The Wreckage

20

The TV lights leave white spots swimming behind Elizabeth’s eyelids. She tries to blink them away, but the cameras are recording every twitch and grimace. She reaches for a glass of water. A few droplets spill, beading like mercury on the smooth table. She wipes up the water with her sleeve, worried it might leave a mark.

Campbell Smith whispers in her ear. “I’ll give you the signal. Then you just read the statement.”

All the seats are taken. It’s standing room only in the briefing room at New Scotland Yard. The TV cameras are at the back; press photographers at the front. Radio microphones hooked up to the feed.

The police have talked Elizabeth into this-an emotional plea from a pregnant wife to her husband. Not running. Missing. She said no at first, afraid of the publicity. The shame. The thought of people recognizing her in the street, whispering, pointing; not just her neighbors and friends, but the mothers at Rowan’s nursery and in her Pilates class or complete strangers passing her in supermarket aisles. Then she realized that she couldn’t care less about what people thought.

Speaking with deliberate slowness, Campbell Smith calls for order. Waits. Elizabeth seems to be growing smaller beside him.

“As of 1200 hours today a warrant was issued for the arrest of Richard North. Interpol has also been advised and we’re monitoring departure points. Mrs. Elizabeth North is now going to make a statement. She won’t be taking questions and I would ask you to respect her privacy.”

He signals to Elizabeth. She stares at the page, trying to focus on the words.

“If you’re watching this, Richard, if you can hear me… if you’re able to call…” A barrage of flashguns are firing, recording every pause. “I just want to know you’re OK. I know you can explain. I know you’re a good man…”

She doesn’t finish the sentence. Raising her eyes, she concentrates on a point at the back of the room, above their heads.

“Rowan misses you. We all do… Whatever has happened, whatever you think you’ve done, nothing could be as bad as not knowing… worrying…”

The words dry up, evaporating in her mouth. Her mind becomes lost in the flashguns. Questions are being shouted from the floor. A field of hands are raised. Campbell takes Elizabeth by the forearm and leads her through a side door to a long corridor. Polished. Brightly lit. Felicity Stone is bustling towards her with a wide smile, air kissing her cheeks.

“You were marvelous, grace under pressure and all that. Is there anyone I can call? Do you have a rabbi or a priest?”

“No.”

“I can find you a counselor-a woman, perhaps. There are some very good trauma specialists. Caring. Discreet.”

“I’m fine.”

Miss Stone is tapping on the screen of her mobile. “We’ve found a quiet house, somewhere away from London and all the attention. You can be anonymous, recover your balance.”

“I’m going home.”

“Right. OK. Of course you should avoid commenting. No press interviews. You’re perfectly entitled to say nothing at all. Don’t even say, No comment.’ ”

They have reached the lift.

“I just want to reassure you that, whatever happens, Mersey Fidelity will look after you. You don’t have to go through this alone. Mitchell will make sure-”

“Where is Mitchell?”

“He’s talking to the police.”

Elizabeth turns away from her and walks back down the corridor. Banging on the doors, she starts yelling. “Mitchell? Are you here? I want to talk.”

Faces emerge. A female officer tries to stop her, but she pushes past her.

“I want to see my brother. Mitchell? Where are you?”

Turning a corner she sees him. He’s talking to a man in a suit. Heads together. Whispering.

“You should have warned me,” she shouts, storming towards him.

Mitchell raises his hands submissively. “I’m sorry, Lizzie. I wanted to call you but the lawyers told me not to interfere. I have a duty to shareholders and investors…”

Before he can finish the statement Elizabeth strikes him across the face with an open hand. She can’t remember ever hitting him before-not even as a child when he teased her or tortured her dolls or let her pet rabbit escape and get eaten by a fox on Hampstead Heath.

Mitchell’s eyes go out of focus for a moment, swimming in pain.

“I’m your sister, Mitchell. Doesn’t that mean anything?”

“Of course it does.”

“You’re hanging him out to dry. He didn’t steal any money.”

“Calm down, Lizzie.”

“I won’t calm down. I know what you’re doing. You’re covering something up.”

The other man speaks. “We’re handling this, Mrs. North.”

Elizabeth takes a moment to recognize him; his grey hair is brushed back in an elegant bouffant and he’s wearing a Paul Smith suit instead of a tracksuit. It’s the man from the house in Mayfair who lied about meeting North.

Elizabeth turns on him. “Who are you?”

Mitchell answers. “This is Yahya Maluk. He’s on the board of Mersey Fidelity.”

Elizabeth is still focused on Maluk. “Why did you lie to me about meeting my husband? I have the photographs. You were there.”

Mitchell looks from face to face. The older banker raises his hand. “Be careful what you say, Mrs. North. Unfounded allegations can be very dangerous.” There is a veiled threat behind the softness of his voice.

“You really should listen, Lizzie,” says Mitchell, nursing his cheek.

“I’m not going to shut up. I’m not going to stay quiet. And I’m not going to hide myself away.”