The Wreckage

11

Ruiz has been five hours at the police station. Five hours with another man’s blood on his shoes. When he closes his eyes he can picture the scene in miniature, precisely detailed like a scaled down model built by a stage designer. A trashed apartment. A torture scene. A distraught girlfriend. Images he thought he’d left behind in a past life when he still worked for the Met and was being paid to care.

Someone flushes a toilet. The cistern empties and fills. Water rushes through pipes within the walls. The interview room doesn’t offer a view or ventilation or natural light. Incumbents aren’t supposed to be comfortable.

Ruiz looks at his shoes again, wanting to clean them.

The door opens and a detective enters. Tall and stoop-shouldered, Warwick Thompson has a beak-like nose and breath as stale as vase water. Their paths crossed once or twice when Ruiz was with the Serious Crime Squad, but they were never friends. Thompson was a churchgoer, one of the Christian mafia in the Met, who married a vicar’s daughter. Her name was Jackie, a very charitable woman who spent her Sundays in church and the rest of the week delivering comfort to the needy, including two of her husband’s colleagues in the drug squad.

Thompson survived the humiliation and the jokes. He even forgave Jackie and the marriage survived. Not long afterwards he busted a string of minor celebrities for drug possession. The tabloids had a field day. Unfortunately, during the subsequent trials it emerged that Thompson’s snitch was supplying most of the stuff in the first place. The cases collapsed. Red faces all round. Thompson was transferred out of the drug squad. His career flushed. This is where he washed up.

“Tell me again how you know this girl?”

“I met her last night.”

“And took her home?”

“I tried to help her.”

“Did you give her one?”

Ruiz rolls his eyes. Was he ever this predictable when he was interviewing people?

Thompson hasn’t changed much over the years-put on a few pounds, lost some hair, but his wardrobe is the same. He has a habit of tilting his head as though he’s deaf in one ear. Maybe he is, thinks Ruiz. He’s certainly not listening.

Going over the story again, he describes the argument in the pub, the sting, the robbery. Thompson doesn’t seem any more convinced than the first time.

“Why didn’t you report any of this to the police?”

“I decided to recover the property myself.”

“By taking the law into your own hands?”

“I followed a lead.”

“Did you kill Zac Osborne?”

“I didn’t even know his name.”

“Why is his blood all over you?”

“I checked to see if he was breathing.”

“Was that before or after you put a bullet between his eyes?”

Ruiz holds out his hands. “You want to test me for gunshot residue?”

Thompson doesn’t appreciate the sarcasm. “You see how it looks? They robbed your house. Took personal stuff. You were pissed off. So you followed this girl home…”

“You think I tortured this poor sod because he took some of my dead wife’s things?”

“I think you know more than you’re saying. What did you say to the girl? Why won’t she talk to us?”

“Maybe you’re not asking her nicely enough.”

“Did you see anyone else leaving the flat?”

“There might have been someone on the far stairs. It was dark.”

“Convenient.”

“I’ve told you all I know. She set me up, stole my stuff and I went looking for her. Then I followed her home and found her boyfriend dead. That’s the blood, guts and feathers of it. Maybe if you told me who this guy was, I could actually help you.”

Thompson weighs up his options.

“Zac Osborne. War vet. Iraq and Afghanistan. Wounded twice, won the Queen’s Gallantry Medal. After his second spell in hospital he became addicted to painkillers and the military discharged him. He was arrested eighteen months ago for breaking into a pharmacy in Kew. Given a good behavior bond because of his military record.”

“What about the girl?”

“Holly Knight. Nineteen. In and out of foster care since the age of seven. She has two convictions for shoplifting and others for criminal damage, resisting arrest and anti-social behavior.”

“What did she do?”

“Broke a shop window, threw fireworks at a police horse and wrestled with a police constable.”

“Where is she now?”

“Next door.”

“You keeping her in?”

“For as long as we can.”

There is a knock. A familiar figure fills the doorframe. Commander Campbell Smith looks like he’s been stitched into his uniform. Every button polished. Shoe leather gleaming. Ruiz has known him for forty years-ever since they did their training together at the Police Staff College, Bramshill. He also introduced Campbell to his wife Maureen at a barbecue-having slept with her first, a fact that didn’t enamor him to either of them.

It’s been four years since Ruiz last saw him. Campbell has been promoted. He was always on the fast track. Not so much nose to the grindstone as nose between the cheeks.

“Vincent.”

“Campbell. You’re a commander now. Congratulations.”

They shake hands. Campbell smiles. He has a great smile. You can see the child in it before the wear and tear of a thirty-year marriage and a longer sentence with the Metropolitan Police.

“When they told me they had Vincent Ruiz in the interview room, I thought it must be a mistake. Had to come and see it for myself.”

Ruiz opens his arms and does a slow turn.

“You’ve put on weight.”

“Living the good life. How’s Maureen?”

“She’s gone on a cruise.”

“Mediterranean?”

“Canada.”

Campbell Smith leans closer. Motions him to do the same.

“How did you get mixed up in this?”

“I’m an accidental tourist.”

The commander nods. His hat is tucked under the crook of his left arm. “You know why this guy was killed?”

“Nope.”

He gives Ruiz a wry half smile and maybe a twitch of the eyebrow. Then he tosses his head towards the door.

“Do you know what I learned first day in this job, Vincent?”

How to brown nose, thinks Ruiz.

“I learned that the simple answer is nearly always the right one. The explanation is never that complicated. There’s no mystery. The guy was a junkie. It’s a drug deal gone wrong.”

“So that’s the official version?”

“You think there’s more than one version?”

“There’s always more than one version.”

Campbell stares at him with his head cocked to one side. Turning to leave, he adds, “I’ve told the SOCOs you won’t mind having your fingernails scraped and giving them some swabs.”

“Anything to help.”

“Maybe you could also do us another favor.”

“What’s that?”

“Make a statement and press charges against Holly Knight.”

Ruiz can see where he’s going with this. The police need a reason to hold her.

“Can I speak to her?”

“No.”

“She stole something from me-pieces of jewelry that belonged to my first wife. My daughter is getting married next weekend. The jewelry was going to be a present.”

Campbell sucks in his cheeks and puckers his lips reflectively. “If you lodged a complaint against Holly Knight, those items would be regarded as evidence.”

“And I wouldn’t get them back for months.”

The faintest trace of a smile enters Campbell’s eyes. “Sorry, old chap, I can’t get involved. No hard feelings.”

Ruiz isn’t going to forget the feelings.

Campbell wants the final word. “Listen to me, Vincent, this whole ‘don’t fuck with me’ act might have worked when you were still on the job, but you’re a civilian now.”

The commander turns and marches down the corridor, an ordered man with a disordered heart.