He was gone for so long that he lost touch with Claire and Michael. One night, as he lay in bed, listening to distant gunfire, he tried to picture the twins but could only see holes in his mind, blank spaces. He had forgotten what they looked like. That’s when he realized that he had to get out of that terrible place where blood ran in the gutters and bullets tore through children. If he didn’t escape he’d be swallowed by the blank spaces, the black holes.
That was nearly twenty years ago. Water under the bridge. Blood. Washed away.
Sitting on a bench, Ruiz makes a phone call. He leaves a voicemail message for Vorland asking him to trace the number plate on the dark blue Audi and the mobile phone number left beneath his windscreen. He hangs up and notices a rowing eight skim past him with oars dripping, facing backwards but going forwards. His life feels like that-as though he’s looking into the past, seeking answers to old questions, but getting further and further from them.
Back at the house, the locks have been changed and the broken glass replaced with plywood sheets. The uniformed police have been and gone, taking statements but showing little interest. Campbell Smith arrives unexpectedly to survey the damage, walking through the house like a bailiff deciding what furniture is worth seizing.
Ruiz tells him about the envelope of cash and his conversation with the mysterious American who said that Holly Knight had the key.
“Could be a key of heroin,” says Campbell.
“I don’t think he was talking about drugs. He offered me twenty-five grand if I gave her up.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him I’d think about it.”
Campbell smirks. “Maybe that’s why you wouldn’t press charges and invited her home.”
Ruiz doesn’t react. He knows Campbell is trying to wind him up.
The commander fills the silence. “Money, narcotics and violence-ticks all the boxes for me. Holly Knight was a junkie’s girlfriend.”
“She’s a victim.”
“She’s a liar.”
“She needs protection.”
“We tried to protect her, remember? But you got her released. Now if she wants our help, she can come and ask for it. She can start by telling us the truth about Zac Osborne. You tell her that.”
Campbell tears a kitchen towel from a roll and wipes his hands, folding the paper into a neat square before placing it on the sink. He leaves without shaking Ruiz’s hand, pausing at the makeshift front door to examine the damage.
One parting comment: “Enjoy your retirement.”
Ruiz sits at the kitchen table, staring at the twisted grain in the wood. His stepfather made the table after the 1987 storms brought down dozens of oak trees on the farm. Sturdy, heavy, solid, it reminds him of the man.
He kneels in front of the sink and opens a cupboard, pushing aside bottles of floor cleaner, brass polish and old rags. There is a loose brick at the very back, with worn edges. Wedging his fingers at the corners he pulls out a stained rag with something heavy wrapped inside. A Glock 17, oiled, gleaming. Unused since he last took it to the range three, no four, years ago.
Setting it on the table he goes to the freezer and has to move ice trays and a leg of lamb to reach the frozen peas. Opening the packet, he takes out a zip-loc plastic bag with two boxes of ammunition.
He weighs the Glock in his hand, enjoying the way it fits into his palm. It’s his old service pistol. He thought about getting rid of it when he retired, but there were too many skeletons rattling in his cupboards to feel completely safe. He doesn’t like guns, but they serve a purpose. They speed things up and spell things out and they win arguments without words.
Carefully loading the ammunition clip, he snaps it into place and slides the pistol into a leather holster that fits over his shoulder. He tries it on. Adjusting the straps.
Picking up his car keys, he puts in another call to Vorland. He’s gone for the day. Ruiz knows where to find him.
South of the river, opposite Battersea Park, a fitness center full of mirrors and narcissists; men with no necks and bulging forearms, women with hard bodies and little left that is feminine.
Vorland steps off a running machine. Ever since his heart attack he’s been exercising as though death were only one step behind him, walking in his shadow. He slides along a weight bench, legs apart, arms braced beneath a bar carrying close to his body weight. Blowing out his cheeks, he starts his next set, sucking in air, grunting. Eight… nine… ten. Slowing down. The veins on the back of his neck are poking out, blue and hard.
“You want me to spot you?” asks Ruiz.
“I’m good.”
“Suit yourself.”
Vorland does another four reps and drops the weight bar into the cradle.
“You didn’t return my call.”
“So you came looking.”
“I couldn’t wait.”
Vorland wipes sweat from his eyes. “How did you find me?”
“You’re a creature of habit.”
“Maybe I didn’t want to get back to you.”
“Care to elaborate?”
“That number you wanted me to run-the dark blue Audi-drew a blank.”
“It’s unregistered?”
“No.”
“I don’t understand.”
“There’s a lock on the information. I don’t have the security clearance.”
“There’s hardly anyone above you.”
“There’s always someone with a higher clearance.”
Vorland drapes the towel around his neck. “So I rang a mate of mine who works for Special Branch. I asked him if they were running an op in Hammersmith this morning.”
“What did he say?”
“He told me he couldn’t talk. Then he told me not to call him again. About an hour later I had a visit from a grey suit. Said he was from the police complaints commission. He wanted to know why I was accessing the DVLA computer. I said I was following up a tip-off. He wanted to know the details.”
“What did you tell him?”
“The truth. I told him your house got broken into and you wanted to know if it was a special ops-MI5 or MI6.”
“Did he react?”
“No.”
“So what do you think?”
“I think you should tread softly on this one.”
“I’m very light on my feet.”
“I’m being serious, Vincent. Don’t cross these people. I’ve seen how they operate. In South Africa, during the independence struggle, they simply made people disappear-and I’m not talking about the blacks. They were targeting the white journalists, sympathetic judges, social workers, doctors… You don’t just lose a career if you cross these guys.”
“That was South Africa.”
“You remember Nick Maher?”
“Yeah.”
“He worked undercover for SOCA investigating people-smuggling. He arrested one of the ringleaders, had him bang to rights, but MI5 came in and said the guy was one of their informants, so this guy walked. Maher decided to leak the story. Big spread in the Sunday Times, an Insight Team investigation.”
“What happened?”
“A month later someone found a kilo of heroin in Maher’s garden shed and sixty grand in his wife’s bank account. Nick denied any knowledge. Two weeks later he jumped in front of a train at Clapham Junction.”
Ruiz and Vorland look at each other, something knowing and sad in both their eyes.
“Don’t contact me again,” says Vorland. “Not for a long while…”
4
From an office overlooking Tower Bridge, above the grey, grey river, the only signs of vegetation are smudges of green between the buildings. Brendan Sobel looks at his wristwatch and then at the row of whisky glasses gleaming on the shelf above the drinks cabinet.
It’s too late for lunch, too early for sundowners. In Washington it is mid-morning. They’ll have finished their egg white omelets and skinny lattes, ready to make decisions about current wars and future conflicts, discussing “ops,” “intel” and “assets.”