Peter Lovesey - Skeleton Hill

Keith wasn’t speaking, but there was plenty of voice in his breathing, a rasp with each struggle for air. The signs were bad. A pink bubble formed between his lips and popped. If his lungs were filling with blood he wouldn’t last long.

Diamond took out his mobile and dialled for an ambulance.

He tried giving comforting words without knowing how much Keith understood. He was getting no response from the voice or the eyes.

In all his years in the police, he’d never had one of his team murdered. What could he do? You don’t move someone in a state like this, without knowing what damage the shooting has done, which vital organ the bullet may have pierced. The sense of helplessness was overwhelming. He knew about the so-called grace period from thirty minutes to an hour when the shock to the nervous system means that the victim is, in effect, anaesthetised. When that passes, the pain kicks in and can be fatal.

He looked around him. The garden was overgrown and the house appeared derelict. Really he could expect no help until the paramedics came. The two cops were off and away, chasing the man seen running from the scene. If they caught him they wouldn’t bring him back this way, over garden fences. They’d take him through the nearest house to the street and drive him straight to the police station.

And no one from inside number sixteen was going to venture into the garden and look over the wall. Any of the inmates who knew what was going on would have escaped by way of the street.

So he waited, powerless to act, and the minutes dragged.

Keith’s gasps for breath became shorter and more shallow.

At last came the twin notes of the ambulance approaching Marchant Street. The sound got louder and then stopped, followed by doors slamming. Would the crew find him? He’d tried to explain where he was to the operator who’d taken the emergency call, describing it as the garden backing on to number 16. He had no idea what this parallel street was called.

A voice came from behind the wall: ‘Where are you?’

He stood and shouted back.

A head appeared above the wall. ‘All right, mate. Stay cool.’

They slung a stretcher over first, and then followed.

He stood back to let the two paramedics assess the injury. It seemed Keith had taken a shot to the diaphragm, just inside the ribcage. While one was taking the pulse the other said to Diamond, ‘Why don’t you find the best way out of here? He’s in poor shape and we won’t want to lug him over that wall.’

Relieved to get any kind of activity, he went to check. Every muscle was shaking.

As he suspected, the house on this plot was empty, the lower windows boarded up. But there was a side gate on a rusty latch that he forced open. It gave access to the street. He jammed it open with a brick.

When he got back, the paramedics had transferred Keith to the stretcher and exposed his arm for an injection that he seemed not to feel at all.

‘You’ll have to help us get him to the ambulance,’ one said, when Diamond had pointed the way to the street. ‘Charlie will drive it round.’

So he acted as stretcher-bearer, through the long grass to the gate and outside, where Charlie brought the ambulance in quick time.

‘Shall I come with you?’ Diamond offered when they’d slid the stretcher inside.

‘No point, mate. He’s out to the world now and you won’t get near when he’s in emergency. You’re better off chasing the tosser who shot him.’

‘Which hospital?’

‘Charing Cross. What’s his name, by the way?’

By the way. As if it was an afterthought that this was an individual, a good cop, the most loyal of colleagues, a husband and a father. Of course the paramedic didn’t mean to sound uncaring. It was just that Diamond was in shock.

He told them. One climbed inside with Keith and the other closed the door and drove off.

The sense of loss was acute.

In the next hour, that neglected mobile was much used. He spoke several times to Louis Voss. He got through to Ingeborg in Bath. He also called Sheila Halliwell and broke the news of the shooting to her, the news every police wife dreads. She said her brother would drive her to the hospital directly. And after her brave acceptance of the emergency came the inevitable question: ‘What was he doing, to get himself shot?’

‘We don’t fully know yet. Probably pursuing a suspect without knowing he was armed.’

‘Weren’t you with him, then? I thought he was with you.’ She may not have intended it to sound like an accusation, but that was how he took it.

‘We split up. He was going to interview someone we both thought was harmless.’

‘Are they ever? I’d better not say any more, Mr Diamond. I don’t trust myself to speak. I’ll hang up and get on the road.’

More police arrived, organised a crime scene and called out a forensic team. He said as much as he knew to the team leader and then called the hospital. He was told they’d already X-rayed the patient to assess the damage and he was receiving treatment. His condition was critical.

Somehow, Diamond had to escape from this passive waiting on events. Again he phoned Louis at Fulham Road nick and updated him. ‘In all this mayhem I’ve lost track of what’s happening. Did the two cops locate the guy on the run?’

‘They nicked him,’ Louis said. ‘He’s here.’

‘Thank God for that. Who is he?’

‘He’s not saying.’

‘Not saying anything, you mean?’

‘That’s right. Silent.’

‘Bloody hell. Has he been searched? Doesn’t he have anything on him saying who he is?’

‘Peter, if he had, I’d have told you, wouldn’t I?’

‘Has he asked for a solicitor?’

‘How do I get this across to you? He’s shtum .’

‘I’m not having that. Who’s on the case?’

‘DCI Gledhill. He’ll want a statement from you.’

‘Sod that. We want a statement from the prisoner. Keith is on the critical list. I’m not letting some gun-toting lunatic clam up on us.’

‘We think it may be a language problem.’

‘Get away!’

‘I mean it. He could be a Ukrainian.’

‘Christ, yes. Ukrainian. Why didn’t I think of that? We must get an interpreter.’

‘Don’t worry, Peter. Alex Gledhill has it in hand. Our regular interpreter is on his way back from Manchester. We’ll get him in tomorrow morning.’

‘Like hell you will. I want action. The clock is ticking. I’m sorry, Louis, but I want this pig squealing tonight. I’ll find you an interpreter in the next half-hour.’

He switched off. Right off. He didn’t want Louis or Gledhill or anyone else telling him what he couldn’t do. Mobiles had their merits after all and one was to achieve non-communication.

He knew of a good interpreter. He stopped a taxi at the end of the street and took a ride to the Crimea pub, asking the driver to wait.

True to form, Andriy was at the bar, chatting in Ukrainian to several other drinkers. He grinned at Diamond, recognising him at once. ‘My friend from Bath.’ He drained the glass of vodka he was holding. ‘We were having a nice conversation and you had to leave suddenly. Was everything all right?’

‘It’s under control, I think,’ Diamond said, ‘but I still need your help.’

‘Cheers, then.’ Andriy grinned and pushed the empty glass towards the barmaid.

‘For this kind of help, you get vodka by the bottle, not the glass,’ Diamond told him. ‘I want you to act as my interpreter.’

‘Whatever you want, my friend.’

But it took a few minutes more to get through to Andriy that he was required to leave the bar and take a taxi ride somewhere else. The prospect of vodka by the bottle persuaded him.