The Suspect

“And who was he?”

“The patron saint of nurses.”

The statement concentrates his attention. He cocks his head to one side and I can almost see him cataloguing the information. In his right hand he flicks open a book of matches and closes it again. Open and then closed.

I shuffle the papers and glance at the full postmortem report. A paragraph catches my attention.

There is evidence of old lacerations running the length of her right and left forearms and inside her upper thighs. The degree of scarring suggests an attempt at self-suturing. These wounds were most likely self-inflicted and point toward past attempts at self-harm or self-mutilation.

“I need to see the photographs.”

Ruiz pushes the ring-bound folders toward me and in the same breath announces, “I have to make a phone call. We might have a lead. An X-ray technician has reported her flatmate missing in Liverpool. She matches the age, height and hair color. And how’s this for a coincidence, Sherlock? She’s a nurse.”

After he’s gone I open the first folder of photographs and turn the pages quickly. Her arms had been along her sides when I viewed her body. I couldn’t see her wrists or inner thighs. A self-mutilator with multiple stab wounds, all self-inflicted.

The first photographs are wide-angle shots of open ground, littered with rusting forty-four-gallon drums, rolls of wire and scaffolding poles. The Grand Union Canal forms an immediate backdrop but on the far side I see a smattering of well-established trees and the headstones in between.

The photographs begin to focus down onto the banks of the canal. Blue-and-white police tape has been threaded around metal posts to mark out the area.

The second set of photographs shows the ditch and a splash of white that looks like a discarded milk container. As the camera zooms closer it reveals it to be a hand, with fingers outstretched, reaching upward from the earth. Soil is scraped away slowly, sifted and bagged. The corpse is finally exposed, lying with one leg twisted awkwardly beneath her and her left arm draped over her eyes as though shielding them from the arc lights.

Moving quickly, I skim over the pages until I reach the postmortem pictures. The camera records every smear, scratch and bruise. I’m looking for one photograph.

Here it is. Her forearms are turned outward and lying flat against the dull silver of the bench top. Awkwardly, I stand and retrace my steps along the corridors. My left leg locks up and I have to swing it in an arc from back to front.

The operator buzzes me into the secure room and I stare for a few seconds at the same bank of metal crypts. Four across. Three down. I check the label, grasp the handle and slide the drawer open. This time I force myself to look at her ruined face. Recognition is like a tiny spark that fires a bigger machine. I know this woman. She used to be a patient. Her hair is shorter now and slightly darker. And she has put on weight, but only a little.

Reaching for her right arm, I turn it over and brush my fingertips along the milky white scars. Against the paleness of her skin they look like embossed creases that merge and crisscross before fading into nothing. She opened these wounds repeatedly, picking apart the stitches or slicing them afresh. She kept this hidden, but once upon a time I shared the secret.

“Need a second look?” Ruiz is standing at the door.

“Yes.” I can’t stop my voice from shaking. Ruiz steps in front of me and slides the drawer shut.

“You shouldn’t be in here by yourself. Should have waited for me.” The words are weighted.

I mumble an apology and wash my hands at the sink, feeling his eyes upon me. I need to say something.

“What about Liverpool? Did you find out who…”

“The flatmate is being brought to London by the local CID. We should have a positive ID by this afternoon.”

“So you have a name?”

He doesn’t answer. Instead I’m hustled along the corridor and made to wait as he collects the postmortem notes and photographs. Then I follow him through the subterranean maze until we emerge, via double doors, into a parking garage.

All the while I’m thinking, I should say something now. I should tell him. Yet a separate track in my brain is urging, It doesn’t matter anymore. He knows her name. What’s past is past. It’s ancient history.

“I promised you breakfast.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Well I am.”

We walk under blackened railway arches and down a narrow alley. Ruiz seems to know all the backstreets. He is remarkably light on his feet for a big man, dodging puddles and dog feces.

The large front windows of the cafe are steamed up with condensation, or it could be a film of fat from the chip fryer. A bell jangles above our heads as we enter. The fug of cigarette smoke and warm air is overpowering.

The place is pretty much empty, except for two sunken-cheeked old men in cardigans playing chess in the corner and an Indian cook with a yolk-stained apron. It’s late morning but the cafe serves breakfast all day. Baked beans, chips, eggs, bacon and mushrooms— in any combination. Ruiz takes a table near the window.

“What do you want?”

“Just coffee.”

“The coffee is crap.”

“Then I’ll have tea.”

He orders a full English with a side order of toast and two pots of tea. Then he fumbles for a cigarette in his jacket pocket before mumbling something about forgetting his phone.

“I didn’t take any pleasure from dragging you into this,” he says.

“Yes you did.”

“Well, just a little.” His eyes seem to smile, but there is no sense of self-congratulation. The impatience I noticed yesterday has gone. He’s more relaxed and philosophical.

“Do you know how you become a detective inspector, Professor O’Loughlin?”

“No.”

“It used to be based on how many crimes you solved and people you banged up. Nowadays it depends on how few complaints you generate and whether you can stick to a budget. I’m a dinosaur to these people. Ever since the Police and Criminal Evidence Act came into force my sort of policeman has been living on borrowed time.

“Nowadays they talk about proactive policing. Do you know what that means? It means the number of detectives they put on a case depends on how big the tabloid headlines are. The media runs these investigations now— not the police.”

“I haven’t read anything about this case,” I say.

“That’s because everyone thinks the victim is a prostitute. If she turns out to be Florence bloody Nightingale or the daughter of a duke I’ll have forty detectives instead of twelve. The assistant chief constable will take personal charge because of the ‘complex nature of the case.’ Every public statement will have to be vetted by his office and every line of inquiry approved.”

“Why did they give it to you?”

“Like I said, they thought we were dealing with a dead prostitute. ‘Give it to Ruiz,’ they said. ‘He’ll bang heads together and put the fear of God into the pimps.’ So what if any of them object. My file is so full of complaint letters that Internal Affairs has given me my own filing cabinet.”

A handful of Japanese tourists pass the window and pause. They look at the blackboard menu and then at Ruiz, before deciding to keep going. Breakfast arrives, with a knife and fork wrapped in a paper napkin. Ruiz squeezes brown sauce over his eggs and begins cutting them up. I try not to watch as he eats.