The Wreckage

27

The wedding reception is at a Georgian villa on the northern edge of Hampstead Heath. Heritage-listed, whiter than a wedding cake, it looks like a film set from a BBC period drama, minus the bonnets and the horses.

“Do you remember Notting Hill? ” asks Miranda, hooking her hand through the crook of Ruiz’s arm. She’s walking on tiptoes so her heels won’t bruise the turf. “Julia Roberts was the American movie star and Hugh Grant had a travel bookshop on Portobello Road. They filmed one of the final scenes at Kenwood House.”

“I’ve never really seen the point of Hugh Grant,” says Ruiz. “He’s like a male version of Meg Ryan-always playing wishy-washy romantic losers.”

“I thought you fancied Meg Ryan.”

“When she stops whining.”

The Orangery is swathed in white linen with splashes of yellow from the sunflowers on each table display. A string quartet is playing in the corner. Daj, seated like a queen at her own table, is complaining loudly about her inconsiderate son, who never visits or calls. Her voice has a Lady Bracknell quality, slicing through the chatter like a well-honed cleaver.

Claire and Phillip had wanted a child-friendly wedding because most of their friends have started families. Now there are children running between the tables or imprisoned between their parents, going crazy with self-pity. One young boy slides a toy train along the seat so his sister will sit on it when she retakes her place. She lets out a cry. The toy is confiscated. More tears.

Ruiz does the rounds, visiting each table, trying to avoid the trays of champagne. Wedding receptions are strange rituals full of melancholy and a sense of time passing. Unmarried women of a certain age looking slightly forlorn, while those with long-term boyfriends are extra-attentive, hoping the day and the free bar might prompt them to pop the question.

His stepfather’s relatives consist of an ageing aunt and uncle who have flown from Florida, their skin like petrified wood. He was some sort of biologist, but Ruiz can barely remember him apart from the smell of formaldehyde that clings to him like cigarette smoke.

Most of the men have taken off their jackets, loosened ties and rolled up their sleeves. As the night wears on, young people cavort on the dance floor and children are taken home to bed. Miranda asks him to dance. She puts her arms around his waist and hooks her thumbs into his belt. Pressing against him, she tilts her face so her mouth is inches from his.

“I thought you didn’t dance,” she says.

“I like this kind of dancing.”

“Mmmm, I can tell you’re rather pleased. Are you thinking about kissing me?”

“No, I’m thinking about going down on you.”

“Would you think less of me in the morning?”

“Five per cent at most.”

The festivities are paused while the wedding cake is cut. Ruiz finds himself standing next to Phillip’s mother, who reeks of perfume and the sweet smell of rotting fruit.

“Don’t they make a wonderful couple,” she says, showing lipstick smudges on her teeth. “You must be very proud of your Claire.”

“Yes.”

“She does have a lovely complexion. Phillip once brought home an Asian girl from university. I think she was from Hong Kong. Pretty, in a Chinese sort of way. I think her father was involved in horse racing. They’re very big gamblers, the Chinese, and they have those terrible Triads. I have nothing against foreigners, of course. I love a good Chinese…”

“But not in the family?”

The woman’s mouth opens but the message has finally reached her brain. Ruiz is already retreating outside where he looks at the lights of London and goes over the events of the day. The confrontation in the street seems like a memory plucked from a past life. Public displays of violence are not his style, but he doesn’t have the patience or the reflexes of his youth. Cat-and-mouse games annoy him. He’s an intelligent man but not a complicated one.

At the top of the slope where the road cuts across the lawns towards the car park, Ruiz notices a dark car pull up. A figure emerges, silhouetted by the streetlights, tugging at the cuffs of a suit. Not police, but official.

The man says something to his driver and walks down the gravel path. He’s about to pass by when he turns.

“Mr. Ruiz?”

“Yes.”

“Douglas Evans from the Home Office.”

“Have we met?”

“I don’t believe so.”

The man has the kind of English voice Ruiz dislikes. Upper class. Privately educated. Eton and the Guards most likely. He also has that telltale military bearing, as though always on the verge of snapping to attention and saluting.

“How was the wedding?”

“Beautiful. You should have been there.”

“I wasn’t invited.”

“Exactly.”

Mr. Evans taps the top of his wrist as though he’s forgotten his watch.

“I understand that you know the whereabouts of a young woman called Holly Knight, who is wanted by the Metropolitan Police for further questioning. You guaranteed to make her available.”

“She ran away from some of your men in black.”

“Men in black?”

“Spooks. Dark suits. You know the sort. Fake identities. Cover stories. Everything hush hush.”

Mr. Evans shakes his head. He taps his wrist again.

“Tell me something, Mr. Evans: why are you so interested in Holly Knight?”

“She’s a suspect in a murder investigation.”

“It’s more than that.”

Mr. Evans taps again. “We’ve had a request from our American counterparts to assist in finding Miss Knight.”

“Why do they want her?”

“We’re not entirely certain, Mr. Ruiz. That’s one of the reasons I’m here. The spirit of co-operation between America and Britain has always been healthy, of course, but occasionally information is overlooked or left out of communiques.”

“They didn’t tell you?”

“I’m trying to fill in the blank spaces.” Mr. Evans attempts a smile. “We’re on the same side, Mr. Ruiz. We both want to know what this is all about. If Miss Knight does break cover, I could guarantee her safety.”

“If she speaks to you first?”

“She’s a British citizen on British soil.”

“I’ll bear that in mind.”

Ruiz turns to leave. He feels a firm grip on his forearm.

“I am trying to help her.”

“Then tell me what this is about.”

“That’s above my pay grade.”

Ruiz shakes his arm loose. Mr. Evans hands him a business card. “My numbers… should you change your mind. Give it some thought.” He looks Ruiz up and down. “Nice suit.”

The reception is winding down. Claire and Phillip have made their public escape, chauffeured away in a white limousine trailing tin cans, streamers, and covered in a year’s supply of shaving foam.

Ruiz finds the professor and the two men share a moment on the patio while the waiters are clearing tables and stacking chairs. The wind has picked up-a storm is coming.

“You see that over there?” asks Ruiz, pointing at a pattern of lights. “That’s Camden. I remember investigating a hit-and-run. She was knocked off her bicycle. Nine years old. And just off to the right-see that tower block? A four-year-old fell from a window on the sixth floor. His mother and father were junkies and had gone out to get a fix. Oakshot Avenue, Highgate: the wife of an alcoholic ex-sergeant blew his brains out when she found out he was having an affair.

“St. George’s Catholic School, Maida Vale: Philip Lawrence, the head teacher, was stabbed to death while protecting a pupil. Cobbold Road, Shepherd’s Bush: an elderly woman died of exposure because her landlord turned off the heating. Horn Lane, Acton: a hooker had her throat cut when she shopped her pimp for trading in underage girls…”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Most people look at a city and they see people or buildings. All I see are the dead.”

“Maybe you should get some help about that.”

“I gave up being a detective because I got tired of dealing with all the rules and regulations, the red tape. I could handle the psychopaths and scumbags, until they started turning up in uniform and carrying badges.”

“What’s this about?” asks Joe.

Ruiz hesitates, draining the last of his Guinness. “Those men in the car this afternoon… I lost control. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize.”

“I’ve spent most of my life trying to keep a lid on my temper, but I’ve always known it’s there. Sometimes it frightens me.”

“You’re scared of what you might do.”

“I used to wonder what motivates people to do great harm-terrorists and the like. What makes them want to blow up buildings and bring down airliners, but when I feel that red-and-black mist rising up in me, I reckon I could lay waste to the world.”

“I don’t think that’s likely to happen.”

“I’m losing my sense of balance. My moral compass.”

“Your compass is just fine.”

Ruiz hesitates. “I’m going to tell you something now-and you’re probably going to question my judgment.”

“Go on.”

“Holly Knight came to the church.”

“Where is she now?”

“Somewhere safe.”

“Did you call the police?”

“No.”

“They can keep her safe.”

“They’ll hand her over.”

“Maybe that’s not a bad thing.”

Ruiz’s eyes are flat, his hands motionless. “First these people offered me a bribe, then they kicked down my front door and terrorized my neighbors, then they turned up at my daughter’s wedding. You don’t work with people like that. If you’re lucky they’ll yell ‘watch out’ before the freight train runs you down.”

Ruiz pauses and contemplates a long career when he submitted himself to playing by the rules, upholding the law, protecting the weak, prosecuting the wicked. There was a time when he believed that it was his duty. He would pause outside New Scotland Yard at night and stare at the lighted windows, telling himself, “I did good work today. I served the people.”

At the same time he had accepted the fact that, as a police officer, in all probability, he would become an instrument that delivered irreparable harm to a variety of individuals; some who designed their own destinies; others who were simply bystanders. He could even argue that occasionally innocent people are expedient and might have to die or go to prison for the benefit of many.

What had changed? Why is he now so determined to protect Holly Knight against forces he can never hope to identify, let alone defeat? Maybe there is a bit of Don Quixote in all men his age. They tilt at windmills because they don’t want to grow old.

Joe is still waiting for an explanation.

“Holly saw a TV report-the one about the missing banker,” says Ruiz. “She and Zac robbed him a week ago.”

Joe holds his drink to his lips, but it doesn’t go any further. The information warrants a pause.

“You think the disappearance is related to Zac’s murder?”

“I’m working on that theory.”

“I can’t imagine a banker being the sort who would torture someone. It takes a very special individual to rip off pieces of flesh with a set of pliers.”

“I take it you mean ‘special’ in a negative way.”

“A psychopath or someone wired to the eyeballs.”

“Maybe the guy had a meltdown.”

“Over what?”

“Embezzling funds. Laundering money. Something illegal.”

“That still doesn’t explain why everyone is so interested in finding Holly Knight. What did they steal?”

“Good question.”

“She must have some idea.”

“Maybe it’s not obvious. Maybe she doesn’t know.”

The two men drink in silence, contemplating the path ahead. Ruiz raises his glass and works his throat, wipes his lips, belches quietly.

“I want you to look after her.”

“Me?”

“My phones are being tapped and they’re following me, so you might have to keep her safe.”

“Where is she?”

“A tourist hotel in Bayswater.” Ruiz scratches at his jaw, making a sandpaper sound. “You should talk to her. Do that thing you do.”

“What thing?”

“The mental picturing.”

“A cognitive interview?”

“That’s it. Find out what she can’t remember. If she’s hiding something.” Ruiz glances at a kissing couple. One of the bridesmaids is giving mouth-to-mouth to her boyfriend. “You can’t go home to Rainville Road. Stay at the hotel with Holly. Do you have any cash?”

“A little.”

“Find a hole in the wall and get cashed up. After that don’t use credit or debit cards. Cabs rather than public transport. No Oyster cards.”

“Is all that really necessary?”

“They’re trying to get to Holly through me and they’ll know about you soon enough.”

Ruiz still has the professor’s mobile. He removes the SIM card and hands it back.

“How do I contact you?”

Ruiz scrawls a phone number on the back of a business card. “You call and leave a message with Capable Jones. Use a public call box well away from the hotel. Don’t use my name on an open connection or the computers will kick in. Don’t stay too long on the line.”

“Now you’re starting to scare me.”

“It’s going to be fine. I’m just thinking ahead.”

“I hear that great chess players can think five moves ahead.”

“I’m not a great chess player.”

“How many moves ahead are you?”

“One.”

“That doesn’t seem like enough.”

“It is when it’s the right one.”