Say You're Sorry Part 27

"Where were you on the night of the blizzard?" I ask.

"Sat.u.r.day? I would have been was.h.i.+ng my hair."

"Is that your alibi?"

"Why would I need one?" He smiles at me sadly, a bitter taste in his mouth. "It's the uncle they should be looking at. I told the police. I told them what I saw."

"What did you tell them?"

"I told them about that girl and her uncle, Vic McBain."

"What about them?"

"I saw them together. He was dropping Natasha at school one day and the two of them were in the front seat of his car. She was sitting on his lap and they were kissing. Not just any kiss. Not a peck on the cheek. Open-mouthed. You know what I'm saying? At first I thought it was one of the senior girls and her boyfriend, but then Natasha got out and I saw the bloke she'd been kissing. She went skipping off to cla.s.s like it was right as rain."

"You're sure it was Vic McBain?"

"Yeah. I talked to Natasha. She said she knew about my taking pictures and that if I told anyone she'd tell the police that I touched her. That's a lie. I never laid a finger on any of them girls."

"And you told the police this?"

"Yeah, I told them."

"Who did you tell?"

"A detective; I don't know his name."

I've read the files. There were no allegations of an improper relations.h.i.+p between Vic McBain and his niece.

Stokes squeezes his cigarette until the paper and ash disintegrate. He sweeps them into a dustpan on a stick.

"She could be a real b.i.t.c.h that McBain girl, so full of herself, strutting around like she was on a catwalk. A p.r.i.c.k-tease at fourteen, a runaway at fifteen, that girl was nothing but trouble. Maybe she got what she deserved."

"What did she deserve?"

He doesn't answer. Instead, he turns away and lifts a hard-bristled broom from the barrow.

"I got work to do."

24.

A pint of Guinness is resting between Ruiz's elbows and he's studying the bubbles as they settle into a creamy head. We're not drinking in the Morse Bar. He chose a pub around the corner, where the prices are cheaper and happy hour twice as long.

"I've got nothing against TV detectives," he explains. "They're all equally full of s.h.i.+t. You take Columbo."

"Peter Falk?"

"The guy wears the same raincoat for twenty years and pretends to be b.u.mbling and stupid so people underestimate him. I know detectives who've been doing that for twice that long and haven't solved more than a crossword puzzle. You know what happens to them?"

"I have a feeling you're going to tell me."

"They get promoted."

His pint gla.s.s is empty.

"It's your shout," he says.

"I'm not drinking."

"That's not my fault. It's called a tradition."

I go to the bar. When I get back to the table Ruiz has taken out his notebook and is licking his thumb as he turns the pages. While I've been interviewing Emily Martinez and Nelson Stokes, he's been tracking down details of the accident.

He rattles off the facts: Aiden Foster, twenty, and Callum Loach, eighteen, had an altercation at a party in Abingdon. Later in the evening Foster drove a car into Loach and fled the scene.

"Foster was arrested the next day. He copped a plea and the charge was downgraded from attempted murder to GBH. He's been inside for the past four years."

"What happened to Loach?"

"He had both legs amputated above the knee. Lives at home."

"And the fight was over Natasha?"

"Apparently so." Ruiz takes a sip of Guinness and wipes his top lip. "It didn't make her very popular."

"How so?"

"When she gave evidence at the trial people abused her outside the court, saying it was her fault. Foster's barrister made her sound like s.l.u.tty Mcs.l.u.t from s.l.u.tsville. Witnesses said she was dealing drugs at the party."

"So the families blamed Natasha?"

"Looks like it."

Ruiz raises an eyebrow. He knows I'm trawling for motives, looking for anomalies or angles the police might have overlooked.

"What was Aiden Foster doing with a fifteen-year-old girlfriend?" I ask.

"What was Vic McBain doing with his niece?" he counters.

"I don't know if I believe Stokes."

"Why would he lie?"

"To deflect attention. What do we know about Vic McBain?"

"He and Isaac used to be business partners. They started a scaffolding business together ten years ago. It's a niche market, very lucrative and compet.i.tive. Vic doesn't so much win clients as lose compet.i.tors."

"What do you mean?"

"Other companies have trucks clamped or jobs cancelled or scaffolding collapse, but Vic's business is bulletproof. When it comes to winning contracts, Vic seems to always be the low bidder or the last man standing."

"Why aren't the brothers still partners?"

"They had a falling out. Vic bought Isaac's share of the company. Now Isaac works for him."

"What did Isaac do with the money?"

"Lost it on the wheel of fortune-the one with the red and black numbers and the bouncing white ball. That's probably why he fell in with the Connolly brothers. He owed fifteen grand to a loan shark called Cyril Honey."

"So he opted for the last resort-he robbed an armored van."

"And now he's living in a shack while Vic owns five hundred square yards of a property on the Thames and a chateau in France."

Ruiz closes his notebook and slips a rubber band around the pages. "You think Stokes is good for this?"

"Maybe. I'd really like to know why his statement didn't mention Vic McBain."

"You should ask DCI Drury. Make his day."

My mobile is ringing. I don't recognize the number, but the voice is familiar.

Victoria Naparstek apologizes for her behavior at the hospital and asks me what I'm wearing.

"Why?"

"I want you to take me to dinner and I'm just making sure you're not wearing that tweed jacket."

"Is tweed a problem?"

"It makes you look like a supply teacher."

"That's good to know."

"I've booked us a table at Branca. It's an Italian restaurant in Walton Street. I'll see you at eight."

I end the call. Ruiz has an arched eyebrow. "You have a date?"

"Just a meal."

"With that very fetching psychiatrist."

"She wants my opinion on something."

"Not your body then?"

Ruiz is the only one of my friends who doesn't try to convince me that Julianne and I are going to get back together. I think he hopes it, but would never say as much. Although he talks a lot about s.e.x, the only woman in his life is his ex-wife Miranda, who seems to have decided that Ruiz was a lousy husband but perfectly adequate as an occasional s.h.a.g.

"I have to get changed," I tell him. "She doesn't like tweed."

"Obviously a woman of taste."

"Out of my league."

"Chin up. Even the s.h.i.+ttiest player can fluke a goal."

Victoria Naparstek is waiting for me in the hotel foyer. She's wearing contact lenses and s.e.xier clothes-a mid-thigh black dress, leggings and boots that make her taller than I am. It's one more thing to be self-conscious about.

The Italian restaurant has tea candles in red globes on every table. It's perfect lighting to hide a myriad of flaws and blemishes-mine not hers.

"How is Augie?" I ask.

"That's what I wanted to tell you. He was granted bail this afternoon. He's out."

"Where?"

"At his mother's house."

"What happened?"

"The judge was so angry about the suicide attempt that he wouldn't listen to any more excuses. The police failed in their duty of care, he said. He granted bail with conditions. Augie has to wear an electronic ankle tag."

She raises her gla.s.s in a mini-celebration, pus.h.i.+ng her hair behind her ears.

"Did the prosecution mention Augie's father?"

"Inadmissible. You can't blame a son for something his father did or didn't do."

One of my s.h.i.+rt cuffs has come undone. I don't have the dexterity to do it up again. Victoria notices and reaches across the table.

"There," she says.

"Thanks. I don't know what I'd do without you."

A smile. She has the kind of dimples that leave a mark on a man's mind.

We make small talk and eye contact. Naparstek is a Jewish name. Her great-grandparents escaped from Poland in 1935. She's an only child, which meant she was rather spoiled and bookish. She grew up in Glasgow, went to boarding school and was head girl. Her father makes corporate videos. Her mother is a speech therapist.

I listen and tell myself to remember this-how it feels to talk to an attractive woman and flirt a little. What I don't mention is that I woke up this morning with an erection, imagining Dr. Naparstek with her very smart business skirt hiked up over her hips and the base of my p.e.n.i.s grinding against her pubic bone.

"I'm sorry I seem to be doing all the talking," Victoria says. "You don't mind, do you?"