Michael Robotham - The Wreckage

Parking the Mercedes outside the retirement home, Ruiz and the professor go through the reception and find Daj in her room. She is watching a daytime chat show where people seem to be shouting at each other and throwing chairs.

“Hello, Daj, do you remember Joe?”

“Are you a doctor?” she asks suspiciously.

“No, I’m a friend of Vincent’s.”

“I have a son called Vincent.”

“That’s me, Daj,” says Ruiz.

She looks at him suspiciously. The skin of her face seems to be covered in finely lined tissue paper and her hands are bony branches. She’s wearing a floral dress and a short jacket. The nurses have helped her put on lipstick.

“Are you ready, Daj?”

“Where are we going?”

“To the church.”

“I don’t like churches.”

“It’s the Catholics you don’t like,” says Ruiz, and then to Joe, “A priest comes round once a week and Daj tries to convert him to atheism.” He looks back at his mother. “Claire is getting married.”

“Claire?”

“Your granddaughter.”

“She’s too young.”

“She’s thirty-two.”

“Nonsense. I want to talk to Michael.”

“Michael’s not here.”

“Is he coming to the wedding?”

“We’re not sure.”

Ruiz feels a pang of guilt. He hasn’t seen his son in nearly four years. They talk every three or four months, snatched conversations from whatever port Michael has washed up into after a month at sea. Duty phone calls, he calls them, but every time Ruiz feels aggrieved, he remembers his own youth, working as a young police officer in London, rarely phoning home, visiting even less often.

“Bring a cardigan-it gets cool of an evening.”

“Where are we going?”

“The church.”

“I hate churches.”

“I know that, Daj, but Claire is getting married.”

This is how the conversation doubles back on itself and loops into elaborate knots that confuse Daj even more as they drive across the Thames, heading north to Primrose Hill.

Claire and Phillip have a large terraced house with glimpses of the park. It’s only a short walk to the church. One of Claire’s girlfriends opens the door. A bridesmaid. Gina. She’s an old school friend, now married. Ruiz can picture her being eight years old, dancing around Claire’s bedroom to Madonna songs.

The other bridesmaids are in various stages of dress, being fawned over by a hairdresser, a beautician and a stylist. There are yards of lace and flashes of bare shoulder.

Women in groups have always intimidated Ruiz. Their mystery increases exponentially when they’re together, laughing and exchanging news. Champagne can also be a factor. Perhaps his anxiety dates back to his youth when girls would congregate in groups on the far side of the dance floor and necessitate the “longest walk” and a mumbled request to dance. Success meant a few minutes of touching a female waist and hand. Failure meant public humiliation.

“Can I see Claire?” he asks.

“She’s still getting ready.”

Gina knocks on the bedroom door. “It’s your dad.”

“Is he drunk?” comes a voice from inside.

Gina addresses Ruiz. “You’re not drunk, are you?”

“No.”

“I don’t think he’s drunk,” she yells back.

The door opens. A breath catches in Ruiz’s throat. For a split second his mind flashes back and he sees Laura standing in their hotel room, breathless and giggling, having been carried across the threshold.

“Well?” asks Claire. She completes a twirl. “It’s Mummy’s wedding dress. I had them copy the design.”

“You look beautiful,” he says, struggling to find words.

“And you’re very handsome.”

She kisses his cheek. Behind her in the room is another vision from his past. Miranda Louise Mills. Ex-wife number three. Dressed all in black.

Miranda straightens his tie and Ruiz glances at her delicate hands and past them to her cleavage. Ex-wives should be fat and frumpy. Not like this.

“Have you heard from Michael?” she asks.

Ruiz shakes his head.

“Maybe he’ll surprise us.”

Claire gives him a pained smile that says, I’m not a child any more, Daddy, you don’t have to lie to me.

Ruiz reaches into his pocket and pulls out a creased envelope and a small wooden box with a hinged lid.

“I have something for you,” he says. “It was given to me a long while ago with very specific instructions that I was to give it to you on your wedding day.”

Claire can hear the slight tremor in his voice. “It was your mother who gave it to me. It belonged to her mother and her grandmother, so it goes a long way back, and now it’s yours.” He opens the box. Claire’s hand flutters to her mouth.

Ruiz continues, “I think she thought maybe you might wear it today… as the something old, you know, but maybe you have the dress now, so you don’t need anything else.”

Claire shakes her head and holds the envelope in trembling hands. She looks at Miranda and back to her father and then at the envelope. Opening it nervously, she unfolds the handwritten page and turns away as she reads the letter.

When she finishes, she folds it again, holding it against her heart.

“Now look what you’ve done,” she says. “I’m going to cry and my make-up is going to run. I’ll look like a panda.”

“Pandas are very cute,” says Ruiz.

Miranda takes the hair-comb and slides it in Claire’s hair, tucking it beneath the veil. Then she ushers Ruiz into the hallway and gives him a kiss on the lips, before rubbing the lipstick away with her thumb.

“You haven’t returned any of my calls.”

“Were they urgent?”

“It’s called being polite.”

“I took you to dinner a fortnight ago.”

“To that tacky fish restaurant-the meal left me faster than a fire drill.”

“I thought you’d lost weight.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere.” She punches his shoulder. “Go outside. We’re not ready.”

Ruiz doesn’t need a second invitation. Retreating to the front steps, he takes a boiled sweet from a round metal tin in his pocket and sucks on it thoughtfully. Michael should be at his sister’s wedding. What excuse will he give this time? Bad weather. Missed flights. Forgotten dates. Michael is his father’s son. Ruiz wishes that he could warn him that one day he’ll regret spending so much time away from his family. Maybe that’s wishful thinking.

There are no bridal cars. They’re going to walk to St. Mark’s, which is just around the corner; a true wedding procession through the streets of Primrose Hill.

Joe takes the step next to him and they sit comfortably in silence, listening to the champagne corks being popped inside. Ruiz notices a car parked on the corner. It’s the same dark blue Audi that was outside Holly’s flat in South London. Two figures are visible behind the dark-tinted windows. Ruiz feels a pain in his chest like someone has placed a fist against his breastbone and is twisting knuckles into the cartilage. This is his daughter’s wedding day.

Without a word, he stands, walks down the steps and crosses the road. He taps on the driver’s window. After a long pause it glides down. The man behind the wheel has close-cropped hair and a three-day growth. His shirt is rolled up revealing a long pink scar running down the inside of his forearm.

Ruiz can smell the new leather of the seats. “Can I help you?” he asks.

“No, sirree.”

He’s American. A southerner.

“Are you waiting for me?”

“We’re just waiting.”

His passenger is younger, also unshaven, with blond highlights. His sunglasses are hinged on the frames and flipped upwards like wiper blades. His left hand is tucked out of sight below the level of his thigh.