wailing, but he could tell he wasn't badly hurt. He'd been hit before, by experts, and the butt of the Heckler hadn't done any serious damage. What worried Macdonald was why the job had gone so wrong.
Macdonald was wheeled into a cubicle where an Indian doctor examined the head wound, shone another light in his eyes, tested his hearing and tapped the soles of his feet before pronouncing him in no need of a brain scan. 'Frankly,' he said to Macdonald, 'the queue for the MRI is so long that if there was a problem you'd be dead long before we got you checked out.'
Macdonald wasn't sure if he was joking or not. The doctor put antiseptic on the wound and told Macdonald he didn't think it required stitching. 'Any chance of me being kept in for a day or two?' Macdonald asked. The longer he stayed out of a police station the better.
'Even if you were at death's door we'd have trouble finding you a bed,' said the doctor, scribbling on a clipboard. He glanced at the paramedic. 'You did the right thing bringing him in, but he's fine.'
'Told you I should have hit you harder,' said the armed policeman, who was standing at the end of the trolley cradling his Heckler.
The paramedic looked across at the cop. 'What do we do with him?'
'I've been told to keep him here until the forensic boys give him the once-over.'
The doctor pointed at a curtained-off area on the opposite side of the emergency room. 'You can put him in there unless we get busy,' he said, and walked over to where an old man with shoulder-length grey hair and a stained raincoat was haranguing a young nurse.
The paramedic wheeled Macdonald across the room and pulled the pale green curtain round him. The armed cop dragged a chair over to the side of the bed and sat down, facing him.
'Haven't you got anything better to do?' asked Macdonald.
'I'm not to let you out of my sight,' said the cop. 'Not until CID get here.'
'How about a coffee, then?'
'Fuck you,' said the cop.
'Hey, I didn't shoot anyone,' said Macdonald.
'You were carrying, and the intent was there. The fact that you didn't pull the trigger doesn't mean shit.'
Macdonald stared up at the ceiling.
'I should have shot you when I had the chance,' said the cop. Macdonald ignored him. The cop kicked the trolley. 'You hear me?' Macdonald closed his eyes.
Before he could say anything else, the curtain was pulled back. 'Okay, lad, we'll take it from here,' said a voice.
Macdonald opened his eyes. Two men in suits were standing at the end of the bed. The older one was wearing the cheaper outfit, an off-the-peg blue pinstripe that had obviously been acquired when he'd been a few pounds lighter. He was in his early fifties and had the world-weary look of a policeman who'd carried out more than his fair share of interviews in A and E departments. His hair was receding and swept back, giving him the look of a bird of prey. He smiled at Macdonald. 'I gather you're fit to talk.'
The armed cop glared at Macdonald and walked away, muttering.
'I've nothing to say,' said Macdonald.
'That's how I like it,' said the detective. 'Short and sweet. I'm Detective Inspector Robin Kelly, Crawley CID.' He nodded at the younger man. 'This is Detective Constable Brendan O'Connor. Don't let the Irish name fool you, young Brendan here is as English as they come. Product of the graduate-entry scheme he is, and sharp as a knife. Isn't that right, Detective Constable?'
O'Connor sighed, clearly used to Kelly's teasing. 'Yes, sir. Sharp as a knife.' His accent was pure Oxbridge - obviously destined for greater things than riding shotgun to a detective approaching retirement.
'How about getting us a couple of coffees?' said Kelly. 'Mine's black with two sugars. What about you?'
Macdonald turned to look at the detective constable. He was in his mid-twenties with jet black hair and piercing blue eyes that suggested there was more to his Irish heritage than his name. 'White, no sugar.'
'Sweet enough, as my grandmother always used to say,' said Kelly. He sat down and crossed his ankles as the detective constable left them. 'I hope I retire before he gets promoted above me.' He sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. 'I'm missing my beauty sleep, I can tell you that much. Still, no point in brandishing shotguns in broad daylight, is there?'
'No comment,' said Macdonald.
'And if I was in your situation that's what I'd be saying. No comment until you're lawyered up and then it's 'No comment on my solicitor's advice.' But unless you take the initiative here, you're going to go down with the rest of the scum.'
'No comment,' said Macdonald.
'You see, the civilians are saying that you were the best of a bad bunch. You tried to stop the flaming-kebabs routine. You said it would be better to call it a night and go out with your hands up. And, bugger me, you only went and poleaxed Ted Verity, gangster of this parish. For which you have the thanks of Sussex Constabulary.'
'How is he?' asked Macdonald.
'Like a prick with a sore head,' said Kelly. He chuckled. 'He's in a better state than you, actually. You didn't do much in the way of damage.'
Macdonald stared up at the ceiling. 'No comment.'
'If I was you, and obviously I'm not because you're the one with the handcuffs on, I'd be wanting to put as much distance between me and the rest of them as I could. A cop was shot. Prison isn't particularly welcoming to people who take pot-shots at law-enforcement officials.'
'I didn't shoot anyone,' said Macdonald.
'Which is another point in your favour,' said Kelly. 'But it's going to take more than that to keep you out of a Cat A establishment for the next twenty years.'
O'Connor returned with three plastic beakers on a cardboard tray. He handed the tray to Kelly, then unlocked the handcuff on Macdonald's left wrist. Macdonald smiled at him gratefully, shook his hand to get the circulation going, then took his beaker of coffee and sipped it.
'So what's it to be?' asked Kelly. 'Can we bank on your co-operation? Or shall I book you a cell with Verity?'
'No comment,' said Macdonald.
Kelly sighed and got to his feet. 'That's that, then,' he said.
The curtain was pulled back and a young woman in a dark blue jacket looked expectantly at him. 'Jennifer Peddler,' she said. 'I'm here for the forensics.' She jerked her head at Macdonald. 'This the shooter?'
'I didn't shoot anyone,' said Macdonald.
'Strictly speaking, that's true,' said Kelly. 'He's a blagger rather than a shooter.'
Peddler put a large case down on the floor, opened it, took out a pair of surgical gloves and put them on. She was a good-looking woman, with high cheekbones and long chestnut hair tied back in a ponytail.
Kelly chuckled. 'Not going to give him the full monty, are you?' he asked. 'We don't think he's got a shotgun up his back passage. We found his weapon at the warehouse.'
The woman flashed Kelly a bored smile. 'Contamination of evidence,' she said. She pointed at the handcuff on Macdonald's right wrist. 'You'll need to take that off so he can remove his clothes.'
'What?' said Macdonald.
'Guns were fired, we need to examine your clothing for particles.'
'I didn't fire a gun,' said Macdonald.
'It's procedure,' she said. 'As these gentlemen will tell you, I don't need a warrant.'
'It's true,' said O'Connor.
'Then what am I supposed to wear?'
Kelly smiled. 'Tell us your address and we'll send round a car for a change of clothes.'
'This is madness,' Macdonald said, annoyed.
'You can wear a hospital robe,' said O'Connor.
'I'm not going into a bloody cop-shop with my arse hanging out,' said Macdonald.
'I've a forensic suit you can wear,' said Peddler. She leaned down and took a plastic-wrapped package from her case, tore it open and removed a one-piece suit made from white paper.
'You're joking,' said Macdonald.
