The Wreckage

18

Elizabeth can hear her father arguing with someone over the intercom. A van is parked at the gates, visible on the CCTV camera. The driver is holding a bunch of flowers.

“How do I know you’re not a reporter?” asks Bach.

“Because I’m not,” says the driver, who looks bemused rather than frustrated. “The flowers are for Mrs. Elizabeth North.”

“Who sent them?”

“I don’t know. I just deliver them. I don’t grow them. I don’t pick them. I just deliver them.”

Elizabeth interrupts. “Let him in, Daddy. He’s just doing his job.”

She meets the driver at the front door with her father hovering. Then she puts the blooms in the kitchen sink. Reads the card.

“Who are they from?”

“Mitchell,” she lies.

“Is he apologizing?”

“Yes.”

Afterwards she borrows Jacinta’s car, not the matching Mercedes, but a low-slung Japanese sporty number with sleek lines, minimal headroom and a surfeit of horsepower. If ever a car suited her stepmother… Squeezing behind the wheel, she has to adjust the seat to give Claudia some room. The indicators are on the opposite side and she hasn’t driven a manual in years, but she makes the journey without destroying the clutch or the 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.