that road in the last six months. All of them have been repeatedly and systematically vandalised.”
“Safety cameras?” I said. “That’s an insult to our intelligence. Funny how the increase in cameras just happened to coincide with the regional police forces gaining control over the revenue they generate, isn’t it?”
“It’s a proven fact that the numbers of Killed or Seriously Injured drops where we site cameras,” MacMillan said, his tone ominous now. If I’d had more sense and less outrage I might have taken it as a warning.
“Yeah, and it’s another proven fact that the numbers rise everywhere else,” I said. “Look, Superintendent, much as I would love to stand here all day and debate the statistics on Gatso cameras with you—”
“Motorcyclists are dying, Charlie,” he said quietly, cutting me off at the knees. “They go out and disable the cameras and then they race on the public roads, and they’re dying because of it.”
I shut up for a moment and stood very still like I was trying to feel fine rain falling, wondering if the news surprised me. After a few moments I came to the conclusion that it did not. “If you know it’s going on and you don’t like it, why don’t you stop it?”
He came as close as he ever did to shrugging. “We know people are dealing drugs and we don’t like that either, but that doesn’t mean we can stop them. These days juries tend to prefer truth to supposition.”
I gave him a shrug of my own and moved across to dump my empty coffee mug into the plastic bowl I was using for washing up. Everything in there was covered with a film of dust. “So get something a jury will like.”
“It’s not as simple as that,” he said behind me. “We’ve tried to get a man in undercover but they seem to suss him out every time. What we need, I feel is someone less – conspicuous.”
I heard the sliver of embarrassment in his tone. I stopped, put down my mug with a sharper click than I’d been intending and didn’t turn round. “No.”
MacMillan stayed silent and then I turned. “No,” I said again, wiping my hands on a tea towel. “Some of these people are quite possibly my friends. I won’t sell them down the river for you. This is not drug dealing or prostitution or armed robbery. This is a group of lads going out on their bikes at the weekends and riding too fast. And you want me to help you prosecute them? No way.”
He pursed his lips and carefully put down his own empty cup on the window ledge next to him. “Have you considered that you might be saving their lives?”
“Oh no,” I said quickly, shaking my head. “Don’t try emotional blackmail on me, Superintendent. You’ll have to go and find someone else to do your dirty work for you.”
The policeman studied me for a few seconds, his head on one side slightly, then fractions of expression passed across his features. Disappointment and resignation. “All right, Charlie, this was a very unofficial request and you’ve made your position clear.” His voice had returned to its usual clipped delivery. He nodded, just once, and that wry smile snuck out for another brief appearance. “It’s good to discover you’ve survived your recent experiences with your spirit intact,” he said. “I’ll see myself out.”
I followed his progress down the new bare timber staircase. Halfway down he paused and glanced back at me, almost rueful. “I confess I had hoped for better from you, Charlie.”
“No, John,” I said, almost gently. “You just hoped for more.”
***
Now, as I sat in the hospital waiting area and sweated and drank too much coffee, I recalled every word of that conversation. I hadn’t consciously known that Slick Grannell was one of the group of road racers MacMillan had spoken of, but when I thought about it I realised that at some level I had been aware of it, nevertheless.
And maybe, because I’d refused to do anything about it, Slick was dead and Clare was smashed to pieces. Sometimes you have to face the consequences of your actions. God knows, I’d had to do that a few times. But it didn’t compare to living with the knowledge that I’d done nothing.
The bell had just rung on the second round of me beating myself up about that when my father walked in.
Actually, that doesn’t begin to do justice to his dramatic entrance. He swept in, looking tanned and healthy, with the kind of arrogance only surgeons at the top of their game can truly master. I teetered between dislike and admiration of his utter self-assurance.
An entourage of medical staff scurried in his wake including, I noticed, the young doctor to whom I’d given his number. They halted
“So here we are again, Charlotte.” He greeted me with the slightest of wry smiles, although his voice was formal and without inflection. I couldn’t really tell if I’d annoyed or gratified him by my interference.
I stood, realising as I did so that he and a number of those around him were dressed in surgical blues. I hid my resentment that he hadn’t thought to seek me out as soon as he’d arrived by telling myself he’d gone straight to his patient instead. Never one to mistake his priorities, my father.
“How is she?” I asked.
“Being prepped for surgery,” he said, not quite answering the question. He caught my expression and sighed. “Your friend has serious and extensive injuries, but I feel we may be able to do something for her.”
I nodded, his confident tone lifting some of the weight from my tense shoulders. It made me suddenly tired and only too aware of the lack of food and the excess of coffee I’d consumed since breakfast.
“When can I see her?”
“Now – but no more than a minute,” he said, giving me a firm stare over the top of his glasses. “I would not normally allow it, but Clare has been asking for you quite insistently. Please bear in mind that she’s received a lot of pain relief and things will be a little hazy for her.”
“Thank you,” I said. An inadequate display of gratitude but the best I could manage. “And thank you for coming.”
“You might like to bear in mind that had I not still had some official connections with this hospital, your request would have been impossible,” he pointed out sternly. He paused, then added in a surprisingly gentle tone, “I
