for a bit about who’s getting what for Christmas. No fights. No sniping. Just two grownups having a conversation. Who knows: maybe if we can make it through to the New Year there’s hope for us after all. We could-
DS Thain is back, giving me the thumbs up.
I nod, then shift the phone to my other ear. ‘Sorry, I gotta go. See you at four.’
‘
‘Love you too.’ Because I still do.
And then it’s time to get going.
Life is beginning to stir in Denmuir Gardens: lights sparkling on in lounge windows, bedrooms and kitchens. But not number fourteen. Dillon Black is obviously having a bit of a lie-in.
He’s about to get rudely awakened.
‘Right: everyone make sure your partner’s got their vest on – there’s no record of Black owning a gun, but we’re not taking any chances. I expect Black to resist, but he’s not an idiot. He pulls a gun and we’ll blow his arse off. He puts up a fight and the dogs will tear him a new one. His only choice is to come quietly.’
The firearms team check their Heckler and Koch MP5 machine pistols and Glock 9mms.
‘I want this nice and clean, people. No heroics, no shooting things for the fun of it. In and out: no one hurt. Understand?’
They ‘Yes sir!’ me, then everyone trots off into place, coughing and sneezing as they go. You can always tell when it’s Christmas in Oldcastle because every bugger on day shift is dying from colds and flu.
Thain nods towards the car Richardson’s sitting in. ‘Not letting him out to play?’
I shrug. ‘He’s not feeling well.’
‘Oh aye?’ Thain blows his nose, just to make sure I know that
I give the signal.
The battering ram rips the front door right off its hinges. BOOM. It falls back into the hallway in a flurry of splintered wood. The place is in darkness, and it’s cold too – like the central heating hasn’t come on yet. Which makes sense: the kind of business Dillon Black runs doesn’t keep nine-to-five hours. It happens after dark in deserted car parks and warehouses.
I lead the way, stepping into the hall as another BOOM sounds from round the back: the second team coming in. Thain and I charge up the stairs in the darkness, following the glow from the torches strapped to our MP5s.
‘POLICE, COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP!’
First door’s a bathroom, second’s a box room full of DVD players and cases of whisky, third’s a bedroom – empty – and so is number four. No sign of anyone.
Thain sweeps his torch beam back and forth. ‘Where the hell is he?’
‘Check the attic, we might get lucky.’ But we won’t: Dillon Black’s not here.
There’s nothing but junk in the attic, so we check all the bedroom cupboards then head back downstairs. There’s a small clump of constables at the foot of the stairs, hands in their pockets, helmets tucked under their arms, arguing about whether or not Oldcastle Warriors are the worst football team in Scotland. Passing round a packet of cigarettes. They’ve come up empty handed as well.
Thain peers into the lounge. ‘Someone must’ve tipped him off.’
Wouldn’t be the first time.
I shrug and wander through. It’s a big enough room: widescreen TV, fancy stereo, one of the DVD recorders from the stash upstairs . . . but something’s wrong. The chairs are all turned to face a blank wall with a nail in it. Like they’ve been looking at something that doesn’t hang there anymore.
Thain turns in place, sniffing the air. ‘Can you smell something funny?’
Great. Bad enough the bastards do it behind my back, I never thought Thain would be the kind of arsehole to play it up in front of the troops.
I poke him in the chest. ‘It’s not my bloody fault, OK? The baby was sick on me this morning, he peed all down my suit. I didn’t have time to shower! You bunch of-’
My phone starts ringing. I drag it out. ‘WHAT?’
There’s a ‘sccccchrickt’ from the hall: the sound of a sly fag being lit.
A pause from the other end of the line, then, ‘
Thain’s frowning, ‘No, it’s not you, it’s more . . . can you smell gas?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake
‘Sccccchrickt’
‘
I freeze. ‘Wait, what? Gas?’ I can’t smell anything, but then I never could.
‘Sccccchrickt’
‘
‘Sccccchrickt’
The world slows down. Every single detail stands out like a knife blade: the patch of stubble on Thain’s chin; the laughter coming from the hall; the DVD case for
I turn, haul in a deep breath. ‘NO!’ And then everything
PC Richardson made it as far as the garden gate before the house blew. A sudden rush of heat and noise, blasting through the lounge window, spraying him with broken of glass, knocking him flat on his back. And then the flames, roaring over his head as he lay in the middle of the snow-covered pavement.
He groaned. Rolled over onto his side, then up onto his knees. It wasn’t meant to happen like this!
Ewan Richardson staggered to his feet and stared at what was left of Dillon Black’s house. The whole downstairs was gone and a good chunk of upstairs too. Bricks and bits of wood littered the front garden. A police- issue helmet lay halfway down the garden path. Someone’s arm poked out through the front door.
Richardson lurched forwards, peering into what was left of the lounge. It was covered in blood and bits of dark-red meat.
He put one hand against the wall and threw up in the snow.
It wasn’t meant to be like this:
No one else was meant to get hurt. Just him. Blown to pieces instead of lingering on, getting sicker and sicker. Watching his body slowly kill itself. IT WAS MEANT TO BE HIM!
He sank down against the wall.
It should’ve been him.
A cheerful blast of music came from his pocket. He dragged out his mobile phone: Sandra. Richardson switched it off without taking the call, covered his face with his hands and sobbed.
He should be dead now ? quick and painless ? and Sandra would get his death in service benefits, and his pension. A big chunk of money to look after her and little Emma. To say sorry. For everything.
Now all she’d get was the ?3,000 Dillon Black had paid him for the warning about this morning’s raid.
Life was so unfair.
