The Wreckage: A Thriller (11 page)

DS Thompson is shouting in her face. She can feel the flecks of spit land on her eyelids and lips. She wipes them away with her sleeve.

“We can do this the easy way or the hard way,” he says.

“There is no easy way,” she replies.

“What?”

“People say there’s an easy way, but there never is.”

DS Thompson slaps the folder closed and mutters something to a col eague about her being “retarded.” He leaves her alone for a few minutes. It might be longer.

Then he comes back into the room.

“Get up.”

She’s taken outside, along a corridor, down the stairs to a parking area. A police car is waiting. The doors open.

“Where are you taking me?”

“To identify a body.”

15

LONDON

Ruiz splashes water on his face and tries to wash the coppery taste from his mouth. Leaning over the gutter, he empties the rest of the plastic bottle over his head. The police released him at three in the morning. Instead of going home, he drove to Westminster Public Mortuary in Horseferry Road.

Now it’s just gone seven. The morning is bathed in a faint glow.

He’s listening to the radio. Stories about Iraq and Afghanistan. A US Senate hearing into Goldman Sachs. Accusations of reckless greed. Claims and counter-claims.

A swinging door opens and a pale figure emerges. Gerard Noonan is in his sixties with short-cropped blond hair and no discernible eyebrows. His skin is so pale he seems to glow in the shadows, hence his nickname, “The Albino.”

When Ruiz was heading the Serious Crime Squad he worked more than a dozen cases with Noonan, a veteran Home Office pathologist, who enjoyed far better relationships with the dead than the living. Unmarried. Childless. Noonan has always struck Ruiz as being borderline autistic because of his social ineptness. The only sentient creatures that he relates to are horses—the thoroughbred variety that run round in circles carrying brightly colored leprechauns.

Ruiz fal s in step.

“Gerard.”

“Vincent.”

“Al -nighter?”

“People don’t die to a timetable.”

“How thoughtless of them. Had breakfast?”

“Not hungry.”

“Coffee then?”

“Are you going to fol ow me al the way home?”

“Depends.”

The café is a family business run by Italians with an endless supply of “cousins” working the tables and a barista who seems to have four arms. There are paintings on the wal s of fat little nymphs playing in a forest.

Noonan orders a coffee. Ruiz wants the ful English with everything fried, including the bread.

“I do autopsies on guys like you.”

“We keep you in work.”

The pathologist pushes up his sleeves. Ruiz is amazed at how Noonan has almost no color on his arms. It’s like someone has drained his blood or replaced it with milk.

“You autopsied an ex-soldier.”

“Might have done.”

“I cal ed it in.”

“How much you want to hear before you eat?”

“Just get to it.”

Noonan puts three sugars in his coffee. “Let’s just say he was one tough bastard.”

“Meaning?”

“There was a lot of penile and testicular damage. He had his genitals remodeled with a set of long-nose pliers.”

“He was tortured?”

“Went every round. I don’t know what information he had but I hope he begged to give it up. I hope that’s what happened.” Ruiz can feel his testicles retract. He looks at the side of Noonan’s face. The pathologist is gazing out the window at pedestrians, huddled beneath umbrel as, spil ing from Victoria Station.

“How did he die?”

“Suffocated. The bul et was insurance.”

“A professional hit?”

“Looks like it.”

“Gangland?”

“Maybe.”

“Did you do a tox screen?”

“Results wil take a few days.”

Ruiz scratches his unshaven chin, feeling the dirt between the hair fol icles. “The police are saying it was a drug-related hit. What do you think?” Noonan shrugs.

“Did they find any drug paraphernalia in the flat?”

“No.”

“Any needle marks?”

“None.”

“The guy was a war hero.”

“I heard.”

Noonan swal ows the last of his coffee. “I’m too old for this shit.”

“For what?”

“To understand what some people do.”

Hol y Knight sits in the back of the police car, letting the reflections of city buildings wash over her pupils. She’s dirty and tired and her shoulder aches where she was slammed against the wal during the fight.

The police car pul s into a wal ed yard with iron gates and razor wire. Hol y is escorted through a door and along a wide corridor with a polished floor. It smel s like a hospital with something missing. Patients. Hope.

Thompson makes her walk quickly, hustling her along without touching her.

“Wait here,” he says, leaving her in a room with two smal sofas, a coffee table, water cooler and box of tissues. A curtain screens one wal .

Alone, Hol y thinks about Zac. He had saved her. They had saved each other. Normal y she didn’t get close to people. It was safer that way. Never pat stray dogs or they’l fol ow you home. Her mother told her that.

She and Zac met at a rehabilitation center, which is a fancy term for a psych ward. Hol y was undergoing tests. Zac was being treated for post-traumatic stress. Zac didn’t treat her like the other men in her life. He didn’t care about her history. That was a year ago. Long enough to fal out of love. It hadn’t happened. Closing her eyes, she can picture his stretched angular face and the blur of big freckles on his shoulder blades.

DS Thompson joins her in the room. Without any fanfare or warning, he pul s open the curtain. Zac is laid out on a metal trol ey covered with a white sheet from the neck down.

Bruised. Pale. Changed. It’s amazing what a breath can do. Fil a chest. Fire a heart. Bring color to a face.

“Can you confirm the name of the deceased?”

Hol y whispers, “Zac Osborne.”

The curtain is drawn closed. Hol y sits on the sofa, feeling herself getting smal er and smal er like Alice in Wonderland. DS Thompson is talking to her. Something about Hol y’s grief has melted the ice within him and his attitude has changed. Mel owed.

“Do you have somewhere to stay?” he asks. “We can’t let you go unless we know how to reach you.”

A voice answers him from the doorway. “She can stay with me.” Ruiz is holding a coffee for her. “I have a spare room.” Thompson looks at him incredulously. “Two nights ago you offered her a bed and she robbed you.”

“That was two nights ago.”

Ruiz addresses Hol y. “You can’t go back to your flat. And the police won’t let you go unless you give them an address.” Thompson interrupts again. “Why are you doing this?”

“That’s my business.”

He sniffs hard, trying to get a handle on Ruiz, who is stil focused on Hol y.

“It’s up to you. Stay here or come home with me. I don’t bear grudges.”

Words. Promises. Everything is happening too quickly for her. She nods but doesn’t look at Ruiz. Then she fol ows him down the corridor, taking two steps to each one of his.

“You’re asking for trouble,” yel s Thompson.

Ruiz doesn’t answer.

“I’l need to talk to her again.”

“You know where to find me.”

The Merc edges out of a parking spot and joins a stream of traffic. Brake lights blink between passing cars. Ruiz glances at Hol y. Her eyes are closed. Her hair is drawn back and she’s wearing a man’s coat because her own clothes are in the lab. She’s a pretty thing, preposterously young. It’s a shame about the piercings.

“You don’t like the police very much?”

She doesn’t answer.

“I’m not a copper anymore.”

Silence.

“DS Thompson wanted to have you sectioned. Do you know what that means? He thinks you’re a couple of channels short of basic cable.” Again he gets no response.

“You don’t have to be frightened of me.”

“I’m not frightened.”

“I’m not going to cause you any trouble.”

“Don’t even try.”

She is five foot five, weighs 125 pounds wringing wet, but something in her voice tel s Ruiz that Hol y wouldn’t hesitate to fight.

“I’m not going to fuck you,” she says matter-of-factly.

Ruiz glances at her in amazement.

“Don’t give me that look,” she says. “You’re a man. You’re al the same, unless you’re gay, which you’re not. Maybe you’re too old.”

“Somebody should scrub out your potty mouth.”

She gets a look of alarm. “Don’t even try it!”

They drive in silence through a hinterland of council houses and industrial estates, staying south of the river through Clapham and Wandsworth. The big old Mercedes has a soft ride.

It’s the sort of car Hol y used to throw up in as a kid. She sits as far away from Ruiz as possible with one hand on the door handle, sneaking occasional glances at him, contemplating what sort of monster he would turn into. He doesn’t look much like a policeman, even a former one. He seems big and slow, yet she saw how quickly he could move.

“Why are you doing this?” she asks.

“It’s my good deed for the day.”

“You’re lying.”

“I want my stuff back—the hair-comb you stole.”

“I don’t have it.”

“Where?”

“I dropped it at the flat.”

Ruiz nods. “Did you see the guy who kil ed Zac?”

Hol y nods.

“Would you recognize him again?”

“Yeah.”

“Describe him to me.”

She mumbles, “Mid-thirties, dark hair, your height, but thinner.”

“What color eyes?”

“It was dark.”

They drive in silence for another while, pausing at red lights. Ruiz glances at Hol y. Only half her face is visible. Goose bumps on her arms.

“Why?”

“Huh?”

“Why did this guy hurt Zac?”

She doesn’t answer.

“Did you owe someone money?”

“No.”

“The police think it was a drug deal gone wrong.”

“They’re lying! Zac didn’t touch the stuff—not for a long while. He got clean. Went to meetings.”

“Was he dealing?”

“No fucking way.”

Hol y brings her knees up to her chest, resting her chin on them. Looks even younger.

“Sooner or later you have to level with someone, Hol y.”

“I’m tel ing the truth.” Her eyes float.

“So you’re saying Zac wasn’t using.”

“Not for a long time.”

Ruiz raises his voice but remains composed. “Why should I believe you?”

She doesn’t answer. She’s staring at the passing parade of Londoners.

“Are you using?”

“No.”

“I saw you sniffling and snuffling.”

“I got a cold.” She tugs her hair back from her face, glaring at him. “You’re not my father, so don’t start lecturing me. Just drop me on the next corner. I don’t have to put up with this shit.”

“Why won’t you talk to the police?”

“Been there, done that, bought the T-shirt.”

“That bad?”

“Nothing good.”

16

LONDON

The Courier wakes in a bed and breakfast hotel in Lancaster Gate. There is a girl sleeping next to him, snoring softly, hair a mess, eyes smudged.

He kicks her.

“What was that for?”

“Your wake-up cal .”

“You paid for the night.”

“And now it’s morning.”

Scowling, she slips out of bed and pul s on a G-string, stuffing her bra in the pocket of her long black coat. She bends to buckle her sandals and notices a prayer mat in the corner.

“Are you one of those?”

“What would that be?” There’s a jagged edge to his voice.

“Nothing.”

“I’m a Muslim—does that bother you?”

“No.”

He smiles and rol s on to his feet. She backs away, holding her jacket to her chest. He raises his hand slowly, palm spread, reaching for her face, tracing two fingers down her throat.

Stops. Her windpipe pulses beneath his thumb. Rocking forward imperceptibly, adding pressure, he seals off her airway.

“Do you ever pray?”

She shakes her head.

“Maybe you should.”

Hoarsely, “Please let go.”

Releasing his fingers, he laughs. She ducks under his arm and out the door. He can hear her running down the hal and hammering the button on the lift.