breathing right?”
The officer peered in at Cobb and the man’s smiling face was the last thing Cobb saw and Tony’s ‘So long Cobb’ was the last thing he heard.
Ellie and Tony stood up. “Three down two to go, wanna get a beer Ellie.”
Ellie shook her head.
“Anger’s like passion, you get all lusty with it and when you’re done you feel tired and worn out. I wanted to kill him, but now we have I feel sick.”
“First time you’ve killed someone?”
“You mean that isn’t the first time you have?”
“No. I was a New York cop.”
“I thought you were a bit unfeeling. Has killing and seeing the dead dulled your senses?”
“Yeah I guess it has.” Tony said the lust of the chase leaving him as he spoke.
“Wally said once that he’d killed and didn’t carry a gun because he didn’t want to do it again in case it rotted his soul.”
“You think my soul’s rotted?” Tony asked incredulous.
“No Tony, you’re still good, but I think your halo’s rusty and your wings are tattered. Better watch it or you’ll go the same way.” She pointed at Cobb. “He didn’t start life as a monster, military service and too much killing made him that. Just watch you don’t go the same way.”
“I think I’ll have a Bourbon with that beer.” Tony said frowning.
“I think I’ll join you now, but mine’s a G and T.”
“Let’s find a bar.”
“It’s eight in the morning I think a supermarket would be the best bet for a stiff drink.”
“Drinking out of a brown bag in a car?” Tony exclaimed.
“Yeah, bad idea.”
“Let’s get back to the car and go back to work.”
“You don’t want that drink then?”
“Maybe later yeah?” Tony smiled and raised his eye brows.
“You’re on mate!” Ellie grabbed his arm and led him away, he didn’t protest at the contact.
The ambulance and news arrived. Police cordoned the area and to get out of the cordon Ellie and Tony flashed their DIC badges with diplomatic immunity. They’d have to explain the killing and account for the rounds, but for that moment they walked away without a question being asked.
Dover
8 – 45 a.m.
April 19th
David was in the loft, checking e-mails and DIC ‘traffic’ when Mary called him.
“David Conor wants to go to MacDonald’s for Breakfast!”
“He’s had breakfast. I thought we were going later?”
“He wants to go now and anyway I said Mona was picking us up at ten.”
“Okay MacDonald’s breakfast it is. Get him ready I’m on my way down.”
He heard Conor’s sweet voice shout ‘Yay’ and Mary telling him to get dressed in his outside clothes.
The DIC ‘traffic’ was mostly about traces on Mason and the search for ‘Priory’ in London. There was good news about Beaumont. He was stable and doing well. David felt better. He read the newly posted report on Cobb’s death and felt glad that he’d been put out of harms way. He left the computer running and climbed down the ladder, closing the hatch.
Conor was in the hall, wrapped in puffy coat, blue wellington boots, hood up over woolly hat and strapped into a buggy.
“We ready for an adventure wee man?”
“Yeah. Go and see the boats, get old MacDonald’s.”
David put on a warm coat and threw a scarf around his neck. Mary opened the door. The rain had petered out during the night and the April day was cool and damp, with a touch of watery sunshine. David wheeled the buggy down the path and smiled back at his wife.
“Be good and back by ten as I’ve to take him with me, okay?”
“We’ll be good!”
David walked the buggy down Markland Road, turned left then right, passed the pub and Mr Patel’s, the newsagents. He sped down Elm’s Vale road and slipped onto the Folkestone Road. His fast walking pace made Conor whoop with the speed and laugh when David splashed the buggy through puddles. Within minutes they’d passed the entrance to Customs, zoomed past the Station steps to Dover Priory and past Dover College. David wheeled his son into the town centre and they arrived giggling and breathless at the MacDonald’s.
David bought them the breakfast, to take away, with coffee for himself and milk for Conor. That done they went up the pedestrian shopping centre, down into the underpass, David letting the buggy go and running beside it down the ramp, Conor squealing with fear and delight. A short push up and into the open concourse of the harbour front, to the right of the ferry terminal and the left of the Marina and they pulled by benches, near the swimmer statues, the harbour wall in front of them. They settled on a bench, Conor’s little legs dangling and David got the food out.
It was a fresh morning and seagulls hung like mobiles on the buffets of close to shore breezes. The harbour was calm in its own way, the water frothed only at the edges by the shore line, but David could see heavy swells and rabid frothing out by the Dover Harbour wall. The sky was a mix of speeding white clouds and grim heavy grey ones, the sun flashing through when space allowed. David drank in his son’s fresh face, chewing on hash brown potatoes and scrambled eggs.
“Look a big white boat!”
“That’s a liner.” David said looking at the big ship docked to their right.
“Liner, yeah, it’s hooj Dada.”
“That it is. Would you like to go on one day?”
“Yeah, I’d be a pirate and capture it and steal all their treasure.”
“That’d be bad. I’m a police man now. I’d have to stop you.”
“You wouldn’t though, you’d be my helper and I’d make you rich, then mummy wouldn’t be so sad.”
“Has mummy been sad?” David was suddenly focussed on his son’s face.
“Yes.” His son’s face was earnest and concentrated. “She said she wanted you home. I’m glad you’re home. I asked God to get you home.”
“That’s good. Thank you.”
They finished their breakfast. David threw away the left over wrapping and put Conor back in the buggy. He walked to the right as they always did, along the front, along Waterloo Crescent, past the Marina, over the bridge on Union Street, up Snargate Street and left at the roundabout onto York Street. The traffic was heavy even at that time in the morning and David had his eye on the lorries and trucks as he made the crossing.
David was so busy watching the traffic that he didn’t see Trevor Stanton, who had just been to the Somerfield on Castle Street and coming back was entering York Street from Old Mill Lane.
Stanton did see McKie though. He made a casual glance to his right before he turned left towards the seafront and was stunned to see McKie, the man from Perth Station, the man he had seen on Parneuk Street in Motherwell, pushing a buggy across the pedestrian crossing.
Stanton had got into Dover marina with ease, earlier in the morning. Moored up he’d checked the boat’s cupboards and unhappy with the choices, decided to go shopping.
Standing there in a large hooded Berghaus coat he’d taken from the boat, his brown boots, still damp, new thick socks, dark blue trousers, a new black T shirt, that he’d bought in town he looked carefully at the figure across the road, now heading away at a fast walking pace. There was no doubt in his mind. Stanton had fixed the man’s size, shape and face in his memory and there he was large as life pushing a buggy.
Stanton knew at once that McKie lived in Dover. He knew the man must be DIC and if that was the case
