“No.”
“Still running?”
“Yes.”
“Not fast enough from what I hear.” He grins at his partner, Billy Marsh, a detective constable.
Stories about the camaraderie of police officers are often sadly overstated. I don’t find many of my colleagues particularly lovable or supportive, but at least most of them are honest and some of them are keepers like DI Ruiz.
A paramedic has flushed out my eyes with distilled water. I’m sitting on the back ramp of the ambulance, head tilted, while he tapes cotton wool over my left eye.
“You should see an eye specialist,” he says. “It can sometimes take a week before the full damage is clear.”
“Permanent damage?”
“See the specialist.”
Behind him fire hoses snake across the gleaming road and firemen in reflective vests are mopping up. Structurally, there is still a house on the block, but the insides are gutted and smoking. The loft collapsed under the weight of water.
I called Hari to come and get me. Now he’s watching the firemen with a mixture of awe and envy. What boy doesn’t want to play with a hose?
Sensing the animosity between Softell and me, he tries to step in and play the protective brother, which doesn’t really suit him.
“Listen, punka-wallah, why don’t you run along and fetch us a cup of tea?” says Softell.
Hari doesn’t understand the insult but he recognizes the tone.
I should be angry but I’m used to remarks like this from people like Softell. During probationer training a group of us were given riot shields and sent to the parade ground. Another band of recruits were told to attack us verbally and physically. There were no rules, but we weren’t able to retaliate. Softell spat in my face and called me a “Paki whore.” I practically thanked him.
My left thigh is slightly corked; my knuckles are scraped and raw. There are questions. Answers. The name Brendan Pearl means nothing to them.
“Explain to me again what you were doing in the house.”
“I was driving by. I saw a burglary in process. I called it in.”
“From inside the house?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So you followed them inside?”
“Yes.”
Softell shakes his head. “You just happened to be driving past a friend’s house and you saw the same man who was driving the car that ran her down. What do you think, Billy?”
“Sounds like bullshit to me.” Marsh is the one taking notes.
“How did you get lighter fluid in your eyes?”
“He was spraying it around.”
“Yeah, yeah, while you were
Casually, he props his foot on the tray of the ambulance. “If you were just gonna hide in there, why bother going in at all?”
“I thought there was only one of them.”
“Why didn’t you phone for backup
“I don’t know, sir.”
Drops of water have beaded on the polished toe of his shoe.
“You see how it looks, don’t you?” Softell says.
“How does it look?”
“A house burns down. A witness comes forward who is covered in lighter fluid. Rule number one when dealing with arson—nine times out of ten, the person who yells ‘fire’ is the person who starts the fire.”
“You can’t be serious. Why would I do that?”
His shoulders lift and drop. “Who knows? Maybe you just like burning shit.”
The whole street has been woken. Neighbors are standing on the pavement in dressing gowns and overcoats. Children are jumping on a hose and dancing away from a leak that sprays silver under the streetlight.
A black cab pulls up outside the ring of fire engines. Ruiz emerges. He steps through the ring of rubberneckers, ignoring the constable who is trying to keep them back.
After pausing to appraise the house, he continues along the road until he reaches me. The white eye patch makes me look like a reverse pirate.
“Do you ever have a
“Once. It was a Wednesday.”
He looks me up and down. I’m putting most of my weight on one leg because of my thigh. Surprisingly, he leans forward and kisses my cheek, an absolute first.
“I thought you retired,” says Billy Marsh.
“That’s right, son.”
“Well, what are you doing here?”
“I asked him to come,” I explain.
Ruiz is sizing up the detectives. “Mind if I listen in?”
It sounds like a question only it isn’t. The DI manages to do that sometimes—turn questions into statements.
“Just don’t get in the bloody way,” mumbles Softell.
Marsh is on the phone calling for a Scene of Crime team to sweep the house and garden for clues. The fire brigade will launch its own investigation. I hobble away from the ambulance, which has another call. Ruiz takes my arm.
Hari is still here. “You can go home now,” I tell him.
“What about you?”
“I could be a while.”
“You want me to stay?”
“That’s OK.”
He glances at Softell and whispers, “Do you know that prick?”
“He’s OK.”
“No wonder people dislike coppers.”
“Hey!”
He grins. “Not you, sis.”
There are more questions to answer. Softell becomes less interested in what I was doing in the house and more interested in Brendan Pearl.
“So you think this arson attack is linked to the deaths of the Beaumonts?”
“Yes.”
“Why would Pearl burn down their house?”
“Perhaps he wanted to destroy evidence—letters, e-mails, phone records—anything that might point to him.”
I explain about Cate’s fake pregnancy and the money missing from Cate’s account. “I think she arranged to buy a baby, but something went wrong.”
Marsh speaks: “People adopt foreign kids all the time—Chinese orphans, Romanians, Koreans. Why would you buy a child?”
“She tried to adopt and couldn’t.”
“How do you buy one?”
