Noonan puts three sugars in his coffee. “Let’s just say he was one tough bastard.”
“Meaning?”
“There was a lot of penile and testicular damage. He had his genitals remodeled with a set of long-nose pliers.”
“He was tortured?”
“Went every round. I don’t know what information he had but I hope he begged to give it up. I hope that’s what happened.”
Ruiz can feel his testicles retract. He looks at the side of Noonan’s face. The pathologist is gazing out the window at pedestrians, huddled beneath umbrellas, spilling from Victoria Station.
“How did he die?”
“Suffocated. The bullet was insurance.”
“A professional hit?”
“Looks like it.”
“Gangland?”
“Maybe.”
“Did you do a tox screen?”
“Results will take a few days.”
Ruiz scratches his unshaven chin, feeling the dirt between the hair follicles. “The police are saying it was a drug-related hit. What do you think?”
Noonan shrugs.
“Did they find any drug paraphernalia in the flat?”
“No.”
“Any needle marks?”
“None.”
“The guy was a war hero.”
“I heard.”
Noonan swallows the last of his coffee. “I’m too old for this shit.”
“For what?”
“To understand what some people do.”
Holly Knight sits in the back of the police car, letting the reflections of city buildings wash over her pupils. She’s dirty and tired and her shoulder aches where she was slammed against the wall during the fight.
The police car pulls into a walled yard with iron gates and razor wire. Holly is escorted through a door and along a wide corridor with a polished floor. It smells like a hospital with something missing. Patients. Hope.
Thompson makes her walk quickly, hustling her along without touching her.
“Wait here,” he says, leaving her in a room with two small sofas, a coffee table, water cooler and box of tissues. A curtain screens one wall.
Alone, Holly thinks about Zac. He had saved her. They had saved each other. Normally she didn’t get close to people. It was safer that way. Never pat stray dogs or they’ll follow you home. Her mother told her that.
She and Zac met at a rehabilitation center, which is a fancy term for a psych ward. Holly was undergoing tests. Zac was being treated for post-traumatic stress. Zac didn’t treat her like the other men in her life. He didn’t care about her history. That was a year ago. Long enough to fall out of love. It hadn’t happened. Closing her eyes, she can picture his stretched angular face and the blur of big freckles on his shoulder blades.
DS Thompson joins her in the room. Without any fanfare or warning, he pulls open the curtain. Zac is laid out on a metal trolley covered with a white sheet from the neck down. Bruised. Pale. Changed. It’s amazing what a breath can do. Fill a chest. Fire a heart. Bring color to a face.
“Can you confirm the name of the deceased?”
Holly whispers, “Zac Osborne.”
The curtain is drawn closed. Holly sits on the sofa, feeling herself getting smaller and smaller like Alice in Wonderland. DS Thompson is talking to her. Something about Holly’s grief has melted the ice within him and his attitude has changed. Mellowed.
“Do you have somewhere to stay?” he asks. “We can’t let you go unless we know how to reach you.”
A voice answers him from the doorway. “She can stay with me.” Ruiz is holding a coffee for her. “I have a spare room.”
Thompson looks at him incredulously. “Two nights ago you offered her a bed and she robbed you.”
“That was two nights ago.”
Ruiz addresses Holly. “You can’t go back to your flat. And the police won’t let you go unless you give them an address.”
Thompson interrupts again. “Why are you doing this?”
“That’s my business.”
He sniffs hard, trying to get a handle on Ruiz, who is still focused on Holly.
“It’s up to you. Stay here or come home with me. I don’t bear grudges.”
Words. Promises. Everything is happening too quickly for her. She nods but doesn’t look at Ruiz. Then she follows him down the corridor, taking two steps to each one of his.
“You’re asking for trouble,” yells Thompson.
Ruiz doesn’t answer.
“I’ll need to talk to her again.”
“You know where to find me.”
The Merc edges out of a parking spot and joins a stream of traffic. Brake lights blink between passing cars. Ruiz glances at Holly. Her eyes are closed. Her hair is drawn back and she’s wearing a man’s coat because her own clothes are in the lab. She’s a pretty thing, preposterously young. It’s a shame about the piercings.
“You don’t like the police very much?”
She doesn’t answer.
“I’m not a copper anymore.”
Silence.
“DS Thompson wanted to have you sectioned. Do you know what that means? He thinks you’re a couple of channels short of basic cable.”
Again he gets no response.
“You don’t have to be frightened of me.”
“I’m not frightened.”
“I’m not going to cause you any trouble.”
“Don’t even try.”
She is five foot five, weighs 125 pounds wringing wet, but something in her voice tells Ruiz that Holly wouldn’t hesitate to fight.
“I’m not going to fuck you,” she says matter-of-factly.
Ruiz glances at her in amazement.
“Don’t give me that look,” she says. “You’re a man. You’re all the same, unless you’re gay, which you’re not. Maybe you’re too old.”
“Somebody should scrub out your potty mouth.”
She gets a look of alarm. “Don’t even try it!”
They drive in silence through a hinterland of council houses and industrial estates, staying south of the river through Clapham and Wandsworth. The big old Mercedes has a soft ride. It’s the sort of car Holly used to throw up in as a kid. She sits as far away from Ruiz as possible with one hand on the door handle, sneaking occasional glances at him, contemplating what sort of monster he would turn into. He doesn’t look much like a policeman, even a former one. He seems big and slow, yet she saw how quickly he could move.
“Why are you doing this?” she asks.
“It’s my good deed for the day.”
“You’re lying.”
“I want my stuff back-the hair-comb you stole.”
“I don’t have it.”
