‘It was by the book.’ Shepherd grinned. ‘At least it was once we bust through the ceiling.’
‘Doesn’t matter if it was by the book or not. He’s on desk duties until it’s investigated. We’ve one guy who’s still on hold four years after a shooting.’
‘Shit,’ said Shepherd.
‘Shit’s right. Shot an armed robber during a raid on a supermarket. Robber’s gun turned out to be a replica and now he’s trying to sue the Met for everything from lost wages to infringement of his human rights. He was terrorising a pregnant woman, for God’s sake, yet he’s the one suing us. Until it’s resolved, our guy isn’t allowed to pick up a gun.’
‘Lucky I didn’t get off a shot,’ said Shepherd.
‘I’m serious, Stu. The world’s gone bloody mental. You have to work your balls off to get into SO19, then you train and train to do the job right, but the minute you fire your weapon you’re treated like a criminal. In fact, the criminals get more leeway than we do.’ He drank some lager. ‘You know Swift’s serious about getting you and Kev a commendation?’ he said.
‘Screw that. I’d rather have a pay rise,’ said Shepherd. ‘You can’t spend a commendation.’
‘You short?’ asked Sutherland.
‘Who isn’t, these days?’
‘I can bung you a few quid until you’re sorted.’
‘Cheers, Mike, but I need more than that.’ He leaned closer to Sutherland and lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘That thirty grand would have come in handy.’
‘What thirty grand?’
‘In the pizza place. The drugs money. There was thirty grand in that bag.’
Sutherland looked stunned. ‘Fuck me, Stu, don’t even say that as a joke.’
‘Come on, it’s drugs money. What’s going to happen to it? Unless the Drugs Squad can make a case against the guys running the pizza place, they get the money back. How sick is that?’
‘So crime pays. What’s new?’
‘I’m just saying, I could do a lot with thirty grand.’
‘I think we should drop it, mate. Walls have ears, right?’
Shepherd shrugged carelessly. ‘Okay, forget I said anything. What happened to the guy I took over from? What was his name? Hornby?’
‘Ormsby. Andy Ormsby. Good guy.’
‘Did he move on to better things?’
Sutherland shifted in his seat and took several gulps of his lager. Shepherd tried to appear relaxed. It was a reasonable question and he waited to see what Sutherland would say.
‘Bit of a mystery,’ said Sutherland, eventually. ‘He just went.’
‘Walked off the job?’
‘Just went. No one knows what happened. Some say it was girl trouble, some say he had a nervous breakdown. You know the stress that comes with the job. He was quite young.’
‘Couldn’t take the pressure?’
‘I guess.’
‘But he was in your vehicle, right? Didn’t you see the signs?’
‘You a psychiatrist now?’
‘You can tell when someone’s not handling the pressure – you don’t need a degree in psychology to spot the signs. Short temper, loss of appetite, nail-biting, all the usual cliches.’
‘He was a good guy,’ said Sutherland.
‘Yeah, you said. You don’t think there’ll be a problem, me stepping into his shoes?’
‘It’s not like you pushed him out of his job, is it?’
‘Yeah, I know, but some guys are a tough act to follow.’
‘You carry on like today and no one’ll have any problems with you,’ said Sutherland. ‘You’re a bloody hero, you are.’
Shepherd didn’t feel like a hero. He felt like a man who was being friendly to a fellow police officer so that he could betray him. He felt like a rat.
Rose dropped his kit-bag by the kitchen door, went over to the sink and drank from the cold tap.
‘That’s disgusting,’ said his wife, coming up behind him.
Rose straightened and wiped the back of his mouth with his hand.
‘Sorry, love.’
‘You’ve been drinking.’
‘Celebrating.’
‘You drove like that?’
‘Three pints, love. It’s not a crime.’
Tracey folded her arms. She was wearing her pink dressing-gown but it had fallen open at the front and he could see she was naked underneath. ‘Actually, it is a crime. And you know that.’
Rose held out his arms. ‘It was a one-off. Two big jobs today and we came out covered in glory.’
‘I saw the Houses of Parliament thing on the news. Those men were lucky they weren’t shot.’
‘Give me a hug,’ said Rose.
‘I can smell you from here.’
‘Ditto,’ said Rose. He stepped forward and took her in his arms. She slipped her arms round his neck and he kissed her.
‘You were a hero, were you?’ she said, as she broke away.
‘My guys were,’ said Rose. ‘How’s Kelly?’
Tracey’s lips tightened. ‘She didn’t eat much. And she says her back hurts. I just wish I could take the pain away.’
‘I’m working on it,’ said Rose.
‘It’s so bloody unfair. She’s only seven – she hasn’t even started her life. It should be me lying up there. I’d die happy knowing she was okay.’
Rose pressed his face into her long, dark hair. He knew exactly how his wife felt. When Kelly had first been ill he’d knelt at the side of her bed and promised God anything if He’d just spare his daughter. But his prayers had been ignored, and as his daughter’s health had deteriorated he’d lost faith in God. ‘I’ll get it sorted. I promise.’
Tracey hugged him and Rose kissed her neck. ‘I’ll just check my emails, and then I’ll see you in bed,’ he whispered.
Tracey pinched him. ‘You’ll shower first and clean your teeth,’ she said. ‘I’ll bring you up some cocoa.’
Rose went upstairs and crept into Kelly’s room. His daughter was lying on her back, her mouth open. For a few seconds she was totally still and Rose’s heart pounded as he waited for her to breathe. When she did, the quilt barely moved. Rose checked the drip, then sat on the edge of the bed. The local hospital had said it was okay for Kelly to be at home – a tacit admission that there was nothing else they could do for her. She’d get gradually weaker until one day they’d take her back into hospital, the intensive-care unit with its paintings of teddy bears and balloons, the smell of bleach and death, and they’d wait for the end.
Rose took his daughter’s hand and pressed it to his cheek. ‘It’s not going to come to that, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘Daddy’s going to make it better.’
He kissed her forehead, then went along the hallway to the boxroom he used as a study. He sat down at his computer and switched it on, twiddling a Biro as he waited for the machine to boot up. He scanned the emails in his inbox and saw one from the surgeon in Chicago. He had a slot in three weeks’ time and wanted to know if Rose could get Kelly to America by then. He specialised in tumours of the spine and had pioneered a new treatment that used chemotherapy to shrink the tumour, then laser surgery. The chemotherapy was experimental but had been successful in more than eighty per cent of cases, and the computer-controlled laser would destroy the tumour without damaging the spinal cord. Rose had discovered the doctor on the Internet and had already sent him the NHS X-rays and reports. Unlike the doctors in the UK, the Chicago surgeon was optimistic that he could save Kelly. He couldn’t make any promises, but he stood by his eighty per cent success rate. However, his expertise didn’t come cheap and the NHS had refused to pay.
Rose checked his bank account online. He had a little over fifteen thousand pounds in his savings account, a
