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only a little.
    Reaching for her right arm, I turn it over and brush my fingertips along the milky white scars. Against the paleness of her skin they look like embossed creases that merge and crisscross before fading into nothing. She opened these wounds repeatedly, picking apart the stitches or slicing them afresh. She kept this hidden, but once upon a time I shared the secret.
    “Need a second look?” Ruiz is standing at the door.
    “Yes.” I can’t stop my voice from shaking. Ruiz steps in front of me and slides the drawer shut.
    “You shouldn’t be in here by yourself. Should have waited for me.” The words are weighted.
    I mumble an apology and wash my hands at the sink, feeling his eyes upon me. I need to say something.
    “What about Liverpool? Did you find out who…”
    “The flatmate is being brought to London by the local CID. We should have a positive ID by this afternoon.”
    “So you have a name?”
    He doesn’t answer. Instead I’m hustled along the corridor and made to wait as he col ects the postmortem notes and photographs. Then I fol ow him through the subterranean maze until we emerge, via double doors, into a parking garage.
    Al the while I’m thinking, I should say something now. I should tell him . Yet a separate track in my brain is urging, It doesn’t matter anymore. He knows her name. What’s past is past.
    It’s ancient history .
    “I promised you breakfast.”
    “I’m not hungry.”
    “Wel I am.”
    We walk under blackened railway arches and down a narrow al ey. Ruiz seems to know al the backstreets. He is remarkably light on his feet for a big man, dodging puddles and dog feces.
    The large front windows of the café are steamed up with condensation, or it could be a film of fat from the chip fryer. A bel jangles above our heads as we enter. The fug of cigarette smoke and warm air is overpowering.
    The place is pretty much empty, except for two sunken-cheeked old men in cardigans playing chess in the corner and an Indian cook with a yolk-stained apron. It’s late morning but the café serves breakfast al day. Baked beans, chips, eggs, bacon and mushrooms— in any combination. Ruiz takes a table near the window.
    “What do you want?”
    “Just coffee.”
    “The coffee is crap.”
    “Then I’l have tea.”
    He orders a ful English with a side order of toast and two pots of tea. Then he fumbles for a cigarette in his jacket pocket before mumbling something about forgetting his phone.
    “I didn’t take any pleasure from dragging you into this,” he says.
    “Yes you did.”
    “Wel , just a little.” His eyes seem to smile, but there is no sense of self-congratulation. The impatience I noticed yesterday has gone. He’s more relaxed and philosophical.
    “Do you know how you become a detective inspector, Professor O’Loughlin?”
    “No.”
    “It used to be based on how many crimes you solved and people you banged up. Nowadays it depends on how few complaints you generate and whether you can stick to a budget. I’m a dinosaur to these people. Ever since the Police and Criminal Evidence Act came into force my sort of policeman has been living on borrowed time.
    “Nowadays they talk about proactive policing. Do you know what that means? It means the number of detectives they put on a case depends on how big the tabloid headlines are. The media runs these investigations now— not the police.”
    “I haven’t read anything about this case,” I say.
    “That’s because everyone thinks the victim is a prostitute. If she turns out to be Florence bloody Nightingale or the daughter of a duke I’l have forty detectives instead of twelve. The assistant chief constable wil take personal charge because of the ‘complex nature of the case.’ Every public statement wil have to be vetted by his office and every line of inquiry approved.”
    “Why did they give it to you?”
    “Like I said, they thought we were dealing with a dead prostitute. ‘Give it to Ruiz,’ they said.