Free Bombproof by Michael Robotham

That’s how they met. Ruiz was working a case involving a boatload of stolen Levi’s back in the late-eighties when 901s were the hottest ticket on the high street. Ruiz was married. Happily so, except for the cancer that was eating away at Laura from the inside.
    He flirted a little with Miranda, became friends and then lost touch with her for a decade. By then Laura was dead and Jessie, his second wife, a suppressed memory.
    He and Miranda were married for three years. They’ve been divorced for two. She’s the sort of ex-wife blokes dream about. Low maintenance. Friendly. She’s even tried to set him up on dates. Unmitigated disasters.
    When they were married, Ruiz could never fully reconcile himself to the fact that Miranda worked as a parole officer. He didn’t like the idea that low-life scrotes and toerags were sitting in her office wondering what underwear she was wearing. He half suspected - but never told Miranda - that half the reason she had such a good retention rate was because her parolees lusted after her.
    Miranda was always careful. She dressed down. Minimal make-up. Nothing provocative.
    ‘You want tea or coffee?’ she asks.
    ‘Got anything stronger?’
    ‘Nope.’
    ‘Is it proper tea?’
    ‘Camomile.’
    ‘Tastes of nothing, smells like potpourri.’
    ‘It’s very good for you.’
    Ruiz produces a bottle of red wine from behind his back. ‘So is this. It’s full of antioxidants. Good for the heart. Ask the French. Sarkozy lives on this stuff and bags himself a pop star and a supermodel. What do we get? Gordon Brown. I rest my case.’
    Ruiz finds a corkscrew and Miranda gets two glasses. The garden flat is nice. Homely. Ruiz likes the way it smells. He also likes the fact it’s full of reminders and souvenirs of their marriage. The rug in front of the fireplace is from a holiday they took in Cornwall and the painting above the dining table was bought from a sidewalk artist in Florence.
    Miranda sets out two balloon glasses and fills a bowl with roasted cashews. She’s self-sufficient. Classy. Never asked him for a thing when they divorced except for the souvenirs. And all she asks of him now is that he returns her phone calls and lets her stay involved with Michael and Claire - the twins. Laura’s kids, not hers. They still need a mother, she says, and she’s happy to fill the role.
    She sits down on the far end of the sofa. Curls her legs. Ruiz stares at her earlobes. He could nuzzle them for a few hundred years and never get bored.
    ‘You called,’ he says, trying to change the subject.
    ‘What did the doctor say?’ she asks.
    ‘Is that why you asked me round?’
    ‘Not entirely.’ She sips her wine. ‘But since you’re here.’
    ‘He said nothing.’
    ‘What did you say?’
    ‘Nothing.’
    ‘It must have been very quiet.’ Her eyes are dancing. ‘Did he tell you to exercise?’
    ‘I told him I was going to exercise by being a pallbearer for all my friends who exercise.’
    ‘What about your weight?’
    ‘What about it?’
    ‘You’ve put on a few pounds.’
    ‘No I haven’t.’
    ‘Stop trying to hold your stomach in.’
    Ruiz relaxes. ‘It looks good on me. You’re too skinny.’
    ‘I’m the same size as when you married me.’
    ‘That’s why I divorced you.’
    Miranda gives him a hurt look. Ruiz wants to take the comment back. She has this way of acting that makes him believe that several women are living inside her and only one of them divorced him. The rest are still undecided.
    Ruiz takes a sip of wine and a handful of cashews. Miranda has stopped talking and grown pensive, one tooth biting into her bottom lip.
    ‘You all right?’
    She nods and starts telling him about her new parolee, Sami Macbeth, released after nearly three years in prison. Tells him the story of his sister going missing.
    Ruiz is thinking runaway. This Nadia is probably having the time of her life. She’s found herself a boyfriend, doesn’t want to associate with a jailbird