The Wreckage - Michael Robotham [125]
“Did you report the robbery?”
Bernie hoots sarcastically. “Rozzers would have laughed me out of the station.”
Joe looks at Holly for confirmation.
“He’s telling the truth.”
Bernie lowers his hands and jabs a finger at her, spitting the words. “What have you got me mixed up in?”
Adjusting the side mirror, the Courier keeps Holly Knight in view, marveling at how much anger and energy are contained in her small frame. How brittle she seems, yet strong. How fragile, yet unbreakable. He wants to take this girl in his arms, to feel her ribs against his chest, to cup her delicate throat in his palm and taste the salty ichor of her fear.
Screwing up his eyes to see her better, he congratulates himself. He knew if he waited long enough she’d visit Bernie.
“You shouldn’t park there,” says a voice. An office worker has stepped outside for a cigarette. “The weasels will get you.”
“Weasels?”
“Wardens.”
Short and rather plump, she touches the corners of her mouth as though checking to see that she’s smiling.
“I won’t be staying, but thanks for the tip.”
The woman continues puffing and talking, telling him how many times the wardens have given her parking tickets. Maybe she’s flirting with him. Is she batting her eyelids or blinking away smoke?
“Do you know what you tell a woman with two black eyes?” he asks.
“What?”
“Nothing. She’s already been told twice.”
9
LONDON
She’s lower today.”
“Lower?”
“Her head is engaged. It means she’s upside down, ready to come out.”
“Does that mean…”
“She’s just ready. It doesn’t mean she’s knocking.”
Elizabeth gazes out of the window of the Merc, feeling Claudia moving inside her, fighting for room in a shrinking world. Her conversation with Mitchell has been replaying in her head. What he said. What she said. He had lied to her. In her overheated imagination it feels like something final, as though he’s broken more than some bond of filial love.
Ruiz parks in a street of white Victorian terraces with iron railing fences and front doors that are set above street level up a dozen stone steps. Lower stairs lead to basement flats where leaves and rubbish have collected against the doors.
Even before they turn into Old Brompton Road, they see flashing lights reflecting from the windows. Police cars have blocked the traffic in both directions and a white, tunnel-like tent covers a doorway.
Gerard Noonan emerges, holding a mobile phone six inches from his mouth and shouting because he’s unwilling to risk brain cancer. Anyone who cuts open dead people must fear myriad ways of dying.
Ruiz tells Elizabeth to go back to the Merc. She doesn’t respond. There is a particular light in her eyes as though she has come to a realization that isn’t obvious to the rest of the world.
On the far side of the road, a constable in a reflective vest is controlling a small crowd behind fluttering police tape. Further along the street, a young woman is sitting in the back of a patrol car. Peroxide hair. Black mascara tears. Ruiz ducks under the tape and walks with purpose towards the crime scene. The constable stops him.
“I’m on the job,” says Ruiz. Although six years retired, he still looks and sounds the part. The constable hesitates and Ruiz strides onwards, veering slightly to the left and disappearing behind the SOCO van. The door of the patrol car is open.
“Are they looking after you?” he asks.
The young woman blinks at him. She’s wearing a crimson blouse, short skirt and angel earrings. There are pain lines in the corners of her mouth.
She nods.
“You work for Mr. Hackett?”
Another nod, even more rapid. Ruiz slides on to the seat next to her. She tugs at her skirt, covering more of her thighs.
“He’s my uncle,” she adds. “I told that other detective.”
“What’s your name?”
“Janice.”
“That’s a nasty cold, Janice.”
A shiver runs through her shoulders. “That’s what he said to me.”
“Who?”
“The man who came to the office on Friday. He said he was an old friend of Mr. Hackett, but I didn’t believe him. I rang Uncle Colin and I said, ‘That man isn’t your friend,’ but I