Simon Kernick - The Last 10 Seconds

Tina took another drag on her cigarette, determined to find out what it was, even it meant working solidly for the next week.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Grier giving his statement to two detectives from Scotland Yard’s Serious and Organised Crime Agency who didn’t look any older than he did, and doubtless telling them what a reckless fool his boss was. It was funny how, at the age of only thirty-one, Tina saw herself as a veteran when it wasn’t really that long ago — five, perhaps six years — that she was a wet-behind-the-ears DC like Grier, a graduate herself with all these big ideas, and more than her fair share of ideals (even though she never liked to admit it). She hadn’t supported the death penalty in those days either. How life had changed, and not for the better. She’d been through so much that sometimes the thought of all the terrible things that had happened both to her and to the people close to her made her want to lock herself away from the whole world, shut her eyes, and never wake up.

And then there were the other times, when she was filled with a terrible homicidal rage that made her kick the wall of her bedroom, smash crockery, scream at the top of her voice, as she imagined herself beating thugs into submission, or torturing the man she held responsible for so much of the wreckage of her life, a short, balding businessman called Paul Wise. The man she desperately wanted to bring down — to kill, if she was honest with herself — and the one person against whom she was utterly powerless.

Tina knew she was beginning to deteriorate mentally. Her neighbours on both sides tended to give her a wide berth these days whereas once they’d exchanged pleasantries, and one of them — she didn’t know which — had even called the police when a night of red wine and tequila slammers in the front room had led to her methodically smashing every mirror in the flat. It was the one in the hallway that had caused the problem. It was a two-foot-by-four-foot in pine trimming from Ikea that faced the bedroom, and she’d taken it out with a chair. It had made such an explosive noise that she’d jumped back with fright, tripped over and hit her bookcase. She’d lain there, confused yet strangely sated, as half a dozen paperbacks and an old hardback Jackie Collins she’d bought as a teenager landed one after another on her head. She’d somehow convinced the two uniforms who turned up that it was all a fuss about nothing, and, recognizing who she was, they’d let her off with a friendly word of warning.

She’d given up the booze after that (at least for a couple of weeks), but the moods hadn’t gone away, and it had crossed her mind more than once to ask at work to be referred to a psychiatrist, or simply take a period of absence for stress, but she’d rejected both alternatives. The job was the only thing that gave her life a semblance of balance and, in spite of everything, she was still damn good at it.

But now she’d gone and messed things up by taking a dramatic risk, not only with her own life, which she could accept, but with Grier’s as well. He’d hardly spoken to her since, and she could understand why. Her behaviour was erratic and undisciplined, and people like that were best avoided, particularly by someone who wanted to keep his copybook pristine.

She saw DCI MacLeod emerge from one of the police vans at the edge of the cordon. He looked pale and tense, but she could hardly blame him for that. What had started off as a happy evening in the pub to celebrate the successful conclusion of a long-running case had turned into a violent tragedy, with the suspect they’d spent so many man-hours hunting down having disappeared into thin air. Already news helicopters were whirring steadily overhead, and film crews from the various stations jockeyed for position with curious members of the public behind the scene-of-crime tape.

MacLeod saw her and came over, asking if she was OK.

‘I’ve been better,’ she said, stubbing out her cigarette and trying to maintain a cool reserve, although in truth she was quite badly shaken up. What had happened to her that night reminded her of too many incidents in her past.

He gave her the kind of look a father gives an errant daughter. Kindly and caring, but with more than a hint of worry crinkling his features. ‘Your luck’s going to run out one day, you know. Be careful, Tina.’

She was touched by his words, but typically didn’t show it. ‘I had no choice but to follow them, sir. I couldn’t let Kent go without a fight, could I?’

He shook his head, and Tina was struck by how stressed, and how old, he looked. ‘I wish I knew what was going on here.’

Tina exhaled, thinking she might as well tell him what was on her mind. ‘You don’t get a gang of four men springing a prisoner like that without a very serious motive. I don’t think we know the half of it yet, sir.’

MacLeod looked at her sharply. ‘You think someone inside the station helped them?’

‘Don’t you?’

‘But why? And why are all these people willing to shoot police officers to get their hands on a man who’s just a particularly nasty sex killer?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Tina, ‘but I think I might have a lead.’ She explained briefly about the differences in the Roisín O’Neill murder compared to the other four. ‘We definitely need to look into it further. Talk to some of her friends and family and see if that turns up anything?’

But MacLeod didn’t look convinced. He sighed, his face looking redder than ever, clearly thinking about something else.

‘I may have to hire a car,’ she continued. ‘My Focus is a write-off.’

‘Do what you have to do,’ he told her, suddenly dismissive. ‘Put it on expenses. I need to get going. I’ve got to go and explain myself to the DCS.’ Tina knew he was referring to DCS Frank Mendelson, the head of Homicide and Serious Crime Command, the body to which all London’s murder investigation teams belonged. He told her to take care, then with a small, forced smile he strode off in the direction of the station.

She watched him go, thinking that could be her in ten years’ time — unhealthy, unfit, and burnt out by a job which, when it was stripped down to the bare bones, was and could never be anything more than a continual stream of failures.

Having finished giving his statement, Grier walked over to her, his suit jacket tucked over one arm. He looked a lot calmer than he had done earlier, although Tina wondered how long that would last. She knew from experience that the shock often came hours, even days, later.

‘My God, what a night,’ he said, thrusting his hands into his trouser pockets and looking round at the crime scene.

Tina thought about saying sorry for earlier, almost got the first words out, but stopped herself. Saying sorry would be an admission that she’d been wrong, a sign of weakness, and something an ambitious young man like Grier could use against her.

Instead it was Grier who made the first move. ‘You know, about earlier. I know I got angry. It’s because I was shocked after getting shot at. You’re probably used to it, you know, the number of times it’s happened to you. But I think it was the right thing to do for us to give chase, and that’s what I told those guys.’

He smiled at her, and she smiled back, feeling guilty. ‘Thanks. I appreciate it.’

‘How did your statement go? They’re not going to put the blame on you for anything, are they?’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. We had just cause to give chase, and I managed to pass the breathalyser. Just.’

‘I didn’t think you were drinking in the pub earlier,’ Grier said, looking puzzled.

‘I just had a couple,’ she answered, thinking he was far more observant than she’d given him credit for. ‘Listen, Dan, you can go home now if you want. It’s been a long day.’