The Wreckage - Michael Robotham [134]
“Birmingham City.”
“And you still think there’s a God?”
The BMW is on the towpath. The roof crushed. Mud on the wheels and bumpers, a fine layer of silt covering the bodywork. Ruiz follows Noonan. Leaning through an open car door, he notices the keys in the ignition and the automatic shift in drive. The windows were left open so that it would sink more quickly.
Something moves near his knee. He leaps backwards and lets out an expletive. Noonan reaches into the car and pulls out an eel that twists and squirms in his hands, black as sump oil.
“Didn’t you ever catch eels as a kid?”
“When I was a kid they came in jelly with mashed potato.”
The eel splashes into the river, leaving no trace on the surface.
Campbell has finished talking to the security guard. “What have you got?” he asks Noonan.
“Traces of blood in the boot—enough to be worried.”
Ruiz walks along the tracks until he reaches an overhead bridge. Crossing the river, he follows a cyclone fence separating a freight yard from the water. The muddy hinterland is littered with drums, broken palettes, dumped tires and a crippled shopping trolley. Bits of broken glass glint in the dirt.
A black woman is watching him from the doorway of a flat-fronted terrace, one of the few left in the street. This area of London was hit hard during the Blitz and bombed terraces were like broken teeth, filled with something concrete and ugly.
Ruiz wishes her good evening.
“When are they gonna turn off them generators?” she demands.
“I can’t tell you that,” he replies.
“I know what they found. I saw it go in there.”
The woman is in her fifties, with a pink dressing gown cinched tight around her waist. Hair trapped in a net.
“What’s your name, ma’am?”
“Mrs. Abigail Westin.”
“What did you see, Mrs. Westin?”
“I saw them fellas push a car into the river.”
“What did they look like?”
“Pakis or Indians—can’t tell the difference, me.”
“When was this?”
“Early hours. I don’t sleep so good, me. I was in the bathroom. I heard them boys arguing. One of them was saying how it was such a waste, ditching a motor like that. Like he wanted to keep it.”
“How many voices?”
“Two.”
“Would you recognize them again?”
“Their voices maybe. I didn’t get such a good look at their faces.”
Ruiz tells Mrs. Westin that the police will want to interview her and wishes her good night.
“It’ll be a good night when I can sleep till dawn,” she says, switching off the outside light.
Ruiz turns back to the river where the BMW is a broken silhouette against the spotlights, like a sea monster dragged from the depths in a fisherman’s net. A flat-bed truck has arrived to take it away to a police impound. The driver is slinging cables beneath the chassis.
Retracing his steps across the bridge, Ruiz passes on the information to Campbell and asks if he can go now.
“That thing we talked about earlier. Do you think they followed me out here?”
The commander glances at the gates. “They’re like shit on your shoes.”
The BMW has been winched on to the truck. The driver has grey mutton-chop sideburns and hair growing from his nostrils.
“I need a ride,” says Ruiz.
“Do I know you?”
“I used to be on the job. Vincent Ruiz.”
“Thought you looked familiar.” He waves a clipboard. “Climb on board.”
Minutes later, the truck is rocking over the railway lines, springs groaning. At the main gate Ruiz slides sideways on the seat, below the level of the dashboard.
“Who you trying to avoid?”
“I’m just camera shy.”
They travel in silence for another mile.
“I remember you,” says the driver.
“Have we met?”
“Name’s Dave,” he takes one hand off the wheel to shake. “My wife’s younger brother used to be a boxer, beautiful to watch, fists like bricks. He detached a retina just before the Sydney Olympics. Crying shame. Got a job as a bouncer in Acton. One night he threw a drunk out. The guy came back with a gun and tried to shoot my brother-in-law but he shot a girl instead. Innocent bystander. Almost killed her. Remember the case?”
Ruiz nods.
“Anyway, this girl gets out of hospital and decides to sue the nightclub