Forty-three years as a copper, thirty-five as a detective, all he has left are the stories: triumphs, tragedies, mistakes and missed opportunities. Some may be worth reading. Most are best left alone.
Ruiz misses the camaraderie of the Met, the sense of purpose, the smell of cigarette smoke and wet overcoats. It was an unreal world, yet it was more real than real, if that makes sense. Important. Frustrating. Over.
Three empty pint glasses are sitting in front of him. It’s growing dark outside, but the streets are still teeming with tourists and diners. London seems more foreign to him every summer-not just because of the influx of visitors, who are mainly Japanese, American and a generic kind of East European. The city is changing. Old haunts disappear. Safe streets become less safe. The heart beats to a different rhythm.
Ruiz notices a girl sitting on her own at a corner table. Her eyes are faded, almost transparent blue like his own and somehow even worldlier. Sullen-faced and pretty, she’s wearing leopard-print leggings, lace-up boots and a white peasant blouse. Her coal-black hair is cut short and curled where it brushes her shoulders and swings when she turns her head, waiting for someone to arrive.
She’s reading a newspaper with a pen in her hand. It’s a copy of The Stage -the theater magazine, the auditions page, looking for work. Checking her watch, she folds the magazine and goes to the bar for another drink.
Her eyes, unnaturally wide, flick from face to face as if rapidly collecting details or assembling a jigsaw puzzle. There are two suits on stools at the bar, junior executive types with their ties at half-mast. They offer to buy her a drink. She declines. One of them motions to her with his forefinger. She steps closer.
“You see that,” he says. “I just made you come with one finger-imagine what I can do with the rest of them.”
A flush of embarrassment colors her cheeks, quickly replaced by anger.
Back at her table, she tries to ignore them, but they follow.
“Why won’t you have a drink with us?”
“I’m waiting for a friend.”
“Is she as pretty as you?”
“No, but he’s bigger than you are.”
One of them snatches the magazine from her and holds it out of her reach. She knows they want her to humiliate herself by trying to retrieve it but she simply waits until they grow bored and give it back to her.
Ruiz is watching, impressed. The little actress is a no-nonsense sort of girl.
Ordering another pint, he goes back to his notes and doesn’t look up again until much later. A man has arrived and is talking to the actress. Perhaps he’s her boyfriend. Tall and loosely strung, he’s wearing a frayed turtleneck, dirty jeans and boots.
They’re arguing. He grabs her by the wrist and tries to make her stand. In the next instant, his fist swings into the side of her head. The blow is so short, sharp and unexpected that nobody in the bar reacts. The girl is holding her face. Wide-eyed. Shocked. The boyfriend is standing over her with his fist clenched, ready to hit her again. Ruiz doesn’t let it happen. Grabbing the upraised hand, he wrenches it backwards, twisting it up the boyfriend’s spine.
“Maybe you should pick on someone your own size.”
“What’s your fucking problem?”
“Honestly? If she weighed another hundred pounds I’d call it even and watch her kick your arse.”
“Fuck you!”
Ruiz twists the arm higher. The boyfriend grunts and rises on to his toes. The main door is only three paces away. Cool air. A wet pavement. Ruiz shoves the boyfriend against a parked car and waits for him to spin, knowing he’s going to fight. At that same moment, one of the barmen makes an appearance, gripping a metal bar. The boyfriend steps aside. Mumbles something. A threat. An insult. Ruiz can’t hear the words but he knows the odds have altered; the chemistry changed. The boyfriend points his finger at Ruiz as though marking him for future reference and then slinks off. Inside the pub someone has filled a towel with ice, which the actress has pressed to the side of her face. Ruiz buys her a drink. Scotch. Neat.
“This will settle your nerves.”
He watches her throat move as she swallows.
“My name is Vincent.”
“Holly.”
“You want to call the police, Holly?”
She shakes her head.
“Show me your cheek.”
She lowers the towel. One side of her face is a little swollen. There’ll be a bruise. Her eyes shift past him, searching the floor.
“My bag!”
“What did it look like?”
“It’s black… with buckles.”
Ruiz helps her search. “What did it have in it?”
“Money. My phone.” She groans. “My keys.”
“Does anyone have a spare set?”
“My boyfriend.”
Ruiz makes her put the ice-towel back on her cheek.
“Is there someone you can call?”
“I don’t have any numbers.”
“Maybe your boyfriend has cooled off by now.”
Holly borrows Ruiz’s mobile. The call goes straight to voicemail. She leaves a message. Apologizing. She shouldn’t have to apologize.
Ruiz gets her another drink. She pushes the hair off her face, hooking it behind her ears. Her accent is from the north.
“So you’re an actress.”
Holly eyes him nervously over the rim of her glass. “What makes you say that?”
“I saw you reading The Stage.”
She shrugs. “Someone left it behind.”
Ruiz wonders why she would lie to him.
“I’ve been all sorts of things-a waitress, a receptionist, a dishwasher, a barmaid-I was even a badger.”
“A badger?”
“I was supposed to be a beaver, but they couldn’t find a beaver costume. It was for a building company at a trade fair. Beavers make stuff in wood, you know, like dams.”
“I can see the connection.”
“Good. You can explain it to me.”
She smiles for the first time. Ruiz notices a small silver teddy bear on a chain around her neck; her piercings, one through her nose, more in her ears.
“Has your boyfriend ever hit you before?”
She shrugs ambivalently. “It’s what unites all men.”
“What does?”
“Violence.”
“Not all men are violent.”
She shrugs again and changes the subject.
“What happened to your finger?”
She points to his missing digit, severed just below the first knuckle on his ring finger, a pale stump where the flesh seems to have folded in on itself.
“It was bitten off by a crocodile.”
“You’re not a very good liar.”
“It was shot off.”
“How did it happen?”
“You believe me then?”
“Yes.”
“Is being shot more believable than being attacked by a crocodile?”
“We live in England. There aren’t many crocodiles.”
“It’s a long, boring story.”
“It doesn’t sound very boring.”
“It was a high-velocity bullet. I took one in the leg and one in the hand.”
“You were a soldier?”
“A detective.”
Concern flashes across her eyes and just as quickly disappears. She starts a new conversation, jumping subjects. Ruiz feels as though he’s being dragged behind a speedboat bumping over the swells. It’s getting late. He has to make a decision.
“What are you going to do, Holly?”
She shakes her head.
“Do you have anywhere to stay?”
“No.”
“You could come back to my place. Make some calls.”
Holly ponders this for a moment. “You live alone?”
“Yes.”
“You’re divorced.”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Yes.”
Outside the temperature has dropped and a breeze sprung up. Holly pulls on a distinctive red jacket with wooden pegs as fasteners and a hood. Pulling it tight around herself, she waits while Ruiz hails a cab and then slides across the seat.