The Wreckage - Michael Robotham [93]
Ruiz was born in a county hospital in Hertfordshire that still had blackout curtains and tape across the windows. They bulldozed it in the seventies—did what the Luftwaffe couldn’t do. Progress marches in jackboots.
Parking the Mercedes outside the retirement home, Ruiz and the professor go through the reception and find Daj in her room. She is watching a daytime chat show where people seem to be shouting at each other and throwing chairs.
“Hello, Daj, do you remember Joe?”
“Are you a doctor?” she asks suspiciously.
“No, I’m a friend of Vincent’s.”
“I have a son called Vincent.”
“That’s me, Daj,” says Ruiz.
She looks at him suspiciously. The skin of her face seems to be covered in finely lined tissue paper and her hands are bony branches. She’s wearing a floral dress and a short jacket. The nurses have helped her put on lipstick.
“Are you ready, Daj?”
“Where are we going?”
“To the church.”
“I don’t like churches.”
“It’s the Catholics you don’t like,” says Ruiz, and then to Joe, “A priest comes round once a week and Daj tries to convert him to atheism.” He looks back at his mother. “Claire is getting married.”
“Claire?”
“Your granddaughter.”
“She’s too young.”
“She’s thirty-two.”
“Nonsense. I want to talk to Michael.”
“Michael’s not here.”
“Is he coming to the wedding?”
“We’re not sure.”
Ruiz feels a pang of guilt. He hasn’t seen his son in nearly four years. They talk every three or four months, snatched conversations from whatever port Michael has washed up into after a month at sea. Duty phone calls, he calls them, but every time Ruiz feels aggrieved, he remembers his own youth, working as a young police officer in London, rarely phoning home, visiting even less often.
“Bring a cardigan—it gets cool of an evening.”
“Where are we going?”
“The church.”
“I hate churches.”
“I know that, Daj, but Claire is getting married.”
This is how the conversation doubles back on itself and loops into elaborate knots that confuse Daj even more as they drive across the Thames, heading north to Primrose Hill.
Claire and Phillip have a large terraced house with glimpses of the park. It’s only a short walk to the church. One of Claire’s girlfriends opens the door. A bridesmaid. Gina. She’s an old school friend, now married. Ruiz can picture her being eight years old, dancing around Claire’s bedroom to Madonna songs.
The other bridesmaids are in various stages of dress, being fawned over by a hairdresser, a beautician and a stylist. There are yards of lace and flashes of bare shoulder.
Women in groups have always intimidated Ruiz. Their mystery increases exponentially when they’re together, laughing and exchanging news. Champagne can also be a factor. Perhaps his anxiety dates back to his youth when girls would congregate in groups on the far side of the dance floor and necessitate the “longest walk” and a mumbled request to dance. Success meant a few minutes of touching a female waist and hand. Failure meant public humiliation.
“Can I see Claire?” he asks.
“She’s still getting ready.”
Gina knocks on the bedroom door. “It’s your dad.”
“Is he drunk?” comes a voice from inside.
Gina addresses Ruiz. “You’re not drunk, are you?”
“No.”
“I don’t think he’s drunk,” she yells back.
The door opens. A breath catches in Ruiz’s throat. For a split second his mind flashes back and he sees Laura standing in their hotel room, breathless and giggling, having been carried across the threshold.
“Well?” asks Claire. She completes a twirl. “It’s Mummy’s wedding dress. I had them copy the design.”
“You look beautiful,” he says, struggling to find words.
“And you’re very handsome.”
She kisses his cheek. Behind her in the room is another vision from his past. Miranda Louise Mills. Ex-wife number three. Dressed all in black.
Miranda straightens his tie and Ruiz