“Peter Falk?”
“The guy wears the same raincoat for twenty years and pretends to be bumbling 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 glass 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 Slutty McSlut from Slutsville. 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 competitive. Vic doesn’t so much win clients as lose competitors.”
“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 sex, 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 shag.