Andy McNab - Crossfire

She bit her bottom lip as she stared out of the window. 'He said Dom had become withdrawn. They used to be so open with each other. It was depressing the hell out of Pete. He said Dom had got one-tracked about some drug story. He made a joke about him being more addicted to the story than the junkies were to the heroin.'

'That sounds like Pete…'

She tilted her head. 'He was always shielding me like that. A few weeks ago Dom had him filming dirty old men in Dublin. They supplied young guys with drugs, then had sex with them. God knows what was really going on.' She smiled bravely, but she couldn't stop the tears. 'He was going to ask the station about changing jobs. He wanted to spend more time…'

It was all too much. I reached for the box of tissues.

'Tally! Tally!' Ruby ran into the room. She froze as she spotted the stranger.

'Ruby, this is Nick. He's a friend of Daddy's.'

'Hello, Ruby.' I crouched down and held out my hand. A small and grubby one reached out, very shyly, and clung to it.

'I knew a little girl just like you once. She used to play on her swing, kicking her legs so she got really high. But not as high as you. You were really good.'

Ruby's hand fell from mine. She shifted from one foot to the other. 'What's her name?'

'Kelly.'

I got up slowly.

'My daddy's with God. He's shooting.'

She was proud of the jargon her dad had taught her. As she craned her neck to peer up at me I saw Pete craning his to look in the columns outside Basra Palace. She was his spitting image. His legacy was going to be hanging about for another few decades for sure.

'I know. Your daddy's so good at what he does that God wanted him on his team.'

She folded her arms and tilted her head. 'Are you a reporter?'

'No.'

'Well, I'm going to be a producer.'

'I see. Like Moira?'

'Yes. Daddy says she's a richid producer.' She paused. 'Does that mean she's very rich?'

'Richid?' I looked at Tallulah for help.

She couldn't help smiling. 'He may have said wretched…'

I smiled back. 'Not Pete's favourite person, I think. He said that, as far as she was concerned, news was more about the bottom line than the front line.'

And then something clicked.

Pete was freelance. If he'd filmed in Dublin, he'd have been paid. He would have raised an invoice. Even if it was for cash, he was so methodical he'd have kept a record.

'Tallulah, do you mind if I ask you something? The cremation… Dom acting strange… There are some things that don't quite make sense. I don't know what I'm looking for, but maybe there's a file or something… Maybe the station had them filming stuff they didn't want to do. Maybe they were playing silly buggers. You know what a stickler Pete was. He would have minded about stuff like that. Did he have an office? Maybe I could…'

She wiped away a tear and gave me a big smile. 'Oh, Nick, you are sweet.' She tried to laugh. 'You're going to look for porn or his mistress's love letters and spirit them away, aren't you?'

'Got it in one. Look, I know he didn't get on with the producer, maybe there's-'

'Nick, please, do – it's a lovely idea. But leave the porn where it is. I may as well take the bad with the good. It's the first on the right at the top of the stairs. I'll go and put the kettle on.'

I sat at Pete's desk, feeling sad and angry in just about equal proportions. The three of them had had it all in front of them. Whoever had killed Pete had also gunned down a lot of dreams.

The desk faced the window and looked down on the garden. Ruby was back outside, playing on her swing. She sang a little song to herself. I watched her for a while, but my mind was elsewhere. I had a perfect mental picture of Kelly doing exactly the same thing. It was no time at all before she hadn't wanted to play on swings any more. It would happen to Ruby, too, in a year or two…

Fuck it. Time to cut away from that shit.

It was an uncluttered office, as I'd expected. There was a desk, the swivel chair I was sitting in, a filing cabinet, shelves containing hundreds of labelled video-cassettes and DVDs. Sudan, Darfur, Baghdad. Anywhere that had seen conflict, Pete had shot some film.

Family pictures were Blu-Tacked to the walls. A framed portrait of Dom and Pete in black tie stood on the desk. Between them they held an Emmy aloft like it was the FA Cup. Both wore huge grins as they basked in the moment, partners in crime.

I could smell perfume. Tallulah had been here very recently… as if sitting in his chair, in his room, might somehow bring him back.

Pete had said he'd miss the camaraderie if he gave up the front line, and then he'd laughed. Now I realized why. He was already a member of a much stronger unit. I wondered what it must be like.

I got up and looked along the spines of the VHS and DVD cases. All were neatly and precisely labelled, including several for Kabul 2006, but none said Dublin. There wasn't anything dated this year.

The Mac was on screen-saver. I hit a key and had a look at the desktop. It was packed with folder icons. I did a search for Dublin. Nothing. Then anything with D as a first letter. I got a QuickTime film of Dubai: Pete mucking about with Ruby in a water park. I even searched for Dirty Old Men. Nothing. Not even any porn.

Ruby's song floated up from the garden as I pulled open P-Z, the bottom of the three drawers. I opened a folder marked VAT. Pete had done himself proud. All the returns were in date order, but there weren't any receipts or invoices.

Dublin with a D.

I pulled open the top drawer, A-J. There was nothing labelled Dublin, but there was a hanging folder labelled 'Invoices'. As I opened it, Ruby was drowned by a jet lining up on Heathrow.

The folder was stuffed with receipts, ready for Pete to process. A sheet of A4 was addressed to TVZ in Dublin: '2 DAYS FILMING – DUBLIN.'

His rate was?200 a day, plus hotel, flight and van hire. The invoice was for the attention of Moira Foley, Head of News, but it had been returned. Scrawled across the bottom in thick felt tip was: 'WHAT JOB? DON'T TRY TO PULL THE FUCKING WOOL OVER MY EYES – YOU'RE NOT SMART ENOUGH.'

A yellow Post-it note was stuck next to Moira's kind words. On it, in neat biro, was: 'Sorry about the misunderstanding – here's the cheque – All best, Dom.'

'Here we go.' Tallulah came in with a mug in each hand.

I closed the file and replaced it. 'Tallulah, I'm sorry, I've just realized the time.' I tapped my arm. 'Hospital appointment. I didn't find anything, but I will. I promise you.'

She put the mugs on the desk and a couple of fresh tears rolled down her cheeks as she gave me a hug. Her face burnt. Her gorgeous green eyes were puffy and swollen.

'Who's Kelly, Nick? Your daughter?'

'No, I was a bit like you, really. I sort of landed up looking after her.'

'Was? You mean you're not looking after her any more? She's grown-up now?'

'She got to be sixteen, then went to show God how to use a swing.'

I left her to it and saw myself out. My arm was throbbing, and so was my head.

Vauxhall Bridge 2017 hrs The evening was still warm when the cab dropped me at Vauxhall station. Even the daffs were pushing up here and there. I crossed to a traffic island, leather bomber over my right arm, the other in a sling.

It wasn't just the weather that had changed since the last time I was here. The roads were plastered with big red Cs to show the start of the congestion zone, while CCTV and number-plate-recognition cameras had sprouted everywhere.

The railway arches were no longer the shabby tyre warehouses and dodgy MOT centres I remembered from four or five years ago. They'd been turned into trendy wine merchants and bathroom stores. There was even a gay club and sauna, and a wine bar with little aluminium tables and chairs outside trying to keep the office workers there all night with happy-hour wine deals and free dips. The sauna lights flashed enticingly.