The Wreckage - Michael Robotham [108]
Ruiz does the rounds, visiting each table, trying to avoid the trays of champagne. Wedding receptions are strange rituals full of melancholy and a sense of time passing. Unmarried women of a certain age looking slightly forlorn, while those with long-term boyfriends are extra-attentive, hoping the day and the free bar might prompt them to pop the question.
His stepfather’s relatives consist of an ageing aunt and uncle who have flown from Florida, their skin like petrified wood. He was some sort of biologist, but Ruiz can barely remember him apart from the smell of formaldehyde that clings to him like cigarette smoke.
Most of the men have taken off their jackets, loosened ties and rolled up their sleeves. As the night wears on, young people cavort on the dance floor and children are taken home to bed. Miranda asks him to dance. She puts her arms around his waist and hooks her thumbs into his belt. Pressing against him, she tilts her face so her mouth is inches from his.
“I thought you didn’t dance,” she says.
“I like this kind of dancing.”
“Mmmm, I can tell you’re rather pleased. Are you thinking about kissing me?”
“No, I’m thinking about going down on you.”
“Would you think less of me in the morning?”
“Five per cent at most.”
The festivities are paused while the wedding cake is cut. Ruiz finds himself standing next to Phillip’s mother, who reeks of perfume and the sweet smell of rotting fruit.
“Don’t they make a wonderful couple,” she says, showing lipstick smudges on her teeth. “You must be very proud of your Claire.”
“Yes.”
“She does have a lovely complexion. Phillip once brought home an Asian girl from university. I think she was from Hong Kong. Pretty, in a Chinese sort of way. I think her father was involved in horse racing. They’re very big gamblers, the Chinese, and they have those terrible Triads. I have nothing against foreigners, of course. I love a good Chinese…”
“But not in the family?”
The woman’s mouth opens but the message has finally reached her brain. Ruiz is already retreating outside where he looks at the lights of London and goes over the events of the day. The confrontation in the street seems like a memory plucked from a past life. Public displays of violence are not his style, but he doesn’t have the patience or the reflexes of his youth. Cat-and-mouse games annoy him. He’s an intelligent man but not a complicated one.
At the top of the slope where the road cuts across the lawns towards the car park, Ruiz notices a dark car pull up. A figure emerges, silhouetted by the streetlights, tugging at the cuffs of a suit. Not police, but official.
The man says something to his driver and walks down the gravel path. He’s about to pass by when he turns.
“Mr. Ruiz?”
“Yes.”
“Douglas Evans from the Home Office.”
“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