by Jane Casey
“I was shot,” he protested. “I’m injured. I had to have a blood transfusion.” He looked seedy, as it happened, with untidy hair and a grayish tinge to his skin. He needed a shower, a shave and a juicy steak, in that order. A lunch tray on the table told its own story: untouched macaroni cheese congealing on a plate, and a bowl full of something covered in custard. Two slices of white bread sat on a side plate, the edges curling up in the dry, over-heated hospital air. It was pale food that was plainly not going to do the job, and I didn’t blame Derwent for not trying it.
“Never mind. You’re well on the mend, according to the doctors.”
“What happened to patient confidentiality?”
“Don’t blame them. They had to make a statement.” I bent down to retrieve the other bag I’d brought with me and took out a stack of newspapers. “Have you seen these?”
“Just what’s on the TV.” Derwent struggled to sit up and I went to rearrange his pillows. “Oh, give it a rest, Florence. I can manage.”
“Fine.” I retreated. “You’ll find your picture on the first five pages of every tabloid and most of the broadsheets, but they don’t really do you justice. They’re mainly ultra-fuzzy long-distance shots from yesterday or old pictures. The Guardian is running a special poll on whether the police should be armed, but you don’t need me to tell you the answer will be no. The Mail is campaigning for us to be given tasers as standard kit. And The Times has dug up your military background as well as your achievements in the Met. I didn’t know you were a sniper.”
He flinched. “I don’t talk about that.”
“You might have to in future. Everyone wants to interview you. You’re quite the star.”
He was staring at the front page of the Sun, which was a dramatic but blurry shot in which he was falling backward. Izzy and her son were in the foreground, running for cover. She looked terrified and her son was crying. It was a still from a video one of the neighbors had taken with a phone, and the film had been running on every news bulletin, along with footage from the police helicopter’s camera. Derwent had the TV on with the sound turned down; he must have seen it. But there was something compelling about the single instant they had selected. High drama, caught in color.
“Where were you?” Derwent asked.
“Behind the gate. Not shown, anyway.”
“That’s not on.” He shook his head. “You were there too.”
“Oh, please. I’m more than happy for you to get the credit for tackling Lee.”
“You should be on the front page, not relegated to page…” He flicked on. “Nine. Jesus, look at your hair. Was that the best you could do?”
The picture was a formal uniformed portrait taken when I passed out of Hendon. I did not look my best. Mad hair was about the least of it.
“I don’t need the attention.”
“Your mum will be furious if there’s nothing for her scrapbook.”
“She’ll be furious anyway. With me.” I shuddered. “I dread to think what she’ll say about us blundering in to confront a gunman. She might blame you for leading me astray.”
He looked genuinely upset at that prospect. Derwent liked my mother, for reasons he had yet to explain to me. The home cooking helped. And, it occurred to me for the first time, he probably missed his own mum. It was awful to think that she was the one who’d cut off contact. He’d deserved better than that. Another tiny bit of my dislike of Derwent crumbled and fell away, much to my own surprise.
“I can’t believe you haven’t spoken to her yet,” Derwent said. “Don’t you call her every day?”
“Not if I can help it. Anyway, I haven’t been home. The answering machine is probably full already, just from her calls.”
“She must have your mobile number.”
I groaned. “Yes, but I dropped it in the playground and some jobsworth SOCO bagged it and tagged it as evidence. I spent hours trying to get it back yesterday. Even the SIM card would have done. But no luck.”
“Butterfingers. Why haven’t you been home? Did you go clubbing or something?”
“I’ve been a bit busy being debriefed by everyone you can think of.” He probably hadn’t noticed but I was still wearing the same clothes as the previous day, now creased and limp with added blood on one knee from tending to the fallen warrior.
“Who debriefed you?”
“Godley. The commander of SO19. The heavies from the DPS to make sure we did things by the book.”
Derwent rolled his eyes. No one liked to attract the attention of the Department of Professional Standards, the bogeymen of the Met. “Hope you told them to fuck themselves.”
“Not in so many words.” I knew he’d like the next bit. “The Independent Police Complaints Commission sent a team round, just in case Lee makes a complaint.”
“I’d like to see him try.”
“Some lawyer is probably talking him into it at this very moment.” A yawn threatened to crack my jaw.
“Bored? You’ve only just got here. Imagine what it’s like for me.” He rolled his head from side to side. “I’m climbing the walls. How come it took you so long to visit me?”
“You’re supposed to be recuperating. We were leaving you alone to rest. Anyway, the investigating officers have been letting me read the witness statements for the last few hours.” I yawned again. “I’m shattered.”
“Anything interesting?”
“What you’d expect. Lee and Marianne had a stormy relationship—lots of arguments, a history of domestic violence on both sides. Izzy was the one who persuaded Marianne to leave him, which is why he had such a massive reaction to seeing her walk past him. The break-up turned nasty when Lee was months late paying his child support. Marianne went to court and stopped his visits to Alfie back in August. It took Lee this long to set up his little stunt, but he was planning it for a while. Marianne knew Lee was looking for her because his brother warned her. She wasn’t expecting the gun, though.”
“A starter’s pistol. Not a real gun.”
“It fired real bullets,” I pointed out. “Luckily, Lee only had four, so he didn’t do any practice shots. He was aiming for Marianne’s heart, she said, but the shot was high and to the left.”
“Too close for comfort. Where did he get it?”
“He bought it in a pub car park in Gravesend, he says. He got a tip-off from a friend of a friend of a friend and we’re never going to be able to trace it back to the armorer if you ask me. Anyway, it wasn’t much good. According to the ballistics report, by the time he shot you the gun was practically falling apart. It was about half as effective as it might have been and it seriously damaged Lee’s hand when he fired it. He probably wouldn’t have got another shot off.”
“Lucky for you.”
“And lucky for you he didn’t shoot you before Marianne, or aim a bit better. If he’d hit your femur and the gun had been in full working order you’d be walking with a limp for rest of your life and living off a disability pension.”
“Instead of being released later on today.”
“Already?”
Derwent grinned. “I’m talking them into it.”
“I bet they can’t wait to get rid of you.”
“What are you talking about? The nurses love me.”
The door opened behind me and Godley walked in, carrying an elaborate flower arrangement in one hand and a bag of grapes in the other. “They said you were ready for visitors.”
“Not flowers, please. Makes me feel as if I’m dead or gay or something.”
“I think it takes more than a couple of flower arrangements to change your sexual orientation,” I said.
“I’m not taking any chances. Go and find the prettiest nurse you can see and give them to her instead, boss.”
Godley dumped the grapes on the bedside locker and took the flowers back out to the hall.
“This is why you’re popular with the nurses,” I said.
“That and the friendly banter.”
“
God help them.”
“Just because you don’t appreciate it, Kerrigan.”
“It’s growing on me,” I admitted, and Derwent looked smug.
“They all fall for it eventually.”
Godley came back. “The nurses’ station looks like a florist’s shop. All your doing, apparently.”
“I don’t want them. I told them to give anything that came in to people who didn’t have any.” He shifted against the pillows, obviously in pain. “I don’t know why anyone would send flowers.”
“Well, I didn’t. They’re from Marianne Grimes.” Godley sat in the single armchair by the bed. “She’s very grateful.”
“So she should be. She had the sense to play dead but that wasn’t going to work forever. How’s the kid?”
“Confused,” Godley said. “He doesn’t know what happened except that his mum is a bit unwell and staying in hospital. He didn’t see Lee so for the time being everyone is keeping their mouths shut about it. He’s too young to understand.”
“That’s something, anyway,” I said. He’d find out eventually, though.
“Speaking of not understanding things.” All the warmth had left Godley’s voice. “Josh, would you like to explain what you were doing there in the first place?”
“Kerrigan needed me.”
“For my interview with Lionel Orpen,” I clarified. I’d told Godley this already. And the DPS. I had yet to work out how much trouble we were both in, though.
“He wanted to talk to me,” Derwent said.
“He insisted.”
“It wasn’t Kerrigan’s idea.”
“It was just for that one interview.”
“No one else was ever supposed to know I was there.”
“I thought it would be all right,” I said. “It was all about Angela, not about the current murders.”
“That wasn’t your call to make.” Godley looked at Derwent. “And you. Where do I begin? You should have said no. You were on leave. I warned you.”
“Yeah, but—”
“I don’t want to hear it.”
“If I hadn’t been there,” Derwent said, ignoring the interruption, “Kerrigan would have had to deal with Lee on her own. Someone would have died—a kid, or Marianne. Kerrigan, even.”
“So we were really lucky that you both disobeyed direct orders and you were both prepared to lie about it, is that it?” The sarcasm in Godley’s voice made me wince.
“It was the right thing to do.” Derwent wasn’t backing down.
“You should have asked me for permission.”
“You’d have said no.”
“If you think that argument is persuasive, being shot in the leg has affected your brain.”
“Look, boss, we needed to talk to Orpen. He’s a miserable old git. He would have said no to Kerrigan.”
“He did say no,” I interjected.
“Leaving Lee aside, it was a good morning’s work. I’m sorry it happened that way but it was worth it.”
Godley raised his eyebrows. “The end justifies the means? Really, Josh?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“An apology would be a good start.”
“I’m very, very sorry.”
“Sorry you got caught,” Godley said, and Derwent grinned at him.
“You can’t stay angry, can you?”
“If it ever happens again, Josh, you’re out. No more second chances. I mean it.”
“Understood.” A look passed between the two of them that was, on Derwent’s part, an acknowledgment that he’d been wrong, and on Godley’s that he wasn’t going to stand for being messed around any more.
“And as for you, Maeve—” Godley began.
Derwent lunged for the remote control, his attention fixed on the TV screen. “This is us. Look. We’re on again.”
I half-glanced at it then turned away. I had seen that particular report more than once.
“Come on, Kerrigan. Watch it. Your big moment is coming up.” Derwent turned up the volume so we could listen to the commentary. The reporter’s voice was solemn.
“The moment a father lashed out against society … and the brave police officers who stopped his murderous rampage. Lee Grimes had a grudge against his ex-wife—and an illegally held firearm. The modified weapon was unreliable, but it had the potential to be lethal.”
In order to spin out the visuals for longer they had slowed it down so every frame of the blurry footage got full value and I had seen myself trying to block Izzy from Lee, and watched Derwent fall to the ground too many times. Knowing how it ended didn’t make it easier viewing.
“Wait for it. This is my favorite bit.” Derwent was grinning. I glanced back at the screen in time to see myself dissolving into tears while Godley supported me.
“I was in shock.”
“You were worried about me. I made you cry.”
“I had just come very close to being shot. I think I was entitled to get a bit upset.”
“Now, now,” Godley said. “Settle down, you two.”
The report was now dealing with the emotional scenes as parents clung to their mostly uncomprehending children.
“I hate this,” Godley said, wincing. “As soon as you have children, the thought of them being injured or even upset is unbearable. You hold them a bit closer for a while.”
“Do you feel sorry for him?” I asked. “Lee, I mean?”
“A bit. I hope I wouldn’t behave the same way, but he sounded desperate to see his son.”
“They should have been safe in a playground on a sunny autumn afternoon, but only chance—and two unarmed police officers—stood between them and a potential massacre,” the reporter intoned.
I snorted. “Again, he had four bullets. Four. And he’d used one on Marianne already.”
“He could have finished her off, killed Alfie and turned the gun on himself. He could have killed Izzy for interfering. He could have shot at random and killed some of those children.” Godley shook his head. “Four bullets could have done plenty of harm.”
“I didn’t exactly come out of it unscathed,” Derwent pointed out. “I don’t know when I’ll be able to run again.”
“Or work.” Godley stood up. “I came to tell you, you’ll need to be passed as medically fit to return to work. It’ll be weeks, not days. Make some plans for your time off if you get bored in here.”
Derwent, predictably, exploded. “Fuck that. I don’t need my leg to solve cases. Look at Ironsides. He was in a bloody wheelchair.”
“You know that was a TV program, don’t you?” I said.
“I know I’ve wasted enough time on the sidelines recently and I want to get back to what I do best.” Derwent’s attention was caught by the news again. “That bastard.”
The screen was filled with a face that was instantly familiar, even without the banner on the bottom of the screen. Philip Pace looked tense but still handsome in a slick way. His tan was too deep, his hair too groomed for my liking. He was wearing a dark suit and a cobalt tie, which he touched while the newsreader was introducing him.
“That’s a giveaway. He’s nervous,” I said.
“So he should be.” Derwent threw a grape at the screen and missed. “This is his fault. Whipping people up. Telling them they’re victims.” Another grape hit the target and bounced off onto the bed. “If Lee Grimes had really cared about Alfie he’d have paid the child support on time instead of pissing off his wife and making her play hardball in the family courts.”
“This just goes to show the desperate situation of men in an uncaring society, one that doesn’t recognize their rights as fathers and as people.” Philip Pace’s eyes glistened with sincerity.
“People who are still paid more for doing the same job as women,” I said.
“Right and proper,” Derwent said. “They don’t go off and take a year’s paid leave any time they like to have babies.”
“Which they do by themselves, of course. No men are involved in the proc
ess.”
“Don’t rise to the bait, Maeve. He’s teasing you.” Godley stretched. “I wish I could stay longer, Josh, but I have to get going.”
“So does Kerrigan.” Derwent threw another grape, this time at me. “Don’t you have work to do?”
“I was just leaving.” I gathered up my bags.
“I think as a society,” Philip Pace said, “we need to understand why we’re demonizing a loving, caring father because he missed his little boy.”
“I can’t watch this.” I reached over and switched the sound off. “Most loving, caring fathers don’t try to kill the mothers of their little boys.”
“Most fathers would die for their children,” Godley agreed.
“Not all,” Derwent said. “Some people shouldn’t be allowed to breed. You should have to get a license.”
Godley had got as far as the door, and was just raising a hand to salute Derwent when his phone rang.
“Don’t tell me someone’s gone and killed someone,” Derwent muttered to me. “Don’t they know I’m off work?”
I half-smiled, but I was watching Godley’s face and trying to work out what he was being told. He checked his watch. His side of the conversation was mostly yes and no so I couldn’t make much of it.
“Text me the address. I’ll be there in half an hour. Yes. She is. I will.” He hung up and looked at me. “I know you’ve had a tough twenty-four hours but you should probably come with me.”
“What is it?”
“Another woman. Strangled.”
“When did that happen?” Derwent demanded. He was trying to sit up again, and his face had lost the color it had gained during our conversation.
“The last time anyone spoke to the victim was ten thirty last night, and she was found at lunchtime.”
“Which puts you in the clear,” I said to Derwent. “You were here, surrounded by adoring nurses.”
“Talk about your silver linings.” Derwent still looked ashen.
“We need to go,” Godley said to me. Something had happened to flip the switch in him; he’d gone from total composure to simmering excitement and I couldn’t work out why news of another dead woman was making him giddy. “Get better soon, Josh.”