The Wreckage

27

Summer leaving. Autumn coming. On an ordinary morning full of ordinary things, Ruiz walks to clear his head, following the river, watching the sun ascend. He passes old Billingsgate Market and HMS Belfast reaching the shadows of Tower Bridge.

Six years ago, not far from here, he was pulled from the Thames with a bullet in his thigh and a missing ring finger. They found him clinging to a navigation buoy east of Tower Bridge. Less than a mile away, drifting on the tide, a boat looked like a floating abattoir. At first Ruiz had no memory of what had happened, but then it came back slowly in snapshots, dreams and shivers. He had been washed through London’s famous sewers and been spat out into the Thames as he followed the ransom for a missing girl. He survived the river and the bullets, but his career couldn’t be saved.

Richard North had been fished from a different river-a bullet hole in his head. He won’t be coming home to meet his new daughter or watch his son grow up. Ruiz had almost surrendered that same chance with his own children.

At that moment a bird, black as polished onyx, tumbles from the sky and lands with a dull thud on the footpath. Neck broken and blood on its beak. Ruiz looks up and contemplates which window it dashed itself upon. In a split second shining air had turned to solid glass and the world had snapped shut. Not fair or unfair. Life.

He turns and begins retracing his steps. Joe O’Loughlin appears ahead of him.

“I thought I’d find you here.”

“Why?”

“The river.”

He has a large white envelope. “Luca wanted me to give you this. He said you’d know what to do with it.”

“Where’s Holly?”

“She’s gone shopping. That girl can make twenty quid go a long way.”

“Has she ever shown you the receipts?”

Joe’s face drops. “Am I aiding and abetting a shoplifter?”

“Holly is a little more subtle than that.”

The two men walk in silence, feeling a chill breeze blowing down the river, moving into the heart of the city.

“You want to tell me what’s wrong?”

Ruiz takes his tin of boiled sweets from his pocket. Offers one. Makes his own selection.

“I still don’t know who killed Zac Osborne and Colin Hackett. One died for the notebook, the other for the photographs. Same shooter. Same MO.”

“You have a theory.”

“Not really, but I keep coming back to the Americans. They’ve known about the notebook all along.”

“Maybe they’re investigating the money-laundering.”

“Maybe they killed Zac Osborne and Colin Hackett and Richard North.”

“You’re talking about state-sponsored murder.”

“You’re right. Stupid idea. I’m sure they’re all registered patriots.”

“I’m being serious.”

“So am I.”

Joe falls silent. Ruiz fills the void. “Richard North told his secretary he’d done something terrible. He was investigating some of the transactions.”

“Cold feet?”

“Maybe he developed a conscience.” Ruiz pats his pockets. “You got any spare change? I got to make a call.”

He taps the coins against the metal box, waiting for Capable Jones to answer.

“Been trying to reach you?”

“Problem?”

“That thing you wanted. Brendan Sobel has booked a restaurant for this evening at nine o’clock-a private dining room at Trellini’s in Little Thames Street. You want me to make a booking?”

“A table for two.”