“Are you all right?” Geoffrey asked; his face was etched with concern.
“He’s fine,” Granger said. “Hold his arm up, Geoffrey. Higher. It’s not an artery.”
Granger took the strips of shirt from Lewis and began to bind them tightly around Field’s upper arm. He pulled hard so that there was maximum pressure on the wound. “It’s all right,” he said again. “Only flesh—glancing blow. You’re lucky. Bloody fortunate.”
“Who was it?” Lewis asked, but both Geoffrey and Granger were concentrating on Field, so the question went unanswered.
“Geoffrey, call an ambulance, will you?”
Granger stood. He moved around behind Field, put his hands beneath his arms, and pulled him to his feet. Charlie Lewis was waiting on the steps, shirtless, next to Penelope. Caroline came through the door, holding a bandage, which she could see her husband no longer needed. The body of the gunman lay in front of them, the back of his head blown across the edge of the sidewalk, his hand resting against one of the wheels of Granger’s car.
There was a screech of tires, and, as if in slow motion, they all watched the black sedan tearing back down the street toward them. A fraction of a second before he heard the sound of the bullets, Field felt the force of Granger’s push. Caught off balance, he careered to the ground once more, smashing against Granger’s car. He fell back against the sidewalk, the pain in his head intense as he hit the body of the dead gunman and rolled across him.
The car roared away and then there was an ear-piercing scream.
Field raised his head. Patrick Granger was lying behind him, spread-eagle across the sidewalk, his head resting against the bottom step. Caroline was upon him, whispering, “Patrick, Patrick,” but Field could hear only a low groan.
Charlie Lewis moved her aside roughly, dragged Granger flat, and tried to take his pulse. Geoffrey hobbled down the steps and bent over him on the other side, his ear to Granger’s mouth, listening for the sound of breathing.
Field pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the pain in his shoulder. He stood unsteadily. He could see that Patrick had been shot six or seven times in the chest, bloody holes in the whiteness of his shirt.
Geoffrey straightened, and put his hand on Caroline’s shoulder to indicate that it was no use, but she did not let go. She clutched his head to her chest, sobbing, whispering his name, her mouth quivering and her eyes shut. And then she convulsed, emitting a single howl of anguish more tortured than any Field had ever heard.
He closed his eyes. Caroline sobbed quietly and slowly, each breath deep and wrenching. She mumbled her husband’s name, over and over again, until Field could not bear to listen to it anymore. He opened his eyes, tried to step forward, and was vaguely aware of pavement rushing up to meet him.
When he came to, he was inside, on a sofa in the front room, Geoffrey’s concerned face above him.
“How long?” he asked.
Geoffrey looked puzzled.
“How long have I been out?”
“You fainted. About two minutes, three . . . I don’t know.”
Field tried to sit up.
“Steady on. You must take it easy.”
“No.” Field pushed away his uncle’s hand and sat up. He swung his legs onto the floor. “Where is the telephone?”
“You need rest.”
“I need a telephone.”
Field stood, feeling immediately unsteady. He forced himself to overcome it as he crossed the hall. His arm and shoulder burned with pain. He passed Penelope, who sat clenched in a ball on the floor, close to the door. Caroline was still clutching her husband on the sidewalk outside, Charlie Lewis above her, trying to get her to stand.
Field found the phone and had to struggle for a moment to recall the number of the Central Police Station.
The operator took a long time to answer. “It’s Field here. I need to have the telephone number for Detective Caprisi, from C.1.”
The man on the other end of the line hesitated. “I’m sorry, sir, but we’re unable—”
“It’s Richard Field from S.1. I’m at the house of Patrick Granger, head of S.1. He’s just been assassinated, and I urgently need the number and address of Detective Caprisi from C.1.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I’m not empowered—”
“For Christ’s sake!”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“Listen.” Field tried to calm himself. “Listen to me. Let me repeat. This is Richard Field, S.1, at the house of Patrick Granger, who has just been shot seven times in the chest. I urgently need a number for Detective Caprisi.”
There was another hesitation. “Do you have Detective Caprisi’s Christian name, sir?”
Field tried to think. “No, I don’t, but just look it up.” He waited. “Come on,” he said.
“I’m sorry, sir, I’m looking.”
Field turned to see the number one boy emerging from the kitchen area.
