The Wreckage: A Thriller Read Free Page B

the sort of ex-wife that most men dream about. Low maintenance. Self-sufficient. Classy. When they divorced she asked him for nothing except for a few souvenirs from the marriage and to be al owed to stay in touch with Michael and Claire. They stil needed a mother, she said.
    Over the past few years Ruiz and Miranda have periodical y fal en into bed together—a perfectly satisfactory “friends with benefits” arrangement, offering companionship, a pinch of romance and the sort of sex that can fog the windows. Not love, it’s true… not exactly—but closer to love than most relationships Ruiz had known.
    Claire looks at her watch. “I’m meeting Phil ip. He’l be early.”
    “Why?”
    “He always is.”
    “That’s another reason not to marry him.”
    “Oh, stop!”
    Blowing him a kiss, she skips across the road, leaving him on the corner. He wants to cal after her, to hear her sweet voice again.
    Married… in a week. She seems too young. Thirty-two on her last birthday, yet Ruiz can stil picture her in pigtails and braces. Her fiancé is a lawyer who works for an investment bank. Does that make him a lawyer or a banker? He votes Tory, but everybody does these days.
    Ruiz wishes Laura were here. She would have loved al this—preparing menus, choosing flowers, sending out invitations—weddings are about mothers and daughters. The father of the bride just has to turn up, walk down the aisle and hand his daughter over like she’s part of a prisoner swap.
    Ruiz isn’t even expected to pick up the tab. Phil ip has everything covered. He earns more in a month than Ruiz used to make in a year as a detective inspector. He didn’t even melt a little during the global meltdown, while Ruiz’s retirement funds have halved. His investment advisor isn’t answering his cal s, which is always a bad sign.
    Office workers are spil ing out of buildings, their day ending, the commute ahead. Ruiz tries to avoid public transport during the peak hours. Lust, greed, sloth, envy, pride… the ful pathology of human behavior is played out on the tube every morning and evening. It’s like an experiment in overcrowding using humans instead of rats. Ruiz prefers to conduct his own scientific study, which involves a pint of Guinness and a table by the window where he can watch the office girls walk by in their tight skirts and summer blouses. Not a dirty old man but a lover of the feminine form.
    The Coach & Horses in Greek Street used to be one of his favorite pubs, back in the days when Norman “You’re Barred” Balon was stil in charge. Norman was London’s grumpiest publican, famous for abusing patrons. He retired a few years back. Regulars gave him a standing ovation and three cheers. Norman told them to shut up and “spend more fucking money.”
    Setting his pint on a table, Ruiz pul s out a notebook and reads over the sentences he wrote this morning. Stories. Anecdotes. Descriptions. Ever since he retired he’s been making notes and trying to remember things. He doesn’t see himself as a writer. He has no desire to be one. It’s about finding the right words and sorting out his memories, rather than justifying his actions or leaving something behind.
    Forty-three years as a copper, thirty-five as a detective, al he has left are the stories: triumphs, tragedies, mistakes and missed opportunities. Some may be worth reading. Most are best left alone.
    Ruiz misses the camaraderie of the Met, the sense of purpose, the smel of cigarette smoke and wet overcoats. It was an unreal world, yet it was more real than real, if that makes sense. Important. Frustrating. Over.
    Three empty pint glasses are sitting in front of him. It’s growing dark outside, but the streets are stil teeming with tourists and diners. London seems more foreign to him every summer—not just because of the influx of visitors, who are mainly Japanese, American and a generic kind of East European. The city is changing. Old haunts disappear. Safe streets