The Cold Calling

asking me about a picture of you, recovering as it were. Perhaps the two of us together. I wasn’t too happy. Co- operate with the local press whenever you can, always been my motto as you know. But in this case, a wounded hero picture …’ Riggs shrugged. Well … up to you, Bobby.’

It was also, when you were in his presence, impossible to believe Riggs was bent. He always looked fully at you; he was always calm. One day soon, Riggs would be promoted and leave Elham. Within three years, he’d be an ACC, maybe even a chief constable, living a chief constable’s lifestyle and all of it paid for. A cottage here, a villa there and Tony Parker safely retired.

Face to face with Riggs, you knew he was never going to be nailed. He was direct, ruthless, efficient, had important friends; but he was also, oddly, a copper’s copper. Got results but never pinched the credit; the lads liked working for him. Nobody Maiden knew would have wanted Riggs to go down.

‘I was suggesting, sir,’ Norman said, ‘that he should make a list of all the toerags who had it in for him.’

‘Oh.’ Riggs lifted an eyebrow. ‘You think it was like that, do you, Mr Maiden?’

‘Copper gets knocked over, it’s not usually a drink-driver, sir.’

‘Not a drink-driver.’ Riggs pinched his nose. ‘What do you think about that, Bobby?’

‘I wouldn’t know, boss. Would I?’

‘Obviously not. You don’t remember anything, Mike Beattie tells me. Unless something’s come through.’

‘No. Not a thing.’

‘How long before you’re out?’

‘Few days.’

‘Some nerve damage, they’re saying. You may be walking around in a bit of a fog for a while.’

‘Should sort itself out, boss.’

‘Have to see, won’t we, Bobby?’

Norman looked at his watch. Maiden flashed him an imploring glance. Shit, Dad, don’t walk out on me. Whatever this bastard’s really come to say, I don’t want to hear it.

‘By heck,’ Norman said. ‘It’s nearly five o’clock. Be missing me train.’

Surprisingly, Riggs stood up. ‘Yes, I have an appointment, too. Speaking engagement.’ He made a wry face. ‘Magistrates’ Association annual dinner. Just wanted to make sure the lad was all right before I went home. Can I give you a lift, Mr Maiden?’

‘Very kind of you, sir, but I like to walk.’ Patting his stomach. ‘Don’t let retirement get the better of me.’

‘That’s the spirit. Well, I’ll see you again, Bobby.’

‘Thanks for looking in,’ said Maiden.

Watching the two of them, strolling companionably down the ward, smiling at other patients. The visit over almost before it had started.

What’s he going to do to me?

Coincidence.

Riggs and Maiden had arrived in Elham the very same week, Maiden direct from the Met, Riggs after four months in Kent, taking over from a DCI who was facing allegations of corruption. (Yes, he was that hard-faced.) Never thought they’d see each other again after the Met, but here they were.

Suspicions.

Once, when Riggs was a DI, he’d sought DS Maiden’s co-operation in fitting up this troublesome Animal Rights woman for an amateur parcel-bomb at a butcher’s shop in Fulham. Naturally, if the fit-up had gone ahead, it would have been entirely down to Maiden — Riggs merely turning a blind eye; this was how it worked.

Or — to be honest — how Maiden presumed it still worked. He’d never stopped watching Riggs, and he hadn’t got a thing that was rock-solid. Just the names of four small-timers fitted up by Parker’s crew, nicked by Riggs. Three of them figured it was safer to let it go, do their eighteen months, flit to some safer town on release. The other was Dean Clutton who’d topped himself on remand.

‘You stupid little twat!’

Maiden lurched; his eyes sprang open.

Norman Plod’s familiar, leathery breath on his face. Norman Plod hissing in his ear.

‘Dad? What about your train?’

‘Fuck the train.’

Maiden struggled to sit up, but Norman was leaning over him as if he’d just brought him down after a chase.

‘No bloody wonder you don’t remember owt.’ Voice loaded with contempt.

‘What did he say to you, Dad?’

‘Drink-driver. Drunk driver? Put me bloody size nines in it that time, didn’t I? Heh. Drunk bloody pedestrian, more like.’

‘Oh shit,’ Maiden said.

‘A good man, is Mr Riggs. A damn good senior officer. Better than you deserve. Telling me on the quiet. Copper to copper. Save me any more embarrassment.’

‘All right,’ Maiden said, ‘I’d had a few drinks.’

‘A few drinks. You bloody little toerag. Five Scotches and four pints. You were lucky you could bloody stand up.’

‘That’s not quite true, Dad. No beers.’

Norman looked down on him, breathing through his teeth. ‘You were in a club called the Saint Moritz, that right?’

Maiden said nothing.

‘Where you picked up a brass.’

‘Not quite right.’

‘And where you drank five Scotches and four pints. The barman remembers every one, lad, because he recognized you. Then you and the brass left, wi’ your hand up her jumper.’

‘No.’

‘You got in a minicab and you went to your flat. About an hour later, a witness saw you come out chasing t’brass. What were up, lad? Wouldn’t she take a credit card? By Christ, I always knew you weren’t up to much. I were bloody amazed when you made DI. Bloody amazed.’

‘Dad-’

‘I thought you’d maybe sorted yourself out at one time. When you married Elizabeth. Bonny lass. Woman wi’ a bit of go in her. Could you keep her? Could you buggery. You’re a dead loss, lad. A bloody dead loss.’

Norman took his weight off Maiden’s chest. Moved away, brushing at his jacket in case bits of his son had come off on him.

At the foot of the bed, he looked over his shoulder, Sporting Life and the farter both watching keenly.

‘You left your front door open, son,’ Norman said with a visible sneer. ‘But it’s all right. Nobody wanted to nick your pictures.’

The storeroom was full of boxes of paper towels and toilet rolls, cartons of soap, bleach, industrial cleaning fluids. All the non-human hospital smells began here.

Maiden stayed behind the door as someone went past with a trolley. He was sweating. His left side had shut down. The blue-white light from the fluorescent tube was squeezing his head like an accordion.

Sister Andy had told him, You won’t be walking a straight line for a wee while.

Take it slowly. This was the furthest he’d been; taken himself to the lavatory and that was it. He looked down at his trousers. No bloodstains, anyway. Somebody had given the suit a brush. There was a hole in his grey jacket below the breast pocket. It would do.

Normal thing would have been for the suit to go to forensic; always a small possibility of paint traces. Somebody obviously wasn’t trying very hard to find the car that ran him down.

He still needed a sweater or a shirt. The crash team had obviously torn his off in a hurry to get at his chest. Maybe he could find some kind of surgeon’s smock in here.

He had no watch. He opened the door a crack to look up at the clock at the end of the corridor. Five-thirty.