John Harvey: Cold in Hand

The mother's face showed, anxious, at the upstairs window, before she was pulled away.

"Let your wife out now," Lynn said. "Then you and I can talk."

Suddenly the window was thrown open. "The only way she's coming out's in a fuckin' box!"

And the window slammed shut.

"Could've taken him then," Ben Fowles said softly at Lynn's shoulder. "Back home in time for a spot of lunch."

"Not my call."

"I know."

"What's the thinking on the gun?" Lynn asked. "He armed or not?"

"No sign."

"Maybe the boy was wrong."

"Seven, isn't he? Six or seven? Old enough to know what a gun looks like, I should say."

"He must have been frightened out of his wits, poor kid."

"Doesn't mean he made a mistake."

Lynn shook her head. "I think if he had a gun, we'd have seen it by now. His situation, he'd have made sure we did."

"And if you're wrong?"

She looked at him squarely. "Either way, unless you and Chambers have got something cooked up between you, we carry on waiting."

Fowles smiled. "Till what? He sees the hopelessness of his position? Walks out with his hands above his head?"

"Something like that."

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Chambers checking his watch and wondered what calculations he was making.

Not so many minutes later, the man picked up the phone. Lynn was pliant but firm, letting him have something to hold on to, something that could lead to a way out. Little by little, bit by bit. She shook her head, some old song ringing like tinnitus in her ears. Retro nights at the Lizard Lounge. Some white soul singer, she couldn't remember the name. Back when she was a young DC. Before she'd met Charlie. Before everything.

It was close to two, and a slow rain was starting to fall.

"Let your wife out through the front door. Once she's outside, she should turn to the right, where she'll see a female police officer in uniform. She should walk towards her with her hands well away from her body. Is that understood?"

Come on, come on.

The front door budged open an inch or so, then swung wide and the woman stumbled out, blinking as if emerging from the dark. As she began to walk, less than steadily, towards the waiting officer, the door behind her slammed shut.

Lynn gave the man time to get back to the phone.

"All right," she said. "If you have a weapon, I want you to throw it out now. Then, once that weapon is secured, you can come out yourself. Walk towards the uniformed officer with your hands in the air and follow his instructions. Lie down on the ground when you are told."

Moments later there was the sound of a gunshot, muffled, from inside the house.

"Shit!" Lynn said beneath her breath and for a split second she closed her eyes.

Fowles looked across at Chambers and Chambers shook his head. Instead of sending the troops charging in like some SWAT squad on late-night TV, the Incident Commander was content to bide his time. The man was alone in the house now and a danger only to himself. Assuming he was still alive.

Time was on their side.

When the man failed to pick up the phone, Lynn used the bullhorn instead. Firm but fair. If he could hear her, this is what he had to do.

She repeated it again, unflustered and clear.

Nothing happened.

And then it did. The door opened gradually and a handgun was thrown out onto the grass.

"All right," Lynn said, "now step outside slowly with your hands in the air."

Halfway across the patchy square of lawn, he stopped. "Couldn't even do that," he said to no one in particular. "Couldn't even do fucking that."

"Pathetic," Ben Fowles remarked.

There was a scorch mark on one side of his face; at the last moment, he had pulled his head away.

One of the children tried to run towards him, but the grandmother held him back.

Not for the first time, Lynn caught herself wishing that she still smoked.

Chambers came over and shook her hand.

Fowles nudged her on the shoulder with his fist. "Good job," he said.

Lynn did her best not to smile. Dusty Springfield, she said to herself on the way back to the car, that's who it was. Dusty, the one and only.

She tried Charlie's office number but there was no reply; his mobile seemed to be switched off. No matter, she'd be home now soon enough. A table for two at Petit Paris on King's Walk. Paris, Nottingham, that is. Moules, steak frites. A decent bottle of wine. Try to leave room for dessert.

Lucky?

Her hands were still shaking a little when they touched the wheel.

Like a tooth you couldn't stop probing with the tip of your tongue, the song was still nagging away at her as she turned onto the Woodborough Road and eased into the outside lane. She heard the call over the Force radio nonetheless: disturbance on Cranmer Street, near the junction with St. Ann's Hill Road. Only moments away.

"Tango Golf 13 to Control."

"Control to Tango Golf 13, go ahead."

"Tango Golf 13 to Control. I'm on Woodborough Road, just turning into Cranmer Street now."

Lynn swung sharp left across the traffic, cutting off a mud-spattered four-by-four and causing it to brake sharply. Cranmer Street was only narrow, barely a two-car width, vehicles parked down the left-hand side making it narrower still. A builder's van with fading Forest stickers in its rear windows started to pull out in front of her and then thought better of it.

"Control to Tango Golf 13. Response units are attending. Advise await their arrival."

There were several small blocks of newly built flats high on the right and beyond those an old municipal building that was now student accommodation. Behind fencing along the near side, the ground was being cleared, deep holes being dug; council housing demolished and replaced. Just opposite the intersection with St. Ann's Hill Road, a crowd of youths, many of them wearing hoodies-what else? — had gathered in a rough circle that spread out across the street.

As Lynn cut the engine, she heard the sound of shouting, raucous and angry; chanting, like a soccer crowd baying for blood.

"Control, this is Tango Golf 13. I'm on Cranmer Street at the scene. A gang of fifteen or twenty youths fighting."

Lowering her window, she heard a scream, urgent and shrill, followed almost immediately by another.

"Control, this is Tango Golf 13. I'm on top of the incident and shall have to intervene. Immediate backup required."

"Control to Tango Golf 13, advise-"

But she was already out of the car and running towards the crowd.

"Police! Police, let me through."

As she pushed her way into the circle, an elbow struck Lynn in the ribs and an outflung hand caught her high on her cheek, a signet ring breaking the skin.

A few of those standing at the front turned to see what was happening, and she was able to force her way to the centre. Faces, all shades, stared at her, showing everything from indifference to pure hate. Young males, mostly, wide-leg jeans slung so low it seemed as if their crotch hung somewhere down between their knees. More than a few wearing black and white, Radford colours. A gang thing, is that what this was?

"Fuck off, bitch!"

A head arched sharply back then jerked forward and the next second she was wiping a gobbet of spittle from her hair.

Jeers. Laughter.

More shouts, more threats.

The two young women-girls-who'd been at the heart of the fighting had broken apart when Lynn pushed her way through.

Fifteen, she guessed, sixteen at best.

The one closest to her-thin white face, head close-shaven like a boy's, leather jacket, black-and-white scarf, skintight black jeans-was bleeding from a cut high on her left cheek, a slow trickle of blood running down. There was another cut on her arm. Her adversary, facing Lynn, was most likely mixed race, dark hair tied back, denim jacket and jeans, a short-bladed knife in her hand.