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‘He’l bang heads together and put the fear of God into the pimps.’ So what if any of them object. My file is so ful of complaint letters that Internal Affairs has given me my own filing cabinet.”

    A handful of Japanese tourists pass the window and pause. They look at the blackboard menu and then at Ruiz, before deciding to keep going. Breakfast arrives, with a knife and fork wrapped in a paper napkin. Ruiz squeezes brown sauce over his eggs and begins cutting them up. I try not to watch as he eats.
    “You look like you got a question,” he says between mouthfuls.
    “It’s about her name.”
    “You know the dril . I’m not supposed to release details until we get a positive ID and inform the next of kin.”
    “I just thought…” I don’t finish the sentence.
    Ruiz takes a sip of tea and butters his toast.
    “Catherine Mary McBride. She turned twenty-seven a month ago. A community nurse, but you knew that already. According to her flatmate she was in London for a job interview.” Even knowing the answer doesn’t lessen the shock. Poor Catherine. This is when I should tel him. I should have done it straight away. Why do I have to rationalize everything? Why can’t I just say things when they enter my head?

    Leaning over his plate Ruiz scoops baked beans onto a corner of toast. His fork stops in midair in front of his open mouth.
    “Why did you say, ‘Poor Catherine’?”
    I must have been speaking out loud. My eyes tel the rest of the story. Ruiz lets the fork clatter onto his plate. Anger and suspicion snake through his thoughts.
    “You knew her.”
    It’s an accusation rather than a statement. He’s angry.
    “I didn’t recognize her at first. That drawing yesterday could have been almost anyone. I thought you were looking for a prostitute.”
    “And today?”
    “Her face was so swol en and bruised. She seemed so… so… vandalized I didn’t want to look at her. It wasn’t until I read about the scars in the postmortem report that I considered the possibility. That’s why I needed a second look at the body… just to be sure.”
    Ruiz’s eyes haven’t left mine. “And when were you thinking of tel ing me al this?”
    “I intended to tel you…”
    “When? This isn’t a game of twenty questions, Professor. I’m not supposed to guess what you know.”
    “Catherine was a former patient of mine. Psychologists have a duty of care not to reveal confidential information about patients.” Ruiz laughs mockingly. “She’s dead, Professor— in case you missed that smal detail. You conceal information from me again and I’l put my boot so far up your ass your breath wil smel of shoe polish.” He pushes his plate to the center of the table. “Start talking— why was Catherine McBride a patient?”
    “The scars on her wrists and thighs— she deliberately cut herself.”
    “A suicide attempt?”
    “No.”
    I can see Ruiz struggling with this.
    Leaning closer, I try to explain how people react when overwhelmed by confusion and negative emotions. Some drink too much. Others overeat or beat their wives or kick the cat. And a surprising number hold their hands against a hot plate or slice open their skin with a razor blade.
    It’s an extreme coping mechanism. They talk about their inner pain being turned outward. By giving it a physical manifestation they find it easier to deal with.
    “What was Catherine trying to cope with?”
    “Mainly low self-esteem.”
    “Where did you meet her?”
    “She worked as a nurse at the Royal Marsden Hospital. I was a consultant there.”
    Ruiz swirls the tea in his cup, staring at the leaves as though they might tel him something. Suddenly, he pushes back his chair, hitches his trousers and stands.
    “You’re an odd fucker, you know that?” A five-pound note flutters onto the table and I fol ow him outside. A dozen paces along the footpath he turns to confront me.
    “OK, tel me this. Am I investigating a murder or did this girl kil