The Wreckage - Michael Robotham [94]
“Have you heard from Michael?” she asks.
Ruiz shakes his head.
“Maybe he’ll surprise us.”
Claire gives him a pained smile that says, I’m not a child any more, Daddy, you don’t have to lie to me.
Ruiz reaches into his pocket and pulls out a creased envelope and a small wooden box with a hinged lid.
“I have something for you,” he says. “It was given to me a long while ago with very specific instructions that I was to give it to you on your wedding day.”
Claire can hear the slight tremor in his voice. “It was your mother who gave it to me. It belonged to her mother and her grandmother, so it goes a long way back, and now it’s yours.” He opens the box. Claire’s hand flutters to her mouth.
Ruiz continues, “I think she thought maybe you might wear it today… as the something old, you know, but maybe you have the dress now, so you don’t need anything else.”
Claire shakes her head and holds the envelope in trembling hands. She looks at Miranda and back to her father and then at the envelope. Opening it nervously, she unfolds the handwritten page and turns away as she reads the letter.
When she finishes, she folds it again, holding it against her heart.
“Now look what you’ve done,” she says. “I’m going to cry and my make-up is going to run. I’ll look like a panda.”
“Pandas are very cute,” says Ruiz.
Miranda takes the hair-comb and slides it in Claire’s hair, tucking it beneath the veil. Then she ushers Ruiz into the hallway and gives him a kiss on the lips, before rubbing the lipstick away with her thumb.
“You haven’t returned any of my calls.”
“Were they urgent?”
“It’s called being polite.”
“I took you to dinner a fortnight ago.”
“To that tacky fish restaurant—the meal left me faster than a fire drill.”
“I thought you’d lost weight.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere.” She punches his shoulder. “Go outside. We’re not ready.”
Ruiz doesn’t need a second invitation. Retreating to the front steps, he takes a boiled sweet from a round metal tin in his pocket and sucks on it thoughtfully. Michael should be at his sister’s wedding. What excuse will he give this time? Bad weather. Missed flights. Forgotten dates. Michael is his father’s son. Ruiz wishes that he could warn him that one day he’ll regret spending so much time away from his family. Maybe that’s wishful thinking.
There are no bridal cars. They’re going to walk to St. Mark’s, which is just around the corner; a true wedding procession through the streets of Primrose Hill.
Joe takes the step next to him and they sit comfortably in silence, listening to the champagne corks being popped inside. Ruiz notices a car parked on the corner. It’s the same dark blue Audi that was outside Holly’s flat in South London. Two figures are visible behind the dark-tinted windows. Ruiz feels a pain in his chest like someone has placed a fist against his breastbone and is twisting knuckles into the cartilage. This is his daughter’s wedding day.
Without a word, he stands, walks down the steps and crosses the road. He taps on the driver’s window. After a long pause it glides down. The man behind the wheel has close-cropped hair and a three-day growth. His shirt is rolled up revealing a long pink scar running down the inside of his forearm.
Ruiz can smell the new leather of the seats. “Can I help you?” he asks.
“No, sirree.”
He’s American. A southerner.
“Are you waiting for me?”
“We’re just waiting.”
His passenger is younger, also unshaven, with blond highlights. His sunglasses are hinged on the frames and flipped upwards like wiper blades. His left hand is tucked out of sight below the level of his thigh.
The driver motions to the house.
“Fine day for a wedding,” he drawls. “Who’s getting married?”
“The bride and groom.”
“Well, you make sure you pass on our good wishes.”
“I’ll do that,” says Ruiz, who can feel his molars grinding saliva. He tucks his hands into his pockets. “Maybe we can come to an arrangement.”
“What would that be?”
“How about we agree to meet