The Wreckage: A Thriller by Michael Robotham

his genitals remodeled with a set of long-nose pliers.”
    “He was tortured?”
    “Went every round. I don’t know what information he had but I hope he begged to give it up. I hope that’s what happened.” Ruiz can feel his testicles retract. He looks at the side of Noonan’s face. The pathologist is gazing out the window at pedestrians, huddled beneath umbrel as, spil ing from Victoria Station.
    “How did he die?”
    “Suffocated. The bul et was insurance.”
    “A professional hit?”
    “Looks like it.”
    “Gangland?”
    “Maybe.”
    “Did you do a tox screen?”
    “Results wil take a few days.”
    Ruiz scratches his unshaven chin, feeling the dirt between the hair fol icles. “The police are saying it was a drug-related hit. What do you think?” Noonan shrugs.
    “Did they find any drug paraphernalia in the flat?”
    “No.”
    “Any needle marks?”
    “None.”
    “The guy was a war hero.”
    “I heard.”
    Noonan swal ows the last of his coffee. “I’m too old for this shit.”
    “For what?”
    “To understand what some people do.”

    Hol y Knight sits in the back of the police car, letting the reflections of city buildings wash over her pupils. She’s dirty and tired and her shoulder aches where she was slammed against the wal during the fight.
    The police car pul s into a wal ed yard with iron gates and razor wire. Hol y is escorted through a door and along a wide corridor with a polished floor. It smel s like a hospital with something missing. Patients. Hope.
    Thompson makes her walk quickly, hustling her along without touching her.
    “Wait here,” he says, leaving her in a room with two smal sofas, a coffee table, water cooler and box of tissues. A curtain screens one wal .
    Alone, Hol y thinks about Zac. He had saved her. They had saved each other. Normal y she didn’t get close to people. It was safer that way. Never pat stray dogs or they’l fol ow you home. Her mother told her that.
    She and Zac met at a rehabilitation center, which is a fancy term for a psych ward. Hol y was undergoing tests. Zac was being treated for post-traumatic stress. Zac didn’t treat her like the other men in her life. He didn’t care about her history. That was a year ago. Long enough to fal out of love. It hadn’t happened. Closing her eyes, she can picture his stretched angular face and the blur of big freckles on his shoulder blades.
    DS Thompson joins her in the room. Without any fanfare or warning, he pul s open the curtain. Zac is laid out on a metal trol ey covered with a white sheet from the neck down.
    Bruised. Pale. Changed. It’s amazing what a breath can do. Fil a chest. Fire a heart. Bring color to a face.
    “Can you confirm the name of the deceased?”
    Hol y whispers, “Zac Osborne.”
    The curtain is drawn closed. Hol y sits on the sofa, feeling herself getting smal er and smal er like Alice in Wonderland. DS Thompson is talking to her. Something about Hol y’s grief has melted the ice within him and his attitude has changed. Mel owed.
    “Do you have somewhere to stay?” he asks. “We can’t let you go unless we know how to reach you.”
    A voice answers him from the doorway. “She can stay with me.” Ruiz is holding a coffee for her. “I have a spare room.” Thompson looks at him incredulously. “Two nights ago you offered her a bed and she robbed you.”
    “That was two nights ago.”

    Ruiz addresses Hol y. “You can’t go back to your flat. And the police won’t let you go unless you give them an address.” Thompson interrupts again. “Why are you doing this?”
    “That’s my business.”
    He sniffs hard, trying to get a handle on Ruiz, who is stil focused on Hol y.
    “It’s up to you. Stay here or come home with me. I don’t bear grudges.”
    Words. Promises. Everything is happening too quickly for her. She nods but doesn’t look at Ruiz. Then she fol ows him down the corridor, taking two steps to each one of his.
    “You’re asking for trouble,” yel s