“You didn't see them?”
“Who?”
“The people on the boat.”
“What boat?” I look at him blankly.
His voice suddenly grows louder. “You were found floating in the Thames shot to shit and less than a mile away there was a boat that looked like a floating abattoir. What happened?”
“I don't remember.”
“You don't remember the massacre?”
“I don't remember the fucking boat.”
Campbell has dropped any pretense of affability. He paces the room, bunching his fists and trying to control himself.
“This isn't good, Vincent. This isn't pretty. Did you kill anyone?”
“Today?”
“Don't joke with me. Did you discharge your firearm? Your service pistol was signed out of the station armory. Are we going to find bodies?”
Bodies? Is that what happened?
Campbell rubs his hands through his hair in frustration.
“I can't tell you the crap that's flying already. There's going to be a full inquiry. The Commissioner is demanding answers. The press will have a fucking field day. The blood of three people was found on that boat, including yours. Forensics says at least one of them must have died. They found brains and skull fragments.”
The walls seem to dip and sway. Maybe it's the morphine or the closeness of the air. How could I have forgotten something like that?
“What were you doing on that boat?”
“It must have been a police operation—”
“No,” he declares angrily, all pretense of friendship gone. “You weren't working a case. This wasn't a police operation. You were on your own.”
We have an old-fashioned staring contest. I own this one. I might never blink again. Morphine is the answer. God, it feels good.
Finally Campbell slumps into a chair and plucks a handful of grapes from a brown paper bag beside the bed.
“What is the last thing you remember?”
We sit in silence as I try to recover shreds of a dream. Pictures float in and out of my head, dim and then sharp: a yellow life buoy, Marilyn Monroe . . .
“I remember ordering a pizza.”
“Is that it?”
“Sorry.”
Staring at the gauze dressing on my hand, I marvel at how the missing finger feels itchy. “What was I working on?”
Campbell shrugs. “You were on leave.”
“Why?”
“You needed a rest.”
He's lying to me. Sometimes I think he forgets how far back we go. We did our training together at the Police Staff College, Bramshill. And I introduced him to his wife, Maureen, at a barbecue thirty-five years ago. She has never completely forgiven me. I don't know what upsets her most—my three marriages or the fact that I pawned her off on someone else.
It's been a long while since Campbell called me buddy and we haven't shared a beer since he made Chief Superintendent. He's a different man. No better or no worse, just different.
He spits a grape seed into his hand. “You always thought you were better than me, Vincent, but I got promoted ahead of you.”
You were a brownnoser.
“I know you think I'm a brownnoser.” (He's reading my mind.) “But I was just smarter. I made the right contacts and let the system work for me instead of fighting against it. You should have retired three years ago, when you had the chance. Nobody would have thought any less of you. We would have given you a big send-off. You could have settled down, played a bit of golf, maybe even saved your marriage.”
I wait for him to say something else but he just stares at me with his head cocked to one side.
“Vincent, would you mind if I made an observation?” He doesn't wait for my answer. “You put a pretty good face on things considering all that's happened, but the feeling I get from you is . . . well . . . you're a sad man. But it's something more than that . . . you're angry.”
Embarrassment prickles like heat rash under my hospital gown.
“Some people find solace in religion and others have people they can talk to. I know that's not your style. Look at you! You hardly see your kids. You live alone . . . Now you've gone and fucked up your career. I can't help you anymore. I told you to leave this alone.”
“What was I supposed to leave alone?”
He doesn't answer. Instead he picks up his hat and polishes the brim with his sleeve. Any moment now he's going to turn and tell me what he means. Only he doesn't; he keeps on walking out the door and along the corridor.
My grapes have also gone. The stalks look like dead trees on a crumpled brown-paper plain. Beside them a basket of flowers has started to wilt. The begonias and tulips are losing their petals like fat fan dancers and dusting the top of the table with pollen. A small white card embossed with a silver scroll is wedged between the stems. I can't read the message.
Some bastard shot me! It should be etched in my memory. I should be able to relive it over and over again like those whining victims on daytime talk shows who have personal-injury lawyers on speed dial. Instead, I remember nothing. And no matter how many times I squeeze my eye shut and bang my fists on my forehead it doesn't change.
The really strange thing is what I imagine I remember. For instance I recall seeing silhouettes against bright lights; masked men wearing plastic shower caps and paper slippers, who were discussing cars, pension plans and football results. Of course this could have been a near-death experience. I was given a glimpse of Hell and it was full of surgeons.
Perhaps if I start with the simple stuff, I may get to the point where I can remember what happened to me. Staring at the ceiling, I silently spell my name: Vincent Yanko Ruiz; born December 11, 1945. I am a Detective Inspector of the London Metropolitan Police and the head of the Serious Crime Group (Western Division). I live on Rainville Road, Fulham . . .
I used to say I would pay good money to forget most of my life. Now I want the memories back.
2
I only know two people who have been shot. One was a chap I went through police training college with. His name was Angus Lehmann and he wanted to be first at everything—first in his exams, first to the bar, first to get promoted . . .
A few years back he led a raid on a drug factory in Brixton and was first through the door. An entire magazine from a semiautomatic took his head clean off. There's a lesson in that somewhere.
A farmer in our valley called Bruce Curley is the other one. He shot himself in the foot when he tried to chase his wife's lover out the bedroom window. Bruce was fat with gray hair sprouting from his ears and Mrs. Curley used to cower like a dog whenever he raised a hand. Shame he didn't shoot himself between the eyes.
During my police training we did a firearms course. The instructor was a Geordie with a head like a billiard ball and he took against me from the first day because I suggested the best way to keep a gun barrel clean was to cover it with a condom.
We were standing on the live firing range, freezing our bollocks off. He pointed out the cardboard cutout at the end of the range. It was a silhouette of a crouching gun-wielding villain with a white circle painted over his heart and another on his head.
Taking a service pistol the Geordie crouched down with his legs apart and squeezed off six shots—a heartbeat between each of them—every one grouped in the upper circle.
Flicking the smoking clip into his hand, he said, “Now I don't expect any of you to do that but at least try to hit the fucking target. Who wants to go first?”
Nobody volunteered.
“How about you, condom boy?”
The class laughed.
I stepped forward and raised my revolver. I hated how good it felt in my hand. The instructor said, “No, not like that, keep both eyes open. Crouch. Count and squeeze.”