“Not everyone is like you.”
“You think I’m angry?”
“I think you’re furious. I think you wake up in the morning and if you’re not angry you hold a mirror over your mouth to see if you’re still breathing.”
Not rising to the bait, I try to change the subject. I don’t want to talk about Julianne. Instead, I start telling him about Oxford and the Bingham Girls.
He remembers the case. That’s one of the remarkable things about Ruiz-his memory. For him there has never been such a thing as forgetting. Nothing grows hazy or vague over time, fraying at the edges. Some people think photographically or chronologically, but Ruiz connects details like a spider weaving a web, threading one strand to the next. That’s why he can reach back and pluck details out of the air from criminal cases that are five, ten, fifteen years old.
“Natasha McBain’s body was found four days ago in a frozen lake.”
“How long had it been there?”
“Thirty-six hours.”
Ruiz whistles through his teeth. “So she’s been alive all this time. Any idea where?”
“No.”
“How did you get involved?”
“They want me to review the original investigation.”
“And you said no.”
“Correct.”
“But you’re doing it anyway?”
“Yes.”
“Why you?”
“I’m an outsider.”
“Which would normally count against you.”
“The chief constable is concerned about the fall-out. He wants to avoid allegations of a cover-up. It’s not a witch hunt.”
“Not yet,” says Ruiz, swallowing half a mug of tea and pouring himself another. “I remember they suspected a school caretaker and they also looked at Natasha’s old man. Isaac McBain served five years for armed robbery. He got mixed up with a couple of gangster-wannabes called the Connolly brothers who knocked over a payroll in London. When it all went pear-shaped, McBain copped a plea and grassed up the Connolly brothers for a lesser sentence. After the girls went missing, the police thought the brothers might have orchestrated the kidnapping as payback.”
“What happened?”
“They were interviewed; denied everything. Then the abduction theory ran out of steam.”
“What changed?”
“There was a third girl,” he says. “Emily Martinez.”
“The best friend.”
“She told police that Natasha and Piper were planning to run away. I guess everyone expected the girls to turn up once they’d run out of money or had a falling out, but it never happened.”
“And the investigation?”
“The Hadley family kept up the pressure. You must have seen the mother on TV. She can’t pass a camera without making a speech. She’s a good-looking woman, if you’re into hard-bodied, gym rat chic.”
“Not your sort of thing?”
“I like a woman with something to hold on to.”
“Handles?”
“Curves.”
Ruiz clamps his hands on the edge of the table and presses down hard, rising to his feet. He puts two slices of bread in the toaster.
“The chief constable says he knows you,” I tell him. “Thomas Fryer.”
“Ah, yes, Fryer. I once punched him on a rugby field. He got up again, to his credit.”
“He says if I need help he’ll put you on the payroll as a consultant; a thousand pounds a day.”
“He thinks I can be bought.”
“I’d appreciate your help.”
“The trail has been cold for three years.”
“Look upon it as a challenge.”
His lips separate. It might be a grimace. He could be smiling. I cannot tell the difference. Retirement has never sat easily with Ruiz. He’s like an old racehorse put out to pasture: when other horses run, he wants to run too.
Behind him I glimpse Charlie clinging to the door jamb, ghostly pale. Heavy lidded. She’s wearing one of Ruiz’s old shirts.
“If you’re going to puke, Princess, please don’t do it on my floor,” he says.
She scowls at him and slumps at the table, putting her head in her hands.
“How are you feeling?” I ask.
“Like crap.”
Ruiz begins opening cupboard doors, looking for a jar of jam. His bathrobe is too short. Charlie gets a glimpse of buttocks.
“Now I am going to be sick.”
“Don’t be cheeky,” says Ruiz, tugging it lower.
Charlie blinks at me and sighs. “OK, get it over with: the lecture. Tell me, ‘I told you so’ and ‘What were you thinking, Charlie?’ and ‘We raised you better than this, Charlie’ and ‘You’re grounded until you’re eighteen.’ ”
“Twenty-eight,” says Ruiz, who’s enjoying this.
Charlie shoots him a look.
“Just don’t give me the silent treatment. Mum does that. She looks at me with her big sad eyes like I’ve just drowned a sack of kittens.”
“What do you want me to say?”
“Nothing. I screwed up, OK? I lied. I broke the rules. I didn’t listen…”
“And?”
“I’m never drinking again.”
Ruiz pours her a glass of orange juice. Charlie takes a sip and hiccups. “And anyway-it’s not all my fault. If you hadn’t been so unreasonable-never letting me do stuff.”
“You’re fifteen.”
“Almost sixteen.”
“Too young to be in London on your own.”
“You want to keep me locked up like some princess in a tower.”
“When have I locked you up?”
“I’m speaking figuratively.”
Ruiz laughs. “Figuratively speaking, you don’t look much like a princess. Unless you mean Princess Fiona- you’re the same shade of green.”
“Fuck off.”
“Spoken like a true princess.”
I tell her to mind her tongue. Charlie sulks for a moment and then stands, putting her arms around Ruiz’s waist.
“Thank you.”
“What for?” he asks.
“Coming to get me.” She turns to me. “I’m sorry about what happened.”
“I know.”
“How long before you think I’ve learned my lesson?”
“Some time shy of the next decade.”
