Robert Parker - Snow Storm

He turned to check for some kind of response from Edwards and was met with a cold gaze.

“You know, don’t you?” Edwards asked.

Burke had never had much of a poker face. On this occasion it failed him again. He did indeed know. “Why?” he asked before he could stop himself.

“You know why,” Edwards said. All trace of expression had left his voice.

“It can’t be for you career. It can’t mean that much to you.”

“Can’t mean that much to me,” Edwards barked back, “try going through what I’ve been through and tell me your career means so little. Try watching people under your command getting gunned down or blown to bits in front of you and coming out the other side the only one lucky enough to make it out and tell me that doesn’t mean something, and that you don’t feel you have to make everything count for the ones that didn’t make it.”

“I have,” Burke said. “But you knew that.”

“Of course. But I don’t think it’s the same thing is it? Losing your team because you weren’t up to handling a firearms incident on a council estate.”

“No.”

Neither man said anything for a few seconds as all hell continued to break loose around them. Burke had been trained to deal with people on the edge but this was one they didn’t cover in negotiation techniques, getting the homicidal nut job out of the firefight in one piece while at the same time maintaining your own structural integrity.

“Why Leon Williams?” he finally asked, playing for time.

Edwards smiled at this. “Luck of the draw I’m afraid. Collateral damage. Had to look after the operation and ensure targets were met. Had to pull rank. But I think it’s all shaping up nicely.” He cast an arm round at what they could see of the scene.

Another hail of bullets from the fire fight hit the wall and filled the air with concrete dust. Burke’s clumsiness was another great failing. He felt the shove before he actually knew what had happened. The air left his lungs as he hit the floor. He couldn’t breathe and the blood began to spurt everywhere.

He realised he needed time. There was no time. He gasped for air but there was none of that either. He had to move but couldn’t. And then it was all over.

The policeman had burst out from behind the shed in the corner causing the old man to hesitate. He must have thought his number was up. He dropped Andy, and Big Al who was never the steadiest in a combat situation, always dropped the ball if he got it out of the scrum, just a bit too trigger happy really, overreacted. They would later conclude it was like he’d thought he was trying to herd a bull with a quad bike. He’d just jammed both sides of the tank full on forward and didn’t stop, not until they were over the would-be kidnapper, through the breezeblock wall and on the airstrip facing a wall of coppers.

It had been an accident of course. No one really wanted to plough some old git down with a tank, no matter what they said in the pub about pensioners being worth fifty points in the car.

The air ambulance was swift in attendance, having been put on standby in preparation. Casualties were low, all things considered; one dead Lithuanian businessman it was doubtful anyone would miss, which was just as well, as an open casket funeral was well and truly out of the question given the very extensive crushing injuries not to mention familiar stripy pattern caused by the hopefully not too protracted death that came as a consequence of being mangled by a tank, one dead mercenary with a hole in his throat and some missing teeth who probably knew the risks, one heavily concussed lawyer who also had fractured ribs and collarbones but seemed alert and willing enough to confess to all sorts, one teenager with a broken arm who was pretty grateful about that and whose parents were unlikely to be worried about him going off to university in the city and the relatively tame dangers that involved, and last but by no means least, one detective inspector whose carotid artery had been shredded upon impact with the hollow point bullet from an AK47 assault rifle and whose resultant blood loss had meant not only Edwards’s death but also the irrevocable staining of Burke’s favourite North Face fleece.

He’d tried to stop the fucker bleeding to death but there wasn’t much to work with. Plugging a hole might be one thing but this was more of a burst pipe. Edwards though, would doubtless consider it a small mercy, avoiding the consequences of his actions as he now had.

It was Burke’s clumsiness that had saved him, that and his dodgy ankle. He’d lost his footing, and Edwards, overdoing it, had overextended and followed suit, turning himself into a human shield in the process, a duty he had performed admirably.

He knew it might be arrogance, knew some would interpret it that way, but it did all fit. It had been Edwards’ own use of language that had given him away.

Billet was not a word used by many these days to describe their bed, generally only those of a military disposition. At first he’d discounted the public school accent and the fact it didn’t generally tally with that of a Glaswegian detective inspector, but then the Sarah Armstrong had turned up, concerned about the death of one of her operatives who had been on an undercover operation to flush out drug dealing networks by attempting to set up a fake one. Leon Williams, was not a real yardie and although posing as one and indeed living as one was unlikely to have gone about killing supposed rivals. The whole thing had started to fall apart under scrutiny and began to look a wee bit stage managed. And when he guessed the military connection, and took a long shot it had all started to make a modicum of sense.

They had served together in Helmand, in the Royal Marines. Leon Williams was a serving Marine and Edwards his commanding officer. Williams probably recognised Edwards, more likely than vice versa. Maybe he’d confronted him, maybe not but his old CO had clearly offed him in time honoured special-forces style.

The Lithuanian, Vlad, had come to a well-orchestrated end, and that was the thing that made Burke feel slightly arrogant and slightly insulted. Edwards knew about the shooting. He’d done his research. He’d staged this on his patch, partly due to circumstance but at least partly knowing he would join the dots, work out the significance of the machete and come to the right conclusion. But the cheeky bastard thought he could fool him, get him to draw the picture he wanted. That was the bit that stuck in his guts.

It had worked to an extent though. Edwards had drawn Andreyevich out of his hideaway, leaving the head of an associate outside his kids’ school. That would make anyone lose their cool.

Then Andreyevich had gone on to kill Karpov. That must have confused the hell out of Edwards. But the fact that it was an AK47 had given it away to an extent. The ultimate mark of respect for a fellow member of the brotherhood.

He supposed they would put it all down to Andreyevich now though, now there was no suggestion of anything to the contrary.

He should have kept his cool really, Edwards. They might never have found the murder weapon anyway. Paranoia - that was his undoing. He’d gone and overthought it and in the process proved himself guilty. Burke had called off the search for murder weapons in his house and car. No one would ever know. What good would it do? The family would receive all honours and cash due for a death in the line of duty. The kids would be proud of their father. All pomp and circumstance would be observed.

Burke knew the truth, which was fine. Because that was the big thing for him, the one thing that made any sense. Now he could see the bigger picture. Now he could see all the angles, how it all fitted together, a clean equation, a balanced calculation in a world that was anything but.