The Wreckage: A Thriller Read Free Page A

onwards with a flick of his hand. The convoy moves off, weaving between fire engines, adding one more siren to a city that sings with them.

    2

    LONDON

    Being measured for a new suit was not something Vincent Ruiz expected to happen until he was lying cold and stiff on an undertaker’s slab. And if that were the case, he didn’t suppose he’d care about an effeminate stranger nudging a tape measure against his bal s. Maybe he’s weighing them. Every other measurement has been taken.
    Emile drapes the tape measure around his neck and jots down another set of numbers.
    “Does sir want the trousers to touch his uppers or the top of the soles?”
    “Cal me Vincent.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    He holds the tape measure against Ruiz’s hip and lets it fal before tugging it tight again. “Has sir considered cuffs?”
    “Are they extra?”
    “No. You have the height to wear cuffs. Short men should avoid them. I’d recommend about one and a half inches.”
    “Fine.”
    Next the tape measure is wrapped around Ruiz’s upper thigh. “Does sir dress to the left or the right?”
    “I like to swing both ways.”
    Emile’s eyebrows arch like inflection marks.
    “Just give me loads of room,” says Ruiz. “I want to be able to hide a hard-on. My ex-wife is coming to the wedding and she’s a lot hotter since we divorced.”
    “Very good, sir.”
    Ruiz sighs and gives up trying to get a smile out of Emile. Instead he ponders his daughter’s wedding. Claire is getting married in just under a week and he is supposed to walk her down the aisle and “give her away.” She rang him last night and threatened to ask someone else if he didn’t start fol owing instructions.
    “That’s just it,” he told her. “I don’t want to give you away. I want to keep you.”
    “Very drol , Dad.”
    “I’m being serious.”
    “I’m getting married whether you like it or not.”
    “I could have Phil ip arrested.”
    “He’s a lawyer, Dad, not a criminal.”
    “Is there a difference?”
    Emile picks up his brocade cushion and retreats from the fitting room. Ruiz pul s on his worn corduroy trousers and heavy cotton shirt. As he buttons the front, he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Turning sideways and sucking in his stomach, he straightens his shoulders and examines his physique. Not bad for a man who has hurdled sixty. Some mileage on the clock, but that’s to be expected. His doctor wouldn’t agree, of course, but his doctor is the sort of idiot who thinks people should live to be a hundred and fifty.
    Slipping on a jacket, he pats the pockets and takes out a metal tin of boiled sweets. Unscrewing the lid he pops one into his mouth where it rattles against his teeth. He gave up smoking six years ago. Sugar is the substitute; calories as opposed to cancer.
    As he steps out of the menswear shop, a hand slips through his left arm, pul ing him close. He accepts Claire’s kiss on the cheek, bending slightly so she can reach.
    “Is it done?”
    “It’s done.”
    “That wasn’t so hard?”
    “A strange man has been weighing my bal s.”
    “Emile is lovely.”
    “He’s gayer than a handbag ful of rainbows.”
    She giggles and skips to keep up with him. Dark-haired and pretty, she walks on her toes like a bal et dancer—her former career. Now she teaches at the Royal Academy, crippling prepubescent girls who look pregnant if they eat an apple.
    “OK, now remember we have a dinner with Phil ip’s folks tomorrow night. They’re catching the train from Brighton. Mr. Seidlitz has invited us to his club.” Ruiz’s heart sinks. “What sort of club?”
    “Don’t worry, Daddy, he doesn’t play golf.”
    Seidlitz is a Ukrainian name. Maybe golf isn’t big in the Ukraine. Ruiz isn’t looking forward to it—a table for six, smal talk. Miranda wil be his date. His ex-wife. Number three. She’s the one who acts like they’re stil married. Ruiz knows there is something fundamental y amiss about this fact, but Miranda is