The Wreckage

38

It has been six weeks since Ruiz left hospital. His hands have healed, adding to his scars, and his hearing is almost fully returned, apart from a persistent buzzing in his ears that sounds like a bee trapped behind glass. It’s no more annoying than his second wife, he tells people, not entirely joking.

The story about Mersey Fidelity is almost old news but Luca Terracini is still bathing in the glory-he’s been profiled in the Sunday supplements and interviewed on morning TV. He and Daniela were photographed on a weekend break in Paris-the globetrotting foreign correspondent and the glamorous US auditor who uncovered the biggest financial scandal since the meltdown.

Ruiz stayed out of the spotlight, barely mentioned in reports of the terrorist blast that closed the M1 for twelve hours on 1 September. Two of the bombers died when cornered by officers from the anti-terrorism branch. A third, Taj Iqbal, unemployed of Luton, is in Belmarsh Prison, London, awaiting trial. The Daily Mail published a photograph of his wife and baby son arriving at the prison. She wore a Muslim veil and didn’t talk to reporters. Something in her eyes reminded Ruiz of the moment he first met Elizabeth North, her emotions held in check, defenses raised, a child to protect.

Elizabeth has visited him three times, once in hospital and twice at home. She brings Rowan and Claudia and soon his living room is covered with toys and tinkling with the sound of children’s TV shows.

“Mitchell jumped before he was pushed,” she says. “There’s been a boardroom reshuffle and half the directors have gone.”

“Any news of Maluk?”

“They think he’s in Syria or Egypt.”

Elizabeth unbuttons her blouse to feed Claudia, her breast swollen and pale, lined with the faintest of blue veins. Ruiz looks at the feeding infant, her tiny mouth pressed hard against the nipple, eyes closed in concentration.

“What about the bank?” he asks.

“I had a man come to see me: Douglas Evans.”

“I’ve met him.”

“Doesn’t he remind you of someone out of a le Carre novel?” Elizabeth does his accent. “Confidence is the key. As much as I would like to see those responsible punished for this abomination. Publicly flogged. Humiliated. There are greater issues to consider. Three years ago our banking system suffered a heart attack. It has been on life support ever since. Nobody wants to turn off that life support system.”

Elizabeth laughs and Rowan looks up from the floor. “What’s so funny, Mummy?”

“People who talk with posh accents,” she says, smiling at him and continuing. “They say they’re going to prosecute executives, but nobody has been charged. Mitchell has hired a QC. We haven’t spoken. He’s cut himself off from the family.”

“I’m sorry.”

Elizabeth starts cleaning up the mess, putting lids on Tupperware containers and packing her changing bag. “That girl-the one who went home with North.”

“Holly Knight?”

“How is she?”

“She’s good. She got a call back for a play and she’s looking for part-time work.”

Elizabeth nods. “If you see her…” She hesitates. “Tell her I don’t blame her for anything and I’m sorry about what happened.”

“If you hang around she’ll be home soon.”

“She’s staying here?”

“Yes.”

“Are you two…?”

“Christ no, but I need a lock on my bedroom door.”

Elizabeth shakes her head. Her pram is packed and Claudia strapped inside. Rowan rides on a platform at the back, standing between the handles. They’re going to walk over Hammersmith Bridge and along the river to Barnes.

Pausing at the front gate, she turns. “About Holly,” she says. “Is she any good with children?”

After she’s gone, Ruiz tidies the sitting room, sweeping up crumbs and straightening pillows. Among the “get well” cards on the mantelpiece he comes across one from Capable Jones. Unsigned. Capable is paranoid about people forging his signature. The message is typed and printed, wishing him a speedy recovery, with a postscript tacked on to the end:

That nanny you wanted to find. Do you still want her address?

Ruiz puts on his jacket and goes out, walking the river path where autumn is decorating the trees before winter strips them bare. He doesn’t have the Mercedes anymore and will do without a car for a while. He doesn’t need one in London, where every business seems to deliver, even the off licenses.

Polina Dulsanya lives on the fourth floor of a block of flats in Fulham, just off the high street. Ruiz climbs the stairs slowly, his body still depleted. Knocks on the door.

A woman answers, barely out of her teens, with a gymnast’s body and dark bobbed hair. She’s wearing jeans and a short T-shirt that barely covers her torso. Flesh is the new season’s color.

“Can I help you?” she asks with a confused smile, pronouncing the English words perfectly. She sounds Russian or maybe Polish.

“Can I come in?”

“Why?”

“I want to talk to you about Richard North.”

“Vincent, how did you get through the gates?”

“Your wife let me in.”

Alistair Bach shakes his head. “Sometimes I wonder why I installed a security system. People buzz and Jacinta just opens the gate. She’s far too trusting.”

He’s pruning rose bushes at the rear of the property, where the northern sun hits the stone wall and reflects the heat back on to the flowerbeds.

“It was your bank.”

“Pardon?”

“Mersey Fidelity-you built it.”

“Oh, I can’t take all the credit.”

“And it was your scheme. You set up the ghost accounts and recruited Richard North to carry on your work.”

Bach’s shoulders tighten beneath his cotton shirt. For a moment Ruiz braces for a confrontation, but the older man gazes at the secateurs in his hand and seems to reach a different decision.

Ruiz continues. “Mitchell had no idea when he took control. You couldn’t be sure how he’d react, so you hired someone to infiltrate his household, someone to seduce him just in case you needed leverage. You were willing to blackmail your own son. Once you succeeded in gaining his co-operation, you sent Polina to your daughter’s house to seduce your son-in-law.”

“That’s a fanciful story, Vincent. You’ve been hanging around with journalists for too long.”

“I’ve talked to Polina. She told me.”

“And you believe the word of a prostitute?”

“She has no reason to lie anymore.”

Bach continues to prune, holding the branches with a gloved hand to avoid the thorns.

“Do you know why roses have thorns, Vincent? It’s to prevent grazing animals from eating them. The sweetest-smelling roses have the sharpest thorns, because their scents attract the most animals. We all need defense mechanisms… even banks.”

“You broke the law.”

Bach chuckles with delight. “The law! Where have you been, Vincent? The law doesn’t apply to banks. We’re too big to fail.”

Shaking his head, he grows circumspect. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. Things got out of hand. It began with a few accounts. Major corporations. We helped hide their assets or shift profits between territories to avoid tax or arrange a hostile take-over. Over time our client base expanded and became less than savory, but we couldn’t say no because they could expose us.”

“You were blackmailed,” says Ruiz.

Bach gives him a pained smile. “The system was working. It was brilliant really. Almost foolproof…”

“Until the global financial crisis came along.”

“Mersey Fidelity was hemorrhaging money like all the others. People were closing their positions, selling investments, withdrawing their money. We had a liquidity crisis and needed funds to stay solvent. Mitchell panicked and tapped into some of the ghost accounts.”

“That’s why North was so concerned with the audit.”

“He came to see me. Begged me to intervene.”

“When?”

“On the Saturday he disappeared. He said he’d been robbed the night before-picked up by some girl in a bar and drugged. I thought he was bluffing when he told me about the notebook.

“Nobody was supposed to have a complete list. That’s how we protected the bank-nothing in writing, nothing on file, nothing on computer. Numbers, not names on the accounts.”

“North began piecing it together.”

“Yes.”

“Did you tell Ibrahim about the photographs or was it Maluk?”

“I have no control over Yahya. I’m not the chairman anymore.”

“You signed Hackett’s death warrant.”

“I don’t even know who you’re talking about.”

“The private detective… Ibrahim had him killed.”

“You can’t hold me responsible for his actions.”

“Why not? You’re a part of this. Did you have North killed?”

“Of course not! Now you’re being ridiculous.”

“North was trying to find out where the money was going.”

“He was foolish. He fell for the lifestyle and then developed a conscience. I told him not to go looking for trouble.”

“When?”

“That Saturday he came here. He said that he’d traced some of the money to a postbox in Luton… something about a Muslim charity. And he was prattling about earlier transactions in Madrid. The Spanish police had contacted him about some ATM withdrawals prior to the train bombing in 2004. North managed to fob them off by saying the accounts didn’t exist at Mersey Fidelity, but he knew where the money had come from.”

Bach stands, straightening his back, gazing across the pond towards the house, which is wreathed in ivy. A castle fit for a king.

“He should have kept his mouth shut. The audit would have blown over.”

“Don’t you feel any responsibility?”

“What’s done is done.”

“I’m going to tell the authorities.”

Bach laughs. “Good luck with that. Nothing is going to happen. They know already. Why do you think I haven’t been charged? I’m an old man. They’re not going to prosecute me. They can’t risk damaging confidence in the banking system.”

There’s no hint of triumphalism in Bach’s voice, yet he was right all along, thinks Ruiz. People might hate him or question his morals, but when the economy picks up and the banks grow strong again, they’ll envy his wealth and his power. They’ll want to be just like him.

“Can I ask you one favor, please, Vincent?”

“What’s that?”

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell Lizzie about Polina. She’s been through so much. Family is all she has left.”

His arrogance is astonishing; hubris on a grand scale. Ruiz can feel the skin tighten across his face.

“If it’s a question of money,” says Bach, “I’m sure I can find some honey in the pot to sweeten your medicine.”

The buzzing in Ruiz’s ears has grown louder. “I’m not the only person who knows.”

“Polina won’t say anything. She’s been too well paid.”

Ruiz has already turned away, in sudden need of fresher air. After several steps, he stops and spins.

“By the way, Elizabeth has a new nanny who knows all about dysfunctional families and their secrets. She can even tell when someone is lying.”

“My sins have been confessed.”

“But they haven’t been forgiven.”

Ruiz leaves, walking up the slope towards the house, the turf soft beneath his worn leather shoes. Beneath the canopy of a fig tree he notices a rope swing dangling from a lower branch and can picture Elizabeth as a young girl, her hair flying, pushing herself from the shadows into the sunshine.

Although reality can sometimes corrupt the fairytale and alter our ambitions, some things remain unalterable. From richest to poorest, we start and end with family.