“What were you doing on that boat?”
“It must have been a police operation—”
“No,” he declares angrily, all pretense of friendship gone. “You weren't working a case. This wasn't a police operation. You were on your own.”
We have an old-fashioned staring contest. I own this one. I might never blink again. Morphine is the answer. God, it feels good.
Finally Campbell slumps into a chair and plucks a handful of grapes from a brown paper bag beside the bed.
“What is the last thing you remember?”
We sit in silence as I try to recover shreds of a dream. Pictures float in and out of my head, dim and then sharp: a yellow life buoy, Marilyn Monroe . . .
“I remember ordering a pizza.”
“Is that it?”
“Sorry.”
Staring at the gauze dressing on my hand, I marvel at how the missing finger feels itchy. “What was I working on?”
Campbell shrugs. “You were on leave.”
“Why?”
“You needed a rest.”
He's lying to me. Sometimes I think he forgets how far back we go. We did our training together at the Police Staff College, Bramshill. And I introduced him to his wife, Maureen, at a barbecue thirty-five years ago. She has never completely forgiven me. I don't know what upsets her most—my three marriages or the fact that I pawned her off on someone else.
It's been a long while since Campbell called me buddy and we haven't shared a beer since he made Chief Superintendent. He's a different man. No better or no worse, just different.
He spits a grape seed into his hand. “You always thought you were better than me, Vincent, but I got promoted ahead of you.”
You were a brownnoser.
“I know you think I'm a brownnoser.” (He's reading my mind.) “But I was just smarter. I made the right contacts and let the system work for me instead of fighting against it. You should have retired three years ago, when you had the chance. Nobody would have thought any less of you. We would have given you a big send-off. You could have settled down, played a bit of golf, maybe even saved your marriage.”
I wait for him to say something else but he just stares at me with his head cocked to one side.
“Vincent, would you mind if I made an observation?” He doesn't wait for my answer. “You put a pretty good face on things considering all that's happened, but the feeling I get from you is . . . well . . . you're a sad man. But it's something more than that . . . you're angry.”
Embarrassment prickles like heat rash under my hospital gown.
“Some people find solace in religion and others have people they can talk to. I know that's not your style. Look at you! You hardly see your kids. You live alone . . . Now you've gone and fucked up your career. I can't help you anymore. I told you to leave this alone.”
“What was I supposed to leave alone?”
He doesn't answer. Instead he picks up his hat and polishes the brim with his sleeve. Any moment now he's going to turn and tell me what he means. Only he doesn't; he keeps on walking out the door and along the corridor.
My grapes have also gone. The stalks look like dead trees on a crumpled brown-paper plain. Beside them a basket of flowers has started to wilt. The begonias and tulips are losing their petals like fat fan dancers and dusting the top of the table with pollen. A small white card embossed with a silver scroll is wedged between the stems. I can't read the message.
Some bastard shot me! It should be etched in my memory. I should be able to relive it over and over again like those whining victims on daytime talk shows who have personal-injury lawyers on speed dial. Instead, I remember nothing. And no matter how many times I squeeze my eye shut and bang my fists on my forehead it doesn't change.
The really strange thing is what I imagine I remember. For instance I recall seeing silhouettes against bright lights; masked men wearing plastic shower caps and paper slippers, who were discussing cars, pension plans and football results. Of course this could have been a near-death experience. I was given a glimpse of Hell and it was full of surgeons.
Perhaps if I start with the simple stuff, I may get to the point where I can remember what happened to me. Staring at the ceiling, I silently spell my name: Vincent Yanko Ruiz; born December 11, 1945. I am a Detective Inspector of the London Metropolitan Police and the head of the Serious Crime Group (Western Division). I live on Rainville Road, Fulham . . .
I used to say I would pay good money to forget most of my life. Now I want the memories back.
2
I only know two people who have been shot. One was a chap I went through police training college with. His name was Angus Lehmann and he wanted to be first at everything—first in his exams, first to the bar, first to get promoted . . .
A few years back he led a raid on a drug factory in Brixton and was first through the door. An entire magazine from a semiautomatic took his head clean off. There's a lesson in that somewhere.
A farmer in our valley called Bruce Curley is the other one. He shot himself in the foot when he tried to chase his wife's lover out the bedroom window. Bruce was fat with gray hair sprouting from his ears and Mrs. Curley used to cower like a dog whenever he raised a hand. Shame he didn't shoot himself between the eyes.
During my police training we did a firearms course. The instructor was a Geordie with a head like a billiard ball and he took against me from the first day because I suggested the best way to keep a gun barrel clean was to cover it with a condom.
We were standing on the live firing range, freezing our bollocks off. He pointed out the cardboard cutout at the end of the range. It was a silhouette of a crouching gun-wielding villain with a white circle painted over his heart and another on his head.
Taking a service pistol the Geordie crouched down with his legs apart and squeezed off six shots—a heartbeat between each of them—every one grouped in the upper circle.
Flicking the smoking clip into his hand, he said, “Now I don't expect any of you to do that but at least try to hit the fucking target. Who wants to go first?”
Nobody volunteered.
“How about you, condom boy?”
The class laughed.
I stepped forward and raised my revolver. I hated how good it felt in my hand. The instructor said, “No, not like that, keep both eyes open. Crouch. Count and squeeze.”
Before he could finish the gun kicked in my hand, rattling the air and something deep inside me.
The cutout swayed from side to side as the pulley dragged it down the range toward us. Six shots, each so close together they formed a ragged hole through the cardboard.
“He shot out his arsehole,” someone muttered in astonishment.
“Right up the Khyber Pass.”
I didn't look at the instructor's face. I turned away, checked the chamber, put on the safety catch and removed my earplugs.
“You missed,” he said triumphantly.
“If you say so, sir.”
I wake with a sudden jolt and it takes a while for my heart to settle. I look at my watch—not so much at the time but the date. I want to make sure I haven't slept for too long or lost any more time.
It's been two days since I regained consciousness. A man is sitting by the bed.
“My name is Dr. Wickham,” he says, smiling. “I'm a neurologist.”
He looks like one of those doctors you see on daytime chat shows.
“I once saw you play rugby for Harlequins against London Scottish,” he says. “You would have made the England team that year if you hadn't been injured. I played a bit of rugby myself. Never higher than seconds . . .”
“Really, what position?”
“Outside center.”
I figured as much—he probably touched the ball twice a game and is still talking about the tries he could have scored.
“I have the results of your MRI scan,” he says, opening a folder. “There is no evidence of a skull fracture, aneurysms or a hemorrhage.” He gl
ances up from his notes. “I want to run some neurological tests to help establish what you've forgotten. It means answering some questions about the shooting.”
“I don't remember it.”
“Yes, but I want you to answer regardless—even if it means guessing. It's called a forced-choice recognition test. It forces you to make choices.”
I think I understand, although I don't see the point.
“How many people were on the boat?”
“I don't remember.”
Dr. Wickham reiterates, “You have to make a choice.”
“Four.”
“Was there a full moon?”
“Yes.”
“Was the name of the boat Charmaine?”
“No.”
“How many engines did it have?”
“One.”
“Was it a stolen boat?”
“Yes.”
“Was the engine running?”
“No.”
“Were you anchored or drifting?”
“Drifting.”
“Were you carrying a weapon?”
“Yes.”
“Did you fire your weapon?”
“No.”
This is ridiculous! What possible good does it do? I'm guessing the answers.
Suddenly, it dawns on me. They think I'm faking amnesia. This isn't a test to see how much I remember—they're testing the validity of my symptoms. They're forcing me to make choices so they can work out what percentage of questions I answer correctly. If I'm telling the truth, pure guesswork should mean half of my answers are correct. Anything significantly above or below fifty percent could mean I'm trying to “influence” the result by deliberately getting things right or wrong.
I know enough about statistics to see the objective. The chance of someone with memory loss answering only ten questions correctly out of fifty is less than five percent.
Dr. Wickham has been taking notes. No doubt he's studying the distribution of my answers—looking for patterns that might indicate something other than random chance.
Stopping him, I ask, “Who wrote these questions?”
“I don't know.”
“Guess.”
He blinks at me.
“Come on, Doc, true or false? I'll accept a guess. Is this a test to see if I'm faking memory loss?”
“I don't know what you mean,” he stammers.
“If I can guess the answer, so can you. Who put you up to this—Internal Affairs or Campbell Smith?”
Struggling to his feet, he tucks the clipboard under his arm and turns toward the door. I wish I'd met him on the rugby field. I'd have driven his head into a muddy hole.
Swinging my legs out of bed, I put one foot on the floor. The linoleum is cool and slightly sticky. Gulping hard on the pain, I slide my forearms into the plastic cuffs of the crutches.
I'm supposed to be using a walker on wheels but I'm too vain. I'm not going to walk around in a chrome cage like some geriatric in a post office queue. I look in the cupboard for my clothes. Empty.
I know it sounds paranoid but they're not telling me everything. Someone must know what I was doing on the river. Someone will have heard the shots or seen something. Why haven't they found any bodies?
Halfway down the corridor I see Campbell talking to Dr. Wickham. Two detectives are with them. I recognize one of them: John Keebal. I used to work with him until he joined the Met's Anti-Corruption Group, otherwise known as the Ghost Squad, and began investigating his own.
Keebal is one of those coppers who call all gays “fudge-packers” and Asians “Pakis.” He is loud, bigoted and totally obsessed with the job. When the Marchioness riverboat sank in the Thames, he did thirteen death-knocks before lunchtime, telling people their kids had drowned. He knew exactly what to say and when to stop talking. A man like that can't be all bad.
“Where do you think you're going?” asks Campbell.
“I thought I might get some fresh air.”
Keebal interrupts, “Yeah, just got a whiff of something myself.”
I push past them heading for the lift.
“You can't possibly leave,” says Dr. Wickham. “Your dressing has to be changed every few days. You need painkillers.”
“Fill my pockets and I'll self-administer.”
Campbell grabs my arm. “Don't be so bloody foolish.”
I realize I'm shaking.
“Have you found anyone? Any . . . any bodies?”
“No.”
“I'm not faking this, you know. I really can't remember.”
He steers me away from the others. “I believe you, Vincent, but you know the drill. The IPCC has to investigate.”
“What's Keebal doing here?”
“He just wants to talk to you.”
“Do I need a lawyer?”
Campbell laughs but it doesn't reassure me like it should. Before I can weigh up my options, Keebal leads me down the corridor to the hospital lounge—a stark, windowless place, with burnt-orange sofas and posters of healthy people. He unbuttons his jacket and takes a seat, waiting for me to lever myself down from my crutches.
“I hear you nearly met the grim reaper.”
“He offered me a room with a view.”
“And you turned him down?”
“I'm not a good traveler.”
For the next ten minutes we shoot the breeze about mutual acquaintances and old times. He asks about my mother and I tell him she's in a retirement village.
“Some of those places can be pretty expensive.”
“Yep.”
“Where you living nowadays?”
“Right here.”
The coffee arrives and Keebal keeps talking. He gives me his opinion on the proliferation of firearms, random violence and senseless crimes. The police are becoming easy targets and scapegoats all at once. I know what he's trying to do. He wants to draw me in with a spiel about good guys having to stick together.
Keebal is one of those police officers who adopt a warrior ethic as though something separates them from normal society. They listen to politicians talk about the war on crime and the war on drugs and the war on terror and they start picturing themselves as soldiers fighting to keep the streets safe.
“How many times have you put your life on the line, Ruiz? You think any of the bastards care? The left call us pigs and the right call us Nazis. Sieg, sieg, oink! Sieg, sieg, oink!” He throws his right arm forward in a Nazi salute.
I stare at the signet ring on his pinkie and think of Orwell's Animal Farm.
Keebal is on a roll. “We don't live in a perfect world and we don't have perfect police officers, eh? But what do they expect? We have no fucking resources and we're fighting a system that lets criminals out quicker than we can catch them. And all this new-age touchy-feely waa-waa bullshit they pass off as crime prevention has done nothing for you and me. And it's done nothing for the poor misguided kids who get caught up in crime.
“A while back I went to a conference and some lard-arse criminologist with an American accent told us that police officers had no enemies. ‘Criminals are not the enemy, crime is,' he said. Jesus wept! Have you ever heard anything so stupid? I had to stop myself giving this guy a slap.”
Keebal leans in a little closer. I smell peanuts on his breath.
“I don't blame coppers for being pissed off. And I can understand when they pocket a little for themselves, as long as they're not dealing drugs or hurting children, eh?” He puts his hand on my shoulder. “I can help you. Just tell me what happened that night.”
“I don't remember.”
“Am I correct in assuming, therefore, you cannot identify the person who shot you?”
“You would be correct in that assumption.”
My sarcasm seems to light a fire under Keebal. He knows I'm not buying his we're-all-alone-in-the-trenches bullshit.
“Where are the diamonds?”
“What diamonds?”
He tries to change the subject.
“N
o. No. Stop! What diamonds?”
He shouts over me. “The decks of that boat were swimming in blood. People died but we haven't found any bodies and nobody has been reported missing. What does that suggest to you?”
He makes me think. The victims probably had no close ties or they were engaged in something illegal. I want to go back to the diamonds, but Keebal has his own agenda.
“I read an interesting statistic the other day. Thirty-five percent of offenders found guilty of homicide claim amnesia of the event.”
More bloody statistics. “You think I'm lying.”
“I think you're bent.”
I reach for my crutches and swing onto my feet. “Since you know all the answers, Keebal, you tell me what happened. Oh, that's right—you weren't there. Then again—you never are. When real coppers are out risking their lives, you're at home tucked up in bed watching reruns of The Bill. You risk nothing and you persecute honest coppers for standards that you couldn't piss over. Get out of here. And next time you want to talk to me you better come armed with an arrest warrant and a set of handcuffs.”
Keebal's face turns a slapped-red color. He does lots of preening and flexing as he walks away, yelling over his shoulder. “The only person you got fooled is that neurologist. Nobody else believes you. You're gonna wish that bullet did the job.”
I try to chase them down the corridor, hopping on one crutch, and screaming my head off. Two black orderlies hold me back, pinning my arms behind me.
Finally, I calm down and they take me back to my room. Maggie gives me a small plastic cup of syrupy liquid and soon I'm like Alice in Wonderland shrinking into the room. The white folds of the bedclothes are an arctic wasteland.
The dream has a whiff of strawberry lip gloss and spearmint breath—a missing girl in a pink-and-orange bikini. Her name is Mickey Carlyle and she's wedged in the rocks in my mind like a spar of driftwood, bleached white by the sun—as white as her skin and the fine hairs on her forearms. She is four feet tall, tugging at my sleeve, saying, “Why didn't you ever find me? You promised my friend Sarah that you'd find me.”
She even says it in the same voice that Sarah used when she asked me for an ice-cream cone. “You promised me. You said I could have one if I told you what happened.”
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