Bombproof Read Free Page B

as lose count of them. Does that make him old or is he still middle-aged?
    Most people can remember their childhoods with great clarity and later in life entire decades disappear into the ether. Ruiz is different. For him there has never been such a thing as forgetting. Nothing is hazy or vague or frayed at the edges. He hoards memories like a miser counts gold - names, dates, places, witnesses, suspects and victims.
    He doesn’t see things photographically. Instead he makes connections, spinning them together like a spider weaving a web, threading one strand into the next. That’s why he can reach back and pluck details of criminal cases from five, ten, fifteen years ago and remember them as if they happened only yesterday. He can conjure up crime scenes, recreate conversations and hear the same lies.
    He looks out the window. It’s raining. Water ripples across the Thames, which is slick with leaves and debris. He has lived by the river for twenty-five years and it’s still a mystery to him. Rivers are like that.
    Maybe the post won’t arrive if it’s raining. The postman will stay at the sorting office. Keep dry. In which case the card from Ray Garza will come tomorrow. He’ll have another night of waiting. Dreaming.
    Darcy comes downstairs when the coffee is done. She must be able to smell it. She’s dressed for college, in dance trousers, trainers, a sweater and sleeveless ski jacket.
    ‘Happy birthday, old man.’
    ‘Piss off.’
    ‘Don’t you like birthdays?’
    ‘I don’t like teenagers.’
    ‘But we’re the future.’
    ‘God help us.’
    Darcy isn’t his daughter or his granddaughter. She’s a lodger. It’s a long story. Her mother is dead and her father has known her for less time than Ruiz. She’s eighteen and studying at the Royal Ballet School.
    She sits on a chair, crosses her legs and holds her coffee with both hands on the mug. She can bend like a reed and move without making a sound.
    ‘I’m going to bake you a cake,’ she announces.
    ‘You don’t have to do that.’
    ‘What sort do you want? Do you like chocolate? Everyone likes chocolate. How old are you?’
    ‘Sixty-two.’
    ‘That’s old.’
    ‘You don’t count the years, you count the mileage.’
    ‘What does that mean?’
    ‘It doesn’t matter.’
    She has found a piece of fruit. Breakfast. There’s nothing of her.
    ‘Are you ever going to get married again?’ she asks.
    ‘Never.’
    ‘Why not?’
    ‘It’s an expensive way to get my laundry done.’
    Darcy doesn’t find him funny.
    ‘How many times have you been married?’
    ‘Haven’t you got classes to go to, stretches to do, pirouettes? ’
    ‘You’re embarrassed?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Well, tell me. I’m interested.’
    ‘My first wife died of cancer and my second wife left me for an Argentine polo player.’
    ‘There were more?’
    ‘My third wife doesn’t seem to remember that we’re divorced.’
    ‘You mean she’s a friend with benefits.’
    ‘A what?’
    ‘A friend who lets you sleep with her.’
    ‘Christ! How old are you?’
    Darcy doesn’t answer. She sips her coffee. Ruiz starts thinking about sleeping with Miranda. It’s a nice idea. She’s still a fine looking woman and if memory serves they used to tear up the sheets. The sex was so good even the neighbours had a cigarette afterwards.
    They divorced five years ago but stay in touch. And the intervening period hasn’t been benefit-free. They had a steamy weekend in Scotland when one of her nephews got married, and had another brief fling when Ruiz got stabbed in Amsterdam and Miranda looked after him for a couple of days.
    Friends with benefits - the idea could grow on him.
    ‘What are you smiling about?’ asks Darcy.
    ‘Nothing.’
    A metal clang echoes from the front hall. The post. Ruiz feels hollow inside. Darcy springs up and fetches the envelopes, counting out the birthday cards and putting them on the table.
    ‘Aren’t you going to open them?’
    ‘Later.’
    ‘Oh,