‘And I’ll tell you something else,’ continued Garrett. ‘I’m starting to have grave doubts whether you’re fit for duty. In the past few days, you’ve walked off a crime scene, disobeyed orders, and displayed a general lack of judgement. In all honesty, Detective, the only reason you’re still on this case is because I need every man in the field right now. Well, that and the fact that the Chief Superintendent remembers when you were one of our best officers.’
Jim recalled Garrett’s parting question to Chief Superintendent Knight.
And what about that other matter?
He understood now what that other matter was. They’d been discussing whether he was fit for duty. His eyes dropped as Garrett said, ‘Look, I realise there’s not much love lost between us. But believe it or not, I have a lot of respect for you. So perhaps against my better judgement, I’m willing to give you another chance. But any more nonsense and I won’t hesitate to drop you from the team, and possibly even take other disciplinary action. Do I make myself clear?’
There was an edge of compassion in Garrett’s voice that caught Jim off guard. He looked up uncertainly, as if not quite sure of his DCI’s motives. ‘Crystal.’
‘Good. And don’t let me hear any more talk about one of our own being involved. I won’t have anyone questioning the integrity of the department.’
‘Sorry, sir. I was out of order. It won’t happen again.’
‘Then let’s not waste any more time on the subject. There’s a young man out there whose life depends on us working fast. Go tell Nurse Campbell we need to talk to Doctor Goodwin.’
As promised, Nurse Campbell was rounding up staff for questioning. She gave Doctor Goodwin a call on the internal telephone system. When he appeared, Garrett subjected him to a set of questions similar to those he had asked Doctor Reeve. In reply, the DCI received a similar set of answers. Jim sat grimly silent throughout, taking notes.
As Doctor Goodwin left the room, Garrett stood to leave too, saying to Jim, ‘I want you to stay here and continue the questioning. I’ll send a constable to help organise things.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘To check on Detective Greenwood’s progress. When you’ve finished here, you’re to return to the station and write up your reports. And when you’re done with that, go home. You look as though you haven’t slept in a week.’
Jim released a heavy breath and rubbed his eyes. As far as he could see, it was a waste of time questioning the rest of Critical Care’s staff. He was chomping at the bit to have a real go at Doctor Reeve. Or even better, haul Bryan Reynolds over the coals. Everything in him said they were the ones Garrett should be concentrating the team’s resources on. But then again, how could he trust his own judgement when it might be down to him that his partner was now fighting for her life?
All afternoon Jim took down statements with a growing sense of frustration. After a couple of hours, a constable relayed the news to him that the burning car in Little Roe Wood was a black Subaru. What’s more, a dog walker remembered seeing a red car parked in the same location earlier that day – the switch car, no doubt. They had no make or licence number, but it gave the searching officers something to go on. Maybe someone else in the area had seen a red car driving erratically. And maybe that same car had been caught somewhere on CCTV. It was such small details that might make the difference between Mark living or dying.
Jim suppressed the urge to abandon the questioning and rush off to join in the search. By the time he was finished, he felt like flinging his statement pad out of the window. He’d spoken to nearly two dozen nurses, porters, cleaners and laundry workers and had learnt nothing more than he already knew – namely, that no one had got a good look at the kidnapper’s face.
He went in search of the Head Nurse and asked her to find out how Amy was doing. ‘She’s been transferred to the Post-Operative Surgical Unit,’ Nurse Campbell informed him. She pointed out the room where Amy was being kept. ‘Her family’s in with her at the moment.’
Jim peered through the observation window. Amy was hooked up to the usual array of monitors, tubes and life-support devices. Her neck was heavily bandaged and her hair had been shaved so that a metal halo could be screwed to her skull. The halo was held in place by bars attached to a padded plastic torso brace. Her husband was sitting at her side with his back to Jim. At the other side of the bed was a woman who from her age and looks had to be Amy’s mother. The woman’s eyes were swollen from crying. A doctor was standing at the end of the bed, making notes.
The woman glanced towards the door. Jim dodged out of sight. The last thing he felt ready to do was look Amy’s mother in the eyes. He waited along the corridor for the doctor to come out. ‘Excuse me, Doctor, I’m a colleague of Amy’s. How’s she doing?’
‘I’m afraid she’s in a critical condition.’
‘Has she regained consciousness at any time?’
The doctor shook his head. ‘We’re keeping her fully sedated. Any neck movement could prove fatal. We believe the bullet nicked her spinal cord.’
‘You believe? Does that mean you’re not sure?’
‘It means we won’t be one hundred per cent certain until we’ve performed further exploratory surgery. We need to wait for the swelling around the wound to subside before—’
The doctor was interrupted by a loud beeping alarm going off on the nurses’ station. ‘Code blue, room seven,’ said Nurse Campbell, rushing out from behind the desk. She followed the doctor into Amy’s room. A second later, she ushered Amy’s husband and mother into the corridor.
‘What’s happening? What’s happening?’ the mother was frantically asking.
Another nurse hurried towards the room, pushing a crash cart with a defibrillator. A second doctor came running from the opposite direction.
‘I think her heart stopped,’ Amy’s husband said through his hands.
Once all the members of the crash team were inside the room, the door was closed. Amy’s mother and husband grasped each other’s hands. Jim clutched his chest as though he was the one suffering a cardiac arrest. Every second of waiting was an agony, squeezing more of the breath and hope out of him. Minutes passed like hours. Finally, the door opened and one of the doctors stepped out. From the look on his face, Jim knew Amy was gone.
‘I’m so sorry,’ said the doctor.
‘She’s dead?’ Amy’s husband’s voice twanged like a string about to snap.
The doctor nodded. ‘The strain was too much for her heart.’
The mother let out a wail, grinding her head against her son-in-law’s shoulder. The sound rang in Jim’s ears like a death knell. He turned away from the scene, took several steps and swayed against a wall. The floor seemed to be heaving under him. He was vaguely aware that someone took his arm and guided him towards a chair. He shook them off and staggered from the ward. He couldn’t seem to catch his breath. He had to get outside into the fresh air. He emerged from the hospital, half sobbing, half gasping. One thought kept screaming at him.
What have you done?
‘You OK, mate?’ someone asked.
The voice brought Jim out of his thoughts. He ran to the car Amy had driven them there in. The keys were still in the ignition, where Amy had left them.
Amy. Dead! Oh Christ!
He started the engine and sped from the car park. He pulled over at the first off-licence he saw and bought a bottle of vodka. He gulped half of it down in one, desperately trying to silence his mind. But the torment was unremitting. He thought of the photo on Amy’s phone – the happy children and their proud parents. And he thought of the grieving, devastated faces he’d left at POSU. The images tore through his consciousness like shards of shrapnel. Images. Memories. That was all that was left of Amy now.
What the fuck have you done?
Jim drove fast, not thinking about where he was going. Somehow he ended up outside the house where Margaret was living with her new bloke. It was a nice house – detached, decent garden – in a nice area. More than he’d been able to offer her. Not that she’d left him because of money. When she’d first moved in there, he’d spent many evenings watching it, waiting to catch a glimpse of her.
He felt a desperate need to talk to someone, to pour out his troubles, his confusion, his shame. And Margaret was the only person he knew who would understand what he was going through and why. The driveway was empty. The house looked empty too. He knew Margaret’s routines. She wouldn’t get home from work for half an hour or so yet. He threw back a swallow of vodka, relishing the burn as it hit his stomach. He closed his eyes. Tears trailed down his stubbly cheeks. He took another hit. His mind began to grow hazy. At last the alcohol was working.
Jim didn’t realise he’d fallen asleep until the sound of a car door shutting woke him. He’d been dreaming. In his dream Amy was alive and well. But now the awful truth came flooding back, wrenching the breath from his throat. There was a car in the drive. Margaret was unloading shopping bags from its boot. Bobbed brown hair framed her hazel-eyed, strong-featured face. A black trouser suit outlined her solidly built but not overweight figure. She was in good shape for a woman of her age. But then she’d always looked after herself. She’d looked after both of them.
She turned towards Jim as he got out of the car. Her eyebrows lifted. ‘Jim, what are you doing here?’
‘I… I…’ Jim stammered, suddenly afraid that even Margaret wouldn’t understand the why of his answer.
Margaret’s surprise turned into concern as she took in her ex-husband’s haggard face. ‘You look terrible. Are you ill?’
‘No,’ said Jim, but he felt like saying,
Yes, I’m ill. I’m sick of sleeping alone, of eating alone, of all the bitterness and resentment. But most of all I’m sick of the job, of watching good people die and bad people prosper.
Margaret looked at Jim, caught between concern and uncertainty. ‘Do you want to come inside? Alan won’t be home for a while.’
Jim shook his head, jaw clenching at the thought of going inside the house where the woman he loved went to sleep and woke up with another man. He wanted to go somewhere where they could talk without fear of interruption, where they could hold each other. But he knew that would never happen. She wasn’t his to hold any more. The job had taken her from him. Bryan fucking Reynolds had taken her from him! His fingers twitched into fists. Seeing a glimmer of alarm pass over Margaret’s face, he unclenched them and lowered his gaze.
‘Don’t do that,’ she said. ‘Look at me and tell me what’s wrong.’
The words were as familiar to Jim as his ex-wife’s soft but firm voice. She’d said them to him a hundred times before, whenever he used to retreat into himself, overwhelmed by feelings of futility and defeat. He lifted his eyes to hers. He was struck, as he had been the first time they met, by how kind her eyes were. During the years of their marriage a sadness had also crept into them. It wasn’t there any more. He knew then that he’d been wrong to doubt whether Margaret would understand. He knew too that he couldn’t lay his troubles on her. That burden was no longer hers to carry.
‘I’m sorry, Margaret. I shouldn’t have come here.’ Jim ducked back into his car. As he reversed out of the street, Margaret raised her hand as if unsure whether to wave goodbye or gesture him back to her.
Shudders racked Jim as he drove towards the city centre. He’d never accepted that Margaret was better off without him. He’d always held onto the belief that one day she would wake up and see that she’d made a terrible mistake. But now, after five years, he was the one who’d woken up and seen that she’d made the best decision of her life by leaving him. The realisation winded him. Tears burnt his eyes.
Alcohol swirled in Jim’s veins. Faces swirled in his head. Amy. Grace Kirby. Mark Baxley. But one face in particular kept flashing into his thoughts – an angular, scarred, broken-nosed face with a taunting smirk at the corners of its mouth. ‘Bryan Reynolds.’ The name came with such force that flecks of spittle sprayed the windscreen. He changed gear with a savage movement and punched the horn, forcing his way through the evening traffic.
Jim turned onto a backstreet and pulled over opposite a bar with blacked-out windows and a blue-and-red neon sign depicting a busty woman straddling the words ‘The Minx’. A pair of burly bouncers filled the doorway. Knocking back the dregs of vodka, Jim got out of the car and approached them.
The bouncers exchanged an amused glance at the sight of Jim’s unshaven face. ‘Haven’t you ever heard of a razor, mate?’ one remarked sarcastically, scanning him with a handheld metal detector.
Jim resisted the urge to smash his fist into the man’s face. The detector beeped on his jacket pocket. He took out his car keys. The bouncer scanned him again, and when the detector remained silent, gestured for him to go on in.
‘Twenty quid admission,’ said a heavily made-up woman in tight leather gear behind a Perspex screen. ‘And another twenty for a lap-dance. Touch any of the girls and you’re out.’
Jim paid and entered a room gaudily decorated in red and purple. Paintings of scantily clad women adorned the walls. There was a mirrored bar in one corner. Tables and chairs were arranged around a square stage with six dance poles in the centre of the room. Spotlights cut through the gloom, illuminating a woman wearing only a thong and high heels. She pumped her body against one of the poles in time to loud hip-hop music. Several curtained booths where private dances could take place lined the left-hand wall. At this early hour, none of them were occupied. A scattering of punters were watching the performance, sipping overpriced drinks.
Bryan Reynolds was nowhere to be seen. But Jim knew he would be showing his bastard face soon enough. He’d spent sufficient time surveilling Reynolds over the years to learn his routine. Almost every evening between eight and nine o’clock, Reynolds headed out to The Minx. He usually made his way straight to an office at the back of the club, where he’d spend the next few hours locked away, getting down to his real business. Not that any proof that the club was a front for his drug dealing had ever been obtained. The place had been raided several times, but not a single grain of dope had been sniffed out. Reynolds was scrupulous about keeping his clean businesses separate from his dirty ones. Doubtless he would also be scrupulous about sticking to his routine after what had happened at the hospital. And nor was there any doubt that he would have a cast-iron alibi to account for his whereabouts at the time of the shooting.