“Yes.” I can’t stop my voice from shaking. Ruiz steps in front of me and slides the drawer shut.
“You shouldn’t be in here by yourself. Should have waited for me.” The words are weighted.
I mumble an apology and wash my hands at the sink, feeling his eyes upon me. I need to say something.
“What about Liverpool? Did you find out who…”
“The flatmate is being brought to London by the local CID. We should have a positive ID by this afternoon.”
“So you have a name?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead I’m hustled along the corridor and made to wait as he collects the postmortem notes and photographs. Then I follow him through the subterranean maze until we emerge, via double doors, into a parking garage.
All the while I’m thinking, I should say something now. I should tell him. Yet a separate track in my brain is urging, It doesn’t matter anymore. He knows her name. What’s past is past. It’s ancient history.
“I promised you breakfast.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Well I am.”
We walk under blackened railway arches and down a narrow alley. Ruiz seems to know all the backstreets. He is remarkably light on his feet for a big man, dodging puddles and dog feces.
The large front windows of the café are steamed up with condensation, or it could be a film of fat from the chip fryer. A bell jangles above our heads as we enter. The fug of cigarette smoke and warm air is overpowering.
The place is pretty much empty, except for two sunken-cheeked old men in cardigans playing chess in the corner and an Indian cook with a yolk-stained apron. It’s late morning but the café serves breakfast all day. Baked beans, chips, eggs, bacon and mushrooms— in any combination. Ruiz takes a table near the window.
“What do you want?”
“Just coffee.”
“The coffee is crap.”
“Then I’ll have tea.”
He orders a full English with a side order of toast and two pots of tea. Then he fumbles for a cigarette in his jacket pocket before mumbling something about forgetting his phone.
“I didn’t take any pleasure from dragging you into this,” he says.
“Yes you did.”
“Well, just a little.” His eyes seem to smile, but there is no sense of self-congratulation. The impatience I noticed yesterday has gone. He’s more relaxed and philosophical.
“Do you know how you become a detective inspector, Professor O’Loughlin?”
“No.”
“It used to be based on how many crimes you solved and people you banged up. Nowadays it depends on how few complaints you generate and whether you can stick to a budget. I’m a dinosaur to these people. Ever since the Police and Criminal Evidence Act came into force my sort of policeman has been living on borrowed time.
“Nowadays they talk about proactive policing. Do you know what that means? It means the number of detectives they put on a case depends on how big the tabloid headlines are. The media runs these investigations now— not the police.”
“I haven’t read anything about this case,” I say.
“That’s because everyone thinks the victim is a prostitute. If she turns out to be Florence bloody Nightingale or the daughter of a duke I’ll have forty detectives instead of twelve. The assistant chief constable will take personal charge because of the ‘complex nature of the case.’ Every public statement will have to be vetted by his office and every line of inquiry approved.”
“Why did they give it to you?”
“Like I said, they thought we were dealing with a dead prostitute. ‘Give it to Ruiz,’ they said. ‘He’ll bang heads together and put the fear of God into the pimps.’ So what if any of them object. My file is so full of complaint letters that Internal Affairs has given me my own filing cabinet.”
A handful of Japanese tourists pass the window and pause. They look at the blackboard menu and then at Ruiz, before deciding to keep going. Breakfast arrives, with a knife and fork wrapped in a paper napkin. Ruiz squeezes brown sauce over his eggs and begins cutting them up. I try not to watch as he eats.
“You look like you got a question,” he says between mouthfuls.
“It’s about her name.”
“You know the drill. I’m not supposed to release details until we get a positive ID and inform the next of kin.”
“I just thought…” I don’t finish the sentence.
Ruiz takes a sip of tea and butters his toast.
“Catherine Mary McBride. She turned twenty-seven a month ago. A community nurse, but you knew that already. According to her flatmate she was in London for a job interview.”
Even knowing the answer doesn’t lessen the shock. Poor Catherine. This is when I should tell him. I should have done it straight away. Why do I have to rationalize everything? Why can’t I just say things when they enter my head?
Leaning over his plate Ruiz scoops baked beans onto a corner of toast. His fork stops in midair in front of his open mouth.
“Why did you say, ‘Poor Catherine’?”
I must have been speaking out loud. My eyes tell the rest of the story. Ruiz lets the fork clatter onto his plate. Anger and suspicion snake through his thoughts.
“You knew her.”
It’s an accusation rather than a statement. He’s angry.
“I didn’t recognize her at first. That drawing yesterday could have been almost anyone. I thought you were looking for a prostitute.”
“And today?”
“Her face was so swollen and bruised. She seemed so… so… vandalized I didn’t want to look at her. It wasn’t until I read about the scars in the postmortem report that I considered the possibility. That’s why I needed a second look at the body… just to be sure.”
Ruiz’s eyes haven’t left mine. “And when were you thinking of telling me all this?”
“I intended to tell you…”
“When? This isn’t a game of twenty questions, Professor. I’m not supposed to guess what you know.”
“Catherine was a former patient of mine. Psychologists have a duty of care not to reveal confidential information about patients.”
Ruiz laughs mockingly. “She’s dead, Professor— in case you missed that small detail. You conceal information from me again and I’ll put my boot so far up your ass your breath will smell of shoe polish.” He pushes his plate to the center of the table. “Start talking— why was Catherine McBride a patient?”
“The scars on her wrists and thighs— she deliberately cut herself.”
“A suicide attempt?”
“No.”
I can see Ruiz struggling with this.
Leaning closer, I try to explain how people react when overwhelmed by confusion and negative emotions. Some drink too much. Others overeat or beat their wives or kick the cat. And a surprising number hold their hands against a hot plate or slice open their skin with a razor blade.
It’s an extreme coping mechanism. They talk about their inner pain being turned outward. By giving it a physical manifestation they find it easier to deal with.
“What was Catherine trying to cope with?”
“Mainly low self-esteem.”
“Where did you meet her?”
“She worked as a nurse at the Royal Marsden Hospital. I was a consultant there.”
Ruiz swirls the tea in his cup, staring at the leaves as though they might tell him something. Suddenly, he pushes back his chair, hitches his trousers and stands.
“You’re an odd fucker, you know that?” A five-pound note flutters onto the table and I follow him outside. A dozen paces along the footpath he turns to confront me.
“OK, tell me this. Am I investigating a murder or did this girl kill herself?”
“She was murdered.”