“Where?”
“I dropped it at the flat.”
Ruiz nods. “Did you see the guy who killed Zac?”
Holly nods.
“Would you recognize him again?”
“Yeah.”
“Describe him to me.”
She mumbles, “Mid-thirties, dark hair, your height, but thinner.”
“What color eyes?”
“It was dark.”
They drive in silence for another while, pausing at red lights. Ruiz glances at Holly. Only half her face is visible. Goose bumps on her arms.
“Why?”
“Huh?”
“Why did this guy hurt Zac?”
She doesn’t answer.
“Did you owe someone money?”
“No.”
“The police think it was a drug deal gone wrong.”
“They’re lying! Zac didn’t touch the stuff-not for a long while. He got clean. Went to meetings.”
“Was he dealing?”
“No fucking way.”
Holly brings her knees up to her chest, resting her chin on them. Looks even younger.
“Sooner or later you have to level with someone, Holly.”
“I’m telling the truth.” Her eyes float.
“So you’re saying Zac wasn’t using.”
“Not for a long time.”
Ruiz raises his voice but remains composed. “Why should I believe you?”
She doesn’t answer. She’s staring at the passing parade of Londoners.
“Are you using?”
“No.”
“I saw you sniffling and snuffling.”
“I got a cold.” She tugs her hair back from her face, glaring at him. “You’re not my father, so don’t start lecturing me. Just drop me on the next corner. I don’t have to put up with this shit.”
“Why won’t you talk to the police?”
“Been there, done that, bought the T-shirt.”
“That bad?”
“Nothing good.”
16
The Courier wakes in a bed and breakfast hotel in Lancaster Gate. There is a girl sleeping next to him, snoring softly, hair a mess, eyes smudged.
He kicks her.
“What was that for?”
“Your wake-up call.”
“You paid for the night.”
“And now it’s morning.”
Scowling, she slips out of bed and pulls on a G-string, stuffing her bra in the pocket of her long black coat. She bends to buckle her sandals and notices a prayer mat in the corner.
“Are you one of those?”
“What would that be?” There’s a jagged edge to his voice.
“Nothing.”
“I’m a Muslim-does that bother you?”
“No.”
He smiles and rolls on to his feet. She backs away, holding her jacket to her chest. He raises his hand slowly, palm spread, reaching for her face, tracing two fingers down her throat. Stops. Her windpipe pulses beneath his thumb. Rocking forward imperceptibly, adding pressure, he seals off her airway.
“Do you ever pray?”
She shakes her head.
“Maybe you should.”
Hoarsely, “Please let go.”
Releasing his fingers, he laughs. She ducks under his arm and out the door. He can hear her running down the hall and hammering the button on the lift.
Out the window he can see the Tai Chi class on a patch of ground in the park. People in tracksuits, moving like puppets in slow motion. Stopping. Moving again. Ignorant people. Fearful people. People who wake up every morning of their lives scared about something.
Chewing on a hangnail, he removes a piece of skin and spits it on to the floor. Then he looks into the mirror and fingers the bruise on the side of his head. The girl left it there. He thinks of her again, her dark hair and the pinkness of her lips.
His mobile rings. He listens rather than talks, letting his fingers slide over the tautness of his stomach. He closes the phone and goes to the bathroom, where he wets a towel and washes the smell of sex from his genitals, before splashing water over his face and neck. He will pray before he eats. He will eat before he kills.
17
Luca Terracini orders a beer and a whisky chaser. He downs the shot-glass in a swallow, feeling the alcohol hollow out his cheeks and scour his throat. He orders another whisky.
The TV is on above the bar. CNN. Footage of a US Senate hearing; Carl Levin, the committee chair, has wire- framed glasses perched on the end of his nose. He stabs his finger at an executive from Goldman Sachs, saying the firm’s own documents show the bank was promoting investment products it knew would fail while at the same time betting against them.
Luca orders another drink and takes it outside. Most of the journalists are upstairs on their satellite phones, filing the story of the day: the US Ambassador in Baghdad, Christopher Hill, has finally commented on the fact that Iraq doesn’t have a government five months after the elections. He called it the “growing pains of a nascent democracy,” making Iraq sound like a pimply teenager whose voice would break soon.
Luca’s hands have stopped shaking, but he can feel the gun oil between his thumb and forefinger when he rubs them together. Men died in the burning pickup; men who had wanted to see him dead; men with no reason to hate him, yet who did so completely and irrationally. Men with families; men who woke this morning and ate breakfast and washed and prayed and did all the normal things… yet before the day had ended their lungs were full of fire instead of air. What a waste.
