve by nine o’clock and still make your ballet lesson. This is one of your colleagues, one of your own. Your job is to believe her.”
Softell puffs up, too stupid to keep his mouth shut. “And who do you think you are?”
“Godzilla.”
“Who?”
Ruiz rolls his eyes. “I’m the monster that’s going to stomp all over your fucking career if you don’t pay this lady some respect.”
Softell looks like he’s been bitch-slapped. He takes out his mobile and punches in a number. I overhear him talking to his superintendent. I don’t know what he’s told. Ruiz still has a lot of friends in the Met, people who respect what he’s done.
When the call finishes Softell is a chastened man. A task force investigation has been authorized and a warrant issued for the arrest of Brendan Pearl.
“I want you at the station by midday to make a statement,” he says.
“I can go?”
“Yeah.”
Ruiz won’t let me drive. He takes me home in my car. Squeezed behind the wheel of my hatchback, he looks like a geriatric Noddy.
“Was it Pearl?”
“Yes.”
“Did you see him?”
“Yes.”
Taking one hand off the wheel, he scratches his chin. His ring finger is severed below the first knuckle, courtesy of a high-velocity bullet. He likes to tell people his third wife attacked him with a meat cleaver.
I tell Ruiz about the boarding passes and the brochure for the New Life Adoption Center. We both know stories about stolen and trafficked babies. Most stray into the realm of urban myth—baby farms in Guatemala and runaways snatched from the streets of Sao Paulo for organ harvesting.
“Let’s just say you’re right and Cate Beaumont organized some sort of private adoption or to buy a baby. Why go through the pretense of pregnancy?”
“Perhaps she wanted to convince Felix the baby was his.”
“That’s a pretty ambitious goal. What if the kid looks nothing like him?”
“A lot of husbands are happy to
Ruiz raises an eyebrow. “You mean lies.”
I rise to the bait. “Yes, women can be devious. Sometimes we have to be. We’re the ones who get left changing nappies when some bloke decides he’s not ready to commit or to get rid of his Harley or his porn collection.”
Silence.
“Did that sound like a rant?” I ask.
“A little.”
“Sorry.”
Ruiz begins thinking out loud, trawling through his memory. That’s the thing about the DI—nothing is ever forgotten. Other people grimace and curse, trying to summon up the simplest details but Ruiz does it effortlessly, recalling facts, figures, quotes and names.
“Three years ago the Italian police smashed a ring of Ukrainian human traffickers who were trying to sell an unborn baby. They ran a kind of auction looking for the highest bidder. Someone offered to pay ?250,000.”
“Cate traveled to Amsterdam in February. She could have arranged a deal.”
“Alone?”
“I don’t know.”
“How did they communicate with her?”
I think back to the fire. “We might never know.”
He drops me home and arranges to meet me in the morning.
“You should see an eye specialist.”
“First I have to make a statement.”
Upstairs, I pull the phone jack from the wall and turn off my mobile. I have talked to enough people today. I want a shower and a warm bed. I want to cry into a pillow and fall asleep. A girl should be allowed.
13
Wembley Police Station is a brand-new building decked in blue and white on the Harrow Road. The new national stadium is almost a mile away with soaring light towers visible above the rooftops.
Softell keeps me waiting before taking my statement. His attitude has changed since last night. He has looked up Pearl on the computer and the interest sparks in his eyes like a gas ring igniting. Softell is the sort of detective who goes through an entire career with his head under his armpit, not understanding people’s motives or making any headline arrests. Now he can sense an opportunity.
The deaths of Cate and Felix Beaumont are a side issue. A distraction. I can see what he’s going to do: he’ll dismiss Cate as a desperate woman with a history of psychiatric problems and a criminal record. Pearl is the man he wants.
“You have no evidence a baby ever existed,” he says.
“What about the missing money?”
“Someone probably ripped her off.”
“And then killed her.”
“Not according to the vehicle accident report.”
Softell hands me a typed statement. I have to sign each page and initial any changes. I look at my words. I have lied about why I was at the house and what happened before the fire. Does my signature make it worse?
Taking back the statement, he straightens the pages and punches the stapler. “Very fucking professional,” he sneers. “You know it never stops—the lying. Once you start it just keeps getting worse.”
“Yeah, well, you’d know,” I say, wishing I could think of a put-down that wasn’t so lame. Mostly, I wish I could tear up the statement and start again.
Ruiz is waiting for me in the foyer.
“How’s the eye?”
“The specialist said I should wear an eye patch for a week.”
“So where is it?”
“In my pocket.”
Stepping on a black rubber square, the doors open automatically.
“Your boyfriend has called six times in the last hour. Ever thought of getting a dog instead?”
“What did you tell him?”
