Mike Shevdon - The Eighth Court

People hurried past me, eager to reach the relative shelter of the buildings on each bank, their breath clouding in the chill air before it was whipped away upstream. Sam stood out as he approached. He didn’t huddle and he didn’t rush. His coat was loosely wrapped around him, giving him easy access to the inside pockets.

You bastard, I thought. You’re planning to shoot me again.

He looked grim. The stubble was raised on his cheeks where he hadn’t shaved for days. There were loose pockets of saggy skin under his eyes and dark smudges that spoke of too much whisky and not enough sleep. He paused and checked behind him, timing his walk so he would reach me while no one else was passing. I could see him weighing it up — one to the chest, one to the head, then over the parapet into the Thames.

He walked up to me. “Peterson,” he said. “Last time I saw you, you were dying.”

“I’d love to say there were no hard feelings,” I told him.

He turned as if to glance back and went for the inside pocket of his coat. That’s when Amber kicked his legs out from under him. He landed badly with a dull crump from his shoulder. “Aaagh!” he shouted.

Amber stood on his wrist and placed the tip of her blade on his neck, pulling out a wallet, a mobile phone, a card wallet and an automatic pistol from his coat and jacket pockets. I caught them one by one, tossing the pistol over the parapet into the Thames.

“Sam,” I said. “I do believe your intentions were less than honourable.”

“Fuck off!” he said, trying to pull his wrist out from under Amber’s boots.

“Be polite,” I advised him. “You don’t want to upset her.”

“Go and f-” He got as far as that when Amber hauled him up by the front of his coat and swung him round, and tossed him straight over the parapet. He screamed as he went over, flailing his arms in desperation. I waited a moment, and then leaned over the parapet. Sam was dangling by one ankle from Amber’s grip. His free leg and arms were flailing around wildly.

“I warned you,” I told him. “I tried to tell you. You’re just not very good at accepting advice.”

“You bastard,” he shouted. “For fuck’s sake!”

“If I were you,” I said. “I’d stop struggling. You might loosen her grip and that would leave you with two choices. You’d hit the water hard, and you might go unconscious if you were lucky.” I stared down at the brown water heading towards the sea. “You might just drown.”

Sam started shouting. “Help! Heeeeelp!”

“On the other hand, I’m not sure how good a swimmer you are. If you hit the water right, you could make it to the surface. Of course, at this time of year in these conditions you have about a minute. Hypothermia will be nicer than drowning. It’ll be like going to sleep. Do they teach you survival in your line of work?”

“Heeeeeelp!” he shouted. Amber raised one eyebrow, as if she were considering letting go.

“No one can hear you,” I told him. “You have just one chance, though Amber thinks that’s one chance too many. I’m going to have to convince her not to let go.”

“I hate you, Petersen!”

“Who gave you the bullets?” I asked him.

“Fuck off!”

Amber’s grip slipped an inch up his ankle. He screamed like a girl.

“Who?” I asked.

“I can’t tell you,” he said. “I don’t know anything.”

“OK,” I said. “You’re probably right. Even as a policeman trained in undercover work, your powers of observation were probably off that day. I understand. I’m just sorry we couldn’t make this last longer. Amber, drop him.”

“Nooooooooo! Wait! Wait!” He swung from her grip, his fingers scrabbling upside down against the base of the parapet searching for some grip, some handhold.

“What for?” I asked. “I already told you that I didn’t kill Claire. You don’t believe me. I think I know who did, but your chances of catching him are approaching zero about as rapidly as you’ll be approaching that river in a moment. I don’t kill people who don’t try and kill me, whereas my colleague Amber here has no such scruples. To her you’re just a dead weight, shortly to have the emphasis on dead.”

Sam started kicking again, “For God’s sake. It’ll be cold-blooded murder.”

“I don’t kill people who don’t try to kill me, but you’re not on that list, are you Sam? You’re the sort of guy who shoots someone through a coat. You leave them to bleed to death. We have nothing left to say. Amber’s right, the only thing left between us is a loose end. One that can easily be severed.”

“Wait! Wait! I can tell you something. I can.”

“What?”

“Not from down here. Haul me up. I’ll tell you if you get me up.”

“Naah,” I said. “You’re bluffing.” Amber’s grip slipped another inch. He screamed. She had hold of his foot now. I noticed the way the hairs on his legs were caught in her grip. That must be quite painful.

“No! They were spooks. They knew who you were. They told me about you. They said you’d killed her.”

“Who did, Sam? Who did?”

“They didn’t give names. Their type never do. For Christ’s sake, I’ll tell you everything, just get me up!”

“What do you think?” I asked Amber.

“I think he’d say anything right now,” she said. “He doesn’t yet realise that if he’s lying I’m going to toss him over again, and this time I’m not catching him.”

“I swear,” he said. “I’ll tell you it all. For God’s sake.”

“God won’t help you now,” I said. “Not in this world.” I could hear that he was telling the truth, though. He would tell us everything, and I needed to know.

“Get him up,” I said.

When Amber brought him up, I pulled off his coat and threw it over the parapet into the Thames. He watched it float out on the stiff breeze and then vanish. “That’s you if you don’t tell me everything I want to know,” I said.

“For fuck’s sake,” he said. He was shaking, and it wasn’t from cold.

“Watch your mouth,” I said, glancing at Amber. “You’d better learn to keep a civil tongue in your head if you want to live.”

Sam held the glass of whisky to his lips, his hands still shaking. We had adjourned to a pub, the Slug and Lettuce, part of a chain conveniently situated just near the old County Hall. We had followed Sam to the place, making it clear that he could run, but then Amber would have to hamstring him and carry him back to the bridge.

He was seated opposite me, nursing a triple scotch cupped between his hands.

“The meter’s running,” I reminded him.

He visibly tried to stem the trembling in his hands. “There were two of them,” he said. “There are always bloody two of them.” He looked between Amber and me. I waited for more.

“They came to me at work, arranged an interview room. It was official,” he said.

“Officially what?” I asked.

“They came to give me the news. They’d brought photos and everything — her face, lying in a pool of blood. The initial forensic analysis, before the autopsy. The death certificate — it said cause of death was loss of blood.”

“What did they want?” I asked him.

“They showed me a picture. It was a photo of you just outside the crime scene. You looked panicky, desperate. They asked me if I knew who you were.”

“And you told them you did.”

“You don’t tell that sort anything if you don’t have to. They told me what had happened, that there was no family, few friends. They asked me if I wanted to arrange a funeral. I didn’t see the point. They left me to it.”

“So how did you get the bullets?” I asked him.

“After they’d gone I started going through the files. I knew there was stuff on you. If I could find you then we could settle it for good. I went through everything I was cleared for.”