The Manhattan Puzzle

She shook her head, glared out the window at some people leaving the bank.

‘I’m sure you’re right about Sean,’ said Mrs Vaughann. ‘It’s probably just bad timing, him going missing.’

Isabel turned to her. There was something sad about the way Mrs Vaughann looked, all taut, like a wire about to snap. Suddenly she felt sorry for her.

‘Have you talked to Paul about all this?’ She pointed at the Evening Standard.

If staff from the bank, senior staff, had been in that sleazy club when a dancer was murdered that was definitely bad news for the bank. Their reputation would be in the gutter. But did Isabel care? Sean mightn’t have even been there. He certainly wouldn’t have done anything stupid there.

‘No, I haven’t. Not yet. But I’m not leaving here until I do.’

Isabel stretched towards the door handle. Outside, hail was ticking and slithering against the window. Great, even the weather was conspiring against her.

‘I have to go.’

Mrs Vaughann squeezed her arm, held it.

Then she coughed, and bent forward. As she did Isabel caught a glimpse of her neck, and saw rows of wrinkles. She looked older than Isabel had imagined. There are some things even Botox and plastic surgery can’t hide.

‘Prepare yourself, Isabel. The media will be all over us because of this takeover.’

Her eyebrows rose. They looked to be in the wrong place now. Her eyes were fixed on Isabel, as if she was working out if she could trust her. Her lips were pressed tight. Mrs Vaughann looked out of the windows on both sides, as if she thought someone might be listening to them.

‘Your husband is leading the facial recognition project, isn’t he?’

‘Yes. Is there a problem with it?’

Mrs Vaughann’s eyes narrowed. ‘There’s a problem with everything at the moment, Isabel. I just hope your husband is able to cope with the stress.’

She looked worried.

‘I have to go.’ Isabel opened the door. The urge to leave was getting stronger by the second.

She had to find Sean. And she wasn’t going to do that listening to Mrs Vaughann. She stepped out of the car and didn’t look back.

The hail was coming down like a million icy arrows. She raced for the entrance to the underground.

19

Adar got out of the taxi. He headed for the coffee shop overlooking Bank Street. He could see the front and side entrance to BXH from one of the window seats.

He put his backpack on the floor and sat in the empty chair opposite the older grey-suited man who was talking softly into his phone. He eyed Adar with surprise and suspicion. A minute later he stood and left the coffee shop.

Perhaps it was the way he’d stared at him, unblinkingly, or perhaps it was the hood that covered his head, which he kept pulled down to the level of his eyebrows.

The only time he’d taken it off had been when he was walking through immigration at the City Airport corporate terminal twenty-four hours before. Immigration officials like to be able to see who they’re letting into the UK and for people to smile.

He accommodated them.

The Bombardier Global 5000 he had arrived on would be ready to fly back to La Guardia on Long Island, in New York State, in a few hours. It was the fastest private long-range jet available. The leasing company they had hired it from had allowed Lord Bidoner to provide his own crew.

Adar’s flight record was well beyond the number of hours needed to pilot long distance with only passengers, and La Guardia was used to the odd arrangements of the sporting and corporate elite, heading for their Gold Coast Long Island mansions. He put his day old pay-as-you-go phone down in front of him and downloaded the email app. He looked at the saved message in the draft folder.

Red, it read.

He added the word ‘green’ to the message, then saved it. That was enough. Lord Bidoner would be able to see that he was about to proceed.

He downloaded the Instagram app, and logged in as the agreed identity. His next message would be a picture of a London black cab. That would mean he had completed his next task and was on his way back with the package. He glanced at the entrance to BXH as he put the phone away.

He didn’t want to miss him. He had a message for George Donovan. All he had to do was work out how to deliver it.

20

This was all getting ridiculous, Sean wouldn’t have gone to a strip club – he was not that kind of man. But it would explain the late nights. The thought of Sean visiting that club left an ache in Isabel’s chest. The weekend in Paris didn’t matter now. He’d been the best thing in her life since they’d come back from Istanbul. She could almost feel his arms around her when she thought about him.

As the cab came up the street she saw a police car outside their next door neighbour’s house. A dark Ford was double-parked outside their house. She got out of the cab by the police car, and peered in. What was she expecting, Sean to be in handcuffs in the back?

He wasn’t. She fumbled for her keys. The black paint on their front door glistened. The glass was opaque. She could see a shape moving on the other side. She heard someone behind her, turned.

It was one of the neighbours. She was wearing a bobble hat. She glanced at Isabel, then looked away as she passed, as if she suspected that the police car had something to do with her. Isabel didn’t care. She turned back to the door. She wanted her old life back. Now.

She took out her keys. Her hand was trembling. The mist on her breath filled the air as she turned the front door key.

Before she even got a chance to take it out, someone on the other side yanked the door open, almost catching her fingers. A burly, hard-eyed policewoman was looking at her as if she were a criminal.

Isabel felt weak. Blood was rushing the wrong way inside her. Her knees had stopped working.

The police were in her house.

‘What’s going on? Where’s my husband?’ Her words came out in a rush.

‘Are you Isabel Ryan?’ the policewoman said. She’d have been able to find a place on a Soviet-era ice hockey team, she was that big.

‘Yes?’

The policewoman looked at her. For a heart-twisting moment Isabel thought she was going to say that Sean was dead.

Then another man, in plain clothes, said something Isabel didn’t catch, and the policewoman stepped aside.

‘I’m Inspector Kirby,’ said the man. His accent was from the north of England. He was tall and had a sickle-like jaw. He was standing at the bottom of their stairs, as if he’d just come down.

What was going on?

‘Don’t be alarmed, Mrs Ryan. Your cleaner let us in. We have a search warrant.’ He patted his breast pocket.

She didn’t want to see any search warrant. She had nothing to hide.

‘Is Sean okay?’ she said quickly.

‘We thought you might be able to help us with that, Mrs Ryan.’

The weakness in her legs came rushing back. She put a hand out, steadied herself against the wall. The policewoman reached towards her. She shrugged her away, straightened herself, and focused on the inspector.

‘Why the hell are you in my house?’ She knew she sounded angry, but she didn’t care.

‘We’re investigating some serious matters, Mrs Ryan.’ His voice had a passive quality, but his eyes were as hard as granite.

‘Under our search warrant powers we’re permitted to remove all the computer equipment in your home, and any papers or any other items related in any way to the matters under investigation. All these powers have been granted under regulations contained in the Financial Services and Markets Act 2000.’

It sounded like a set of words that he was well practiced in delivering.

‘Your cleaner showed us your husband’s office.’

‘Sorry, Mrs Ryan. There was nothing I could do,’ called out a weak voice from down the corridor. Sabrina’s head poked up over Inspector Kirby’s shoulder.

‘It’s all right, Sabrina. It’s to do with the bank.’ She closed her eyes for a moment. She had to focus. She couldn’t care about them being here.

‘You’re trying to find my husband?’ She rubbed her forehead. It was slick with sweat.

‘Yes,’ was Inspector Kirby’s curt reply. His tone made it clear he thought she should be the one answering questions.

‘I have to go, Mrs Ryan.’ Sabrina pushed past the inspector, gave Isabel a weak smile, and patted her arm as she went by.

Sabrina opened the door and then went out.

A gust of freezing wind swept in. The policewoman followed Sabrina outside, pulling the door closed behind her. ‘We need to ask you some questions, Mrs Ryan. Where can we do that?’ Inspector Kirby looked like someone who’d seen everything the world could throw in front of a policeman.

‘You probably know the house as well as I do by now, Inspector. Where would you suggest?’

‘The kitchen.’

She led the way. The walls seemed to be closing in as she went down the corridor, as if the house was suddenly smaller than it had been, as if it wasn’t hers any more.

‘You have a nice house,’ said the inspector. His tone was cool, official, but there was a hint of something else in it, as if he was questioning how they could afford such a big place.

She entered the kitchen and stared at Alek’s baby drawings on the wall, which Sean had framed so beautifully and simply, in black wood with a thick white border. A lump formed fast in her throat.

Had he done something stupid?

Why would the police be here if he was innocent?

Her fingers felt icy. She hadn’t noticed the cold when she was outside, adrenaline must have been warming her up, but now she was back in the house, and with the police here, they felt frozen.

There was a picture of her on a cork notice board on the kitchen wall, from the time before Alek had been born. She looked pale, smiling tentatively. Sean had been so concerned about her back then. She sat in the green wicker chair at the end of the kitchen table. It was a giant well-worn table, the type they had in the kitchens of big old English country houses. And now a policeman was sitting at it with her. She gripped the edge of the table with both hands. She must have looked stupid, or mad. But she didn’t care. Inspector Kirby sat, leaning over his notebook. She forced herself to breathe. They hadn’t told her he had done anything wrong. Not yet.

21

The pastor was spread-eagled on the steel bed. There was a gag in his mouth. He was naked. His eyes were wide open. He’d been hours in that position.

Xena had persuaded him once again to allow her to put handcuffs on him, but now he was definitely regretting it. She hadn’t been in the room for a long time. And she hadn’t left him like this the first time they had done it. Lord Bidoner had told him she was a bonus for him then, but he was starting not to like it.

If this was some technique of hers, it wasn’t doing anything for him.

What time was it, he wondered. Martha would be going mad. He hadn’t told her where he was going or what he was doing.

As if he could.

He tried to break the handcuffs again, pulled at them hard, but they were too strong.

That thought worried him. And his heart started beating faster again. He should have taken his medication before he came out. All this excitement would not be good for him.

He thought about shouting for Lord Bidoner, but he decided to wait a little longer. She had to come back soon to release him. He had things to do in New York.

He shivered. Maybe he shouldn’t have told Lord Bidoner that he had discussed anything they were doing with his family. Hadn’t he heard him rant after he found out what had happened in Jerusalem?

He listened.

The door to the room opened. In walked Xena. Pastor Stevson began grunting. He couldn’t speak properly, because of the gag, but it was clear he was appealing to be let free.

And then his eyes widened some more. She was naked. And the snake tattoo around her thigh rippled as she walked towards him. This was getting interesting again.

What was she going to do?

She leaned towards him, rested her hand on his big white belly.

‘Secunda quattuor invocare unum,’ she whispered.

That was when he felt something cold and sharp touch his belly.

22

‘What’s all this about, Inspector?’ She tried to sound collected. The hesitation in her voice didn’t help though.

Inspector Kirby was holding a silver pen as if it were a baton, and he was about to conduct an orchestra.

‘We don’t want to alarm you, Mrs Ryan, but we need to speak to your husband, urgently.’

‘That makes two of us, at least.’

He smiled.

‘Has he done something wrong?’ She dreaded the answer, shifted her body back a little, as if it was a blow she was expecting.

The inspector shrugged, noncommittally.

‘I don’t know, Mrs Ryan. We believe he has information that could help us with our enquiries.’

She let out her breath.

‘What enquiries?’

‘I work for the City of London Financial Crime Unit. We’re investigating activities at BXH.’

‘What activities?’

‘I am not at liberty to discuss that. Let’s just say our investigations, since the eurozone crisis, now cover the management and the supervision of all financial institutions.’

‘What the hell does that mean?’

‘I’m not here to defend or describe our investigations, Mrs Ryan. But we do have the power to carry them out. The public expects robust supervision and that is what we provide.’

It sounded like a pat answer he’d learned by heart. She licked her lips. They were dry, rough. At least he hadn’t said they were investigating him for murder.

‘Can you tell me the last time you saw your husband, and the last time you spoke to him, please?’

‘I saw him yesterday morning before he left for work. We haven’t spoken since. He sent me a text message telling me he was going to come home late last night. But he never turned up.’

‘And you’ve tried his mobile phone?’

‘Lots. It must be switched off or the battery’s dead.’

‘Is that unusual for him?’

‘Yes, totally.’

‘Did your husband discuss his work with you, tell you anything about what’s going on at BXH?’

Had other men’s wives, who he’d interviewed, told him everything they knew, just because he’d asked them so politely?

‘No.’ She shook her head, took her hands from the edge of the table, rubbed them across its waxy surface, taking comfort from the reassuring smoothness.

The inspector had an I’m-glad-I’m-not-you expression on his face.

‘Why are there so many police officers in my home?’

‘We need to do a proper search, Mrs Ryan.’ He shrugged, as if none of it was his doing.

She felt a blast of icy wind coming from the corridor.

He turned, looked over his shoulder. Then he stood.

‘Wait here, please.’

She did as she was told.

She heard voices, the sound of people creaking the floorboards upstairs. She stood, then sat down again. A part of her wanted to fight them, ask them all to leave, shout at them. But she knew it wouldn’t do any good. She rubbed her hands together, trying to warm them.

The policewoman came into the kitchen. She dominated the room, smiling at Isabel as she sat down. It was her turn to ask the questions.

She started by questioning Isabel about her relationship with Sean, whether he had gone missing before. Isabel told her what had happened a few weeks ago. The policewoman took notes. Then she asked Isabel whether Sean told her much about his work.

‘No, he doesn’t talk about anything to do with BXH. I told your colleague.’ She leaned forward. ‘Why aren’t you concerned about his safety? He’s missing. Anything could have happened to him.’

The policewoman’s expression was not sympathetic.

‘We are concerned about your husband, Mrs Ryan. A missing persons alert has been issued. If we find out what has happened to him you will be notified.’

‘What do you do when someone’s reported missing?’

‘We check out all the likely places, hospitals, police cells, the river police, the security people at his work.’

‘The river police?’

The policewoman looked at her, assessing her, it seemed. ‘In case he committed suicide.’ Her expression softened a little.

She swallowed hard. Suicide. She held the edge of the table tight, her fingers white with the effort.

‘Are you all right, Mrs Ryan?’

Isabel nodded.

The policewoman went on, leaning towards her. ‘Did you and Mr Ryan have any marital problems?’ She emphasised the word, marital.

‘No.’ Isabel looked her in the eye.

‘How does your husband normally react to stress?’ She reminded Isabel of a cat playing with its food.

‘Nothing gets to Sean. He just keeps rolling, bouncing off things. That’s how he puts it.’ She sat up straighter, the memory of him saying that playing through her mind.

The policewoman smiled at Isabel, as if she didn’t believe her.

‘We were supposed to be meeting Sean’s uncle and aunt tomorrow. They’re on holiday in Paris.’ A pang of guilt ran through her. Sean’s uncle had been diagnosed with Huntington’s a few years before. The last thing he needed was for his dead brother’s son, who he’d promised to look out for, to disappear and for the police to be investigating him.

How was she going to tell them?

‘Did your husband organise this holiday?’ The policewoman’s eyebrows were up.

‘No, I did.’

‘Was there any particular reason for the timing? Isn’t BXH pretty busy right now?’

‘We’re going to meet Sean’s nearest relatives. This is the time when they come over to Europe. And we need a break. I deserve it. Sean deserves it. He’s been working very hard.’ Isabel gave her a paper-thin smile.

‘Have you any reason to believe your husband might be with another woman?’ The policewoman leaned forward. Her eyelids were drooping.

‘No.’

She made a note in her notebook, then glanced at Isabel. She wasn’t smiling now.

‘I’ve never even suspected him of anything like that.’

‘We’re just trying to understand where he might be.’

There was a stubborn look on the policewoman’s face, as if she wasn’t at all convinced that Sean wasn’t with a mistress somewhere, enjoying himself.

‘We found passports upstairs, but not your husband’s, Mrs Ryan. Does he keep his somewhere else?’

‘I thought they were all upstairs.’ Had Sean taken his with him? Her hands felt cold again. She spotted the red apples and Conference pears she’d bought the day before to snack on. The thought of eating made her stomach tighten.

‘What did you study in college, Mrs Ryan?’

She didn’t answer for a few moments. It suddenly struck her that she might be a suspect too; that her background made it possible that there was more going on here.

She’d become an IT security consultant because she wanted to do something that took advantage of her security experience while she was with the Foreign Office.

‘Biology,’ she said. When she went to the University of London, she’d imagined biological science would be a great course to get dates on. As it turned out, most of the other students were either too painfully shy to talk to a girl, or they acted like superior nerds.

The policewoman sniffed. ‘I see.’ There was a pause while she wrote something down. ‘And have you worked for BXH at any time?’

‘No,’ she replied. ‘I worked at the Foreign Office until a few years ago. But you will be aware that I’m not allowed to talk about my work there.’ They had to know about the Official Secrets Act. They would have signed it themselves.

From the curious look on the policewoman’s face, Isabel got the impression she thought Isabel was hiding something.

‘My husband is working on a project for BXH. That’s all.’

The policewoman gave her a nod.

‘Did your husband keep anything from his office anywhere else in the house, aside from in that room upstairs?’

‘No.’ She shook her head.

That was when she noticed all the drawers in the kitchen cabinet, one of those old ones with shelves for showing plates and jugs, were a little pulled out. Had the police been through every corner of their house already?

‘When will you be finished here?’ Isabel waved at the house above them.

The policewoman countered with, ‘Do you mind showing me where your husband kept whatever he did bring home?’

As they went upstairs she saw a plainclothes officer exiting the front of the house carrying one of those bright blue plastic storage boxes.

When they got upstairs Inspector Kirby was pulling out books from Sean’s bookcase in the office, flicking through them one at a time, putting them back haphazardly. Sean would have gone crazy if he’d seen him.

‘This is the only place Sean kept anything from work. If he did bring anything home it would be in this room. And that laptop is mine.’ She pointed at her shiny black Toshiba. It was in a pile with Sean’s laptop and some papers near the door.

‘I’m afraid we’ll have to take that one too.’ The inspector’s tone could have sliced steel. He looked at the policewoman. They were communicating in some unspoken language.

She should have been raging, fuming at them, but she wasn’t. Every file on her laptop was stored on the internet, in a cloud. None of what they were doing mattered. The only thing that mattered was getting Sean back.

She stood there, watching him as he took out and looked through the last of the books on the bottom row of Sean’s bookcase. After he was finished he stood and surveyed the room.

The plainclothes officer she’d seen carrying the other blue box came into the room. He had an empty box in his hand now.

‘Just one more, Tom,’ he said. He bent down and put the laptops into the box. He dropped them in, as if they were far more rugged than you’d imagine they would be.

‘Be careful,’ said Isabel.

‘Thank you for your cooperation, Mrs Ryan. We’re finished, for now.’

‘You’re going?’ The weight on her chest diminished.

‘Yes, Mrs Ryan. We’ll let you know if we find out where your husband is, and please, don’t forget, call us if he contacts you or you hear any news about his whereabouts. We wouldn’t want to disturb you again. We do take into account the impact our investigations have on families. We try to be as reasonable as we can.’

To Isabel that sounded like a threat.

He took out his card, handed it to her.

When they were all gone she sat on the stairs, trembling. She felt exposed, vulnerable. They’d poked into every corner of the house, of their lives.

Her watch said 4:20 p.m. She held her head. She felt as if she’d aged ten years in the last few hours.

23

The dirty white van with the ACE PLUMBING sticker on its side shook a little as the police car went by. The two men inside didn’t react. They were in the back of the van and could see the front door of the house the police had come from and the entrance to the lane that ran around the houses without moving an inch. But they couldn’t be seen. The black one-way filter on the back windows of the van made sure of that.

Each of the men had two plastic bottles. One to drink from. A second to piss into. It could be a long night. A lot of people stay at home, weeping, when their lives fall apart. Others head for relatives or friends. Some ramble the streets or visit people they blame for what’s happened to them.

Their instructions from Henry Mowlam had been clear. Report on the movements of the target, photograph everyone she meets. Watch out, in particular, for anyone else taking an interest in Isabel Ryan or her house. It was unusual for Henry to request live surveillance, but when he did there was always a good reason.