Michael Robotham - The Wreckage

“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.”

Late evening, the weather has turned. Wind thrashes branches against the sides of houses and rattles rain against the windows. Keeping to the shadows, he approaches the house from the darkest end of the street, using the trees to shield himself. Rain sluices off the brim of his baseball cap as he studies the rear facade, noticing the downpipes and windows. There is a light on in the upstairs bathroom, a woman moving behind the frosted glass. Steam rolling across the light, fogging the mirror, condensing on the tiles.

Leaves cling to his wet shoulders, making him look like an extension of the hedge, more plant than animal, more animal than human. He doesn’t like the set-up. He prefers long-range targets viewed through the scope of a rifle.

She has read her little boy a story. Put him to bed. Brought him a glass of water.

Peering through a downstairs window, he looks for the security panel on the wall. It’s not armed. The broken window did its job.

Gloves on. The key. Upstairs.

Elizabeth soaks in the bath, her eyes closed, her head resting on a towel. She hears something outside and holds herself, listening. The wind and rain are like watery insects in her ears. A car engine starts then disappears down the street.

When the water begins to cool she pushes herself up, wrapping a robe around her body. She pauses at the fogged mirror, rubbing a hole to examine her face. There are lines she hasn’t noticed before. Delicate cracks like soft pencil marks.

Pulling on a nightdress, she crawls into bed, asleep almost immediately, dreaming she can feel North’s warm body next to her. In the early years of their marriage, before Rowan was born, North would sometimes wake her in the middle of the night, kissing her nipples and stroking her stomach and thighs. She would moan and smile with drowsy expectation, her legs opening almost instinctively.