The Wreckage: A Thriller by Michael Robotham Page A

Thompson.
    Ruiz doesn’t answer.
    “I’l need to talk to her again.”
    “You know where to find me.”

    The Merc edges out of a parking spot and joins a stream of traffic. Brake lights blink between passing cars. Ruiz glances at Hol y. Her eyes are closed. Her hair is drawn back and she’s wearing a man’s coat because her own clothes are in the lab. She’s a pretty thing, preposterously young. It’s a shame about the piercings.
    “You don’t like the police very much?”
    She doesn’t answer.
    “I’m not a copper anymore.”
    Silence.
    “DS Thompson wanted to have you sectioned. Do you know what that means? He thinks you’re a couple of channels short of basic cable.” Again he gets no response.
    “You don’t have to be frightened of me.”
    “I’m not frightened.”
    “I’m not going to cause you any trouble.”
    “Don’t even try.”
    She is five foot five, weighs 125 pounds wringing wet, but something in her voice tel s Ruiz that Hol y wouldn’t hesitate to fight.
    “I’m not going to fuck you,” she says matter-of-factly.
    Ruiz glances at her in amazement.
    “Don’t give me that look,” she says. “You’re a man. You’re al the same, unless you’re gay, which you’re not. Maybe you’re too old.”
    “Somebody should scrub out your potty mouth.”
    She gets a look of alarm. “Don’t even try it!”
    They drive in silence through a hinterland of council houses and industrial estates, staying south of the river through Clapham and Wandsworth. The big old Mercedes has a soft ride.
    It’s the sort of car Hol y used to throw up in as a kid. She sits as far away from Ruiz as possible with one hand on the door handle, sneaking occasional glances at him, contemplating what sort of monster he would turn into. He doesn’t look much like a policeman, even a former one. He seems big and slow, yet she saw how quickly he could move.
    “Why are you doing this?” she asks.
    “It’s my good deed for the day.”
    “You’re lying.”
    “I want my stuff back—the hair-comb you stole.”
    “I don’t have it.”
    “Where?”
    “I dropped it at the flat.”
    Ruiz nods. “Did you see the guy who kil ed Zac?”
    Hol y nods.
    “Would you recognize him again?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Describe him to me.”
    She mumbles, “Mid-thirties, dark hair, your height, but thinner.”
    “What color eyes?”
    “It was dark.”
    They drive in silence for another while, pausing at red lights. Ruiz glances at Hol y. Only half her face is visible. Goose bumps on her arms.
    “Why?”
    “Huh?”
    “Why did this guy hurt Zac?”
    She doesn’t answer.
    “Did you owe someone money?”
    “No.”
    “The police think it was a drug deal gone wrong.”
    “They’re lying! Zac didn’t touch the stuff—not for a long while. He got clean. Went to meetings.”
    “Was he dealing?”
    “No fucking way.”
    Hol y brings her knees up to her chest, resting her chin on them. Looks even younger.
    “Sooner or later you have to level with someone, Hol y.”
    “I’m tel ing the truth.” Her eyes float.
    “So you’re saying Zac wasn’t using.”
    “Not for a long time.”
    Ruiz raises his voice but remains composed. “Why should I believe you?”
    She doesn’t answer. She’s staring at the passing parade of Londoners.
    “Are you using?”
    “No.”
    “I saw you sniffling and snuffling.”
    “I got a cold.” She tugs her hair back from her face, glaring at him. “You’re not my father, so don’t start lecturing me. Just drop me on the next corner. I don’t have to put up with this shit.”
    “Why won’t you talk to the police?”
    “Been there, done that, bought the T-shirt.”
    “That bad?”
    “Nothing good.”

    16

    LONDON

    The Courier wakes in a bed and breakfast hotel in Lancaster Gate. There is a girl sleeping next to him, snoring softly, hair a mess, eyes smudged.
    He kicks her.
    “What was that for?”
    “Your wake-up cal .”
    “You paid for the night.”
    “And now it’s