“Have we met?”
“I don’t believe so.”
The man has the kind of English voice Ruiz dislikes. Upper class. Privately educated. Eton and the Guards most likely. He also has that telltale military bearing, as though always on the verge of snapping to attention and saluting.
“How was the wedding?”
“Beautiful. You should have been there.”
“I wasn’t invited.”
“Exactly.”
Mr. Evans taps the top of his wrist as though he’s forgotten his watch.
“I understand that you know the whereabouts of a young woman called Holly Knight, who is wanted by the Metropolitan Police for further questioning. You guaranteed to make her available.”
“She ran away from some of your men in black.”
“Men in black?”
“Spooks. Dark suits. You know the sort. Fake identities. Cover stories. Everything hush hush.”
Mr. Evans shakes his head. He taps his wrist again.
“Tell me something, Mr. Evans: why are you so interested in Holly Knight?”
“She’s a suspect in a murder investigation.”
“It’s more than that.”
Mr. Evans taps again. “We’ve had a request from our American counterparts to assist in finding Miss Knight.”
“Why do they want her?”
“We’re not entirely certain, Mr. Ruiz. That’s one of the reasons I’m here. The spirit of co-operation between America and Britain has always been healthy, of course, but occasionally information is overlooked or left out of communiques.”
“They didn’t tell you?”
“I’m trying to fill in the blank spaces.” Mr. Evans attempts a smile. “We’re on the same side, Mr. Ruiz. We both want to know what this is all about. If Miss Knight does break cover, I could guarantee her safety.”
“If she speaks to you first?”
“She’s a British citizen on British soil.”
“I’ll bear that in mind.”
Ruiz turns to leave. He feels a firm grip on his forearm.
“I am trying to help her.”
“Then tell me what this is about.”
“That’s above my pay grade.”
Ruiz shakes his arm loose. Mr. Evans hands him a business card. “My numbers… should you change your mind. Give it some thought.” He looks Ruiz up and down. “Nice suit.”
The reception is winding down. Claire and Phillip have made their public escape, chauffeured away in a white limousine trailing tin cans, streamers, and covered in a year’s supply of shaving foam.
Ruiz finds the professor and the two men share a moment on the patio while the waiters are clearing tables and stacking chairs. The wind has picked up-a storm is coming.
“You see that over there?” asks Ruiz, pointing at a pattern of lights. “That’s Camden. I remember investigating a hit-and-run. She was knocked off her bicycle. Nine years old. And just off to the right-see that tower block? A four-year-old fell from a window on the sixth floor. His mother and father were junkies and had gone out to get a fix. Oakshot Avenue, Highgate: the wife of an alcoholic ex-sergeant blew his brains out when she found out he was having an affair.
“St. George’s Catholic School, Maida Vale: Philip Lawrence, the head teacher, was stabbed to death while protecting a pupil. Cobbold Road, Shepherd’s Bush: an elderly woman died of exposure because her landlord turned off the heating. Horn Lane, Acton: a hooker had her throat cut when she shopped her pimp for trading in underage girls…”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Most people look at a city and they see people or buildings. All I see are the dead.”
“Maybe you should get some help about that.”
“I gave up being a detective because I got tired of dealing with all the rules and regulations, the red tape. I could handle the psychopaths and scumbags, until they started turning up in uniform and carrying badges.”
“What’s this about?” asks Joe.
Ruiz hesitates, draining the last of his Guinness. “Those men in the car this afternoon… I lost control. I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize.”
“I’ve spent most of my life trying to keep a lid on my temper, but I’ve always known it’s there. Sometimes it frightens me.”
“You’re scared of what you might do.”
“I used to wonder what motivates people to do great harm-terrorists and the like. What makes them want to blow up buildings and bring down airliners, but when I feel that red-and-black mist rising up in me, I reckon I could lay waste to the world.”
“I don’t think that’s likely to happen.”
“I’m losing my sense of balance. My moral compass.”
“Your compass is just fine.”
Ruiz hesitates. “I’m going to tell you something now-and you’re probably going to question my judgment.”
“Go on.”
“Holly Knight came to the church.”
“Where is she now?”
“Somewhere safe.”
“Did you call the police?”
“No.”
“They can keep her safe.”
“They’ll hand her over.”
“Maybe that’s not a bad thing.”
Ruiz’s eyes are flat, his hands motionless. “First these people offered me a bribe, then they kicked down my front door and terrorized my neighbors, then they turned up at my daughter’s wedding. You don’t work with people like that. If you’re lucky they’ll yell ‘watch out’ before the freight train runs you down.”
Ruiz pauses and contemplates a long career when he submitted himself to playing by the rules, upholding the law, protecting the weak, prosecuting the wicked. There was a time when he believed that it was his duty. He would pause outside New Scotland Yard at night and stare at the lighted windows, telling himself, “I did good work today. I served the people.”
At the same time he had accepted the fact that, as a police officer, in all probability, he would become an instrument that delivered irreparable harm to a variety of individuals; some who designed their own destinies; others who were simply bystanders. He could even argue that occasionally innocent people are expedient and might have to die or go to prison for the benefit of many.
What had changed? Why is he now so determined to protect Holly Knight against forces he can never hope to identify, let alone defeat? Maybe there is a bit of Don Quixote in all men his age. They tilt at windmills because they don’t want to grow old.
Joe is still waiting for an explanation.
“Holly saw a TV report-the one about the missing banker,” says Ruiz. “She and Zac robbed him a week ago.”
Joe holds his drink to his lips, but it doesn’t go any further. The information warrants a pause.
“You think the disappearance is related to Zac’s murder?”
“I’m working on that theory.”
