There is nothing I can say.
“I also spoke to a Detective Inspector Forbes who is investigating the deaths of illegals on a ferry at Harwich. You are helping him with this investigation. There was also, I think, a Detective Sergeant Softell, who wishes to speak to you about a suspicious fire.”
Spijker could have used the term “suspect” but is far too polite.
“These men have asked me to put you on the first available flight back to London, but as I explained to them, I have no authority for this.” He pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “I also assume you do not wish to leave Amsterdam without your friend Mr. Ruiz. I spoke to him this morning. He is recovering well.”
“Yes, sir.”
“He has great affection for you.”
“We have known each other a long time.”
“He believes that you will make a very fine investigator. He used a term I am not familiar with. He said you were ‘sharper than a pointy stick.’”
That sounds like the DI.
“I understand why you are here and why you will stay a little longer, but now it is time for you to leave this investigation to me.”
“What about Samira?”
“I will find her.”
9
I don’t normally notice people when I run. I shut out the world, floating over the ground like a vague impression. Today is different. I can hear people talking, arguing and laughing. There are muffled footsteps and car doors closing, the hum of traffic and machines.
“New Boy” Dave is at the hospital with Ruiz. That’s where I’m heading, although the strangeness of the city makes it difficult to get my bearings. There are twin church steeples ahead of me. I turn again, running past flat- fronted shops with barred windows or metal shutters. Some of the alleys and lanes are only wide enough for bicycles or pedestrians.
By the time I find the hospital it is almost dark. The corridors are quiet and rain streaks the windows. “New Boy” Dave puts his jacket around my shoulders to stop me from getting cold. Ruiz is asleep.
“How is he?”
“Bored shitless. Today he tried to organize a mass escape from the hospital to the nearest pub. He convinced two guys to join him—both amputees. He said they were legless already so it shouldn’t matter.”
“How far did they get?”
“As far as the hospital gift shop. One of the nurses uncovered the escape plot and called security.”
“What did the DI say?”
“He said the Resistance would spring him tomorrow.”
Dave has been talking to the doctors. Ruiz should be able to leave hospital in a few days but he won’t be able to fly for a month.
“We can take the ferry,” I suggest.
Dave is toying with my fingers, running his thumb across the palm. “I was sort of hoping you might fly home with me tomorrow. I have an Old Bailey trial on Monday.”
“I can’t leave the DI. We started this together.”
He understands. “What are you going to do about the job?”
“I haven’t decided.”
“You’re supposed to have started.”
“I know.”
There’s something else he wants to ask. His forehead creases, wrestling with the question.
“Have you thought about the other thing?” he asks. He’s referring to the sailing school and the cottage by the sea. Marriage. The future. I’m still amazed that he plucked up the courage to ask me. The sense of expectation and dread must be killing him. Sometimes life is like the movies, with the audience barracking, “Just ask her. Just ask her.”
“I thought you always wanted to be a detective,” I say.
“I wanted to be a fireman when I was six. I got over it.”
“I fell in love with Mr. Sayer, my piano teacher, and wanted to be a concert pianist.”
“I didn’t know you played.”
“It’s still open to debate.”
He’s waiting for my answer.
“So what happened, Dave? What made you decide to quit?”
He shrugs.
“Something must have triggered it.”
“You remember Jack Lonsdale?”
“I heard he got wounded.”
Dave silences his hands by putting them in his pockets. “We were following up a tip-off about a bail jumper on the White City Estate. A drug dealer. It’s a god-awful place at the best of times but this was Saturday night in mid-July. Hot. We found the place okay and knocked on the door. It was supposed to be a simple pickup. I was putting handcuffs on the dealer when his fifteen-year-old kid came out of the kitchen and stuck a knife in Jack’s chest. Right there.” He points to the spot. “The kid was hanging off the blade trying to scramble his guts, but I managed to pry him loose. His eyes were like saucers. He was higher than a 747. I tried to get Jack out to the car but there were two hundred people outside the flat, most of them West Indian, screaming abuse and throwing shit. I thought we were gonna die.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You had your own shit to deal with.”
“How’s Jack now?”
“They had to take out part of his bowel and he’s taken early retirement. The dealer finished up in Brixton. His kid went to a foster home. His mother was dead, I think.”
Dave lowers his eyes, unwilling to look at me. “I know it makes me sound like a coward but I keep thinking how it could have been me spilling blood on that filthy floor—or worse, it could have been you.”
“It doesn’t make you a coward. It makes you human.”
“Yeah, well, that’s when I got to thinking about doing something else.”
“Maybe you just need a sea change.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe you don’t really want to marry me.”
“Yes I do.”
“Would you still want to marry me if we didn’t have children?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m asking.”
“But you
“What if I couldn’t have children?”
Dave straightens up. He doesn’t understand.
I try to explain. “Sometimes children just don’t arrive. Look at Cate. She couldn’t get pregnant and it twisted her up inside until she did something foolish. Don’t you think if two people love each other that should be enough?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
He still doesn’t get my point. There is nowhere else for me to go except the truth. Words tumble out and I’m surprised at how organized they sound. Almost perfect sentences.
