46

‘We’ve found him, sarge.’

Come in, Daz. Oh, you are. Bev glanced up from the screen. Even without the tense look on Darren’s face, she’d no need to ask who he meant. Where and what state the perp might be in wasn’t so obvious, but Daz’s tone didn’t denote anything good. ‘And?’

‘He’s in hospital, the Queen Elizabeth.’

Bev rolled back her chair. ‘I’ll get my bits. You can drive.’

‘There’s no rush, sarge.’ He raked a hand through his hair. ‘He ain’t going nowhere.’

Shit. If the guy was a goner, Mac could be in an even deeper pile of ordure.

‘He’s in intensive care,’ Daz said. ‘Hanging on by a thread apparently.’

Thank God. ‘Powell know?’

‘Yep.’

‘Sit down, Daz. Give me what you’ve got.’

A police dog had tracked the scent to a back yard a couple of blocks from Canon Street. The handler found the guy slumped against a shed in a pool of blood. Still had the knife in his hand, apparently. Paramedics patched him up best they could, but he lost consciousness in the ambulance blue-lighting him to hospital.

‘Is he gonna make it? Dumb question. Ignore it, Daz. What’s his name?’

‘No ID on him.’

‘Phone?’

‘Not as far as I know.’

Course not, that’d make it too easy. ‘I’m still heading out there, Daz.’ Even if it was at a distance and through glass, she wanted to see his face. Needed to see his face.

‘Want me with you?’

‘Sure.’ Seeing as Powell had assigned Daz her temporary bagman, she might as well get used to his company.

Mac had initially headed home after leaving Highgate, but found himself driving straight past his Balsall Heath pad. Knew he was only delaying the inevitable. But strewth – he needed a diversion and a drink, in that order. Spending as little time in the poky bedsit as he usually did, he could kid himself that the fact it was little more than a roof over his head was no big deal. Empty days and lonely nights in soulless rooms loomed now and the lazy self-deception wasn’t working.

Like Mac.

Mouth tight, he shook his head, Sad, angry, pissed off. Sick leave? What a bloody joke. He’d not taken a day off sick in his life, felt in damn good nick for his age, as he’d told Powell loud and clear. Had it cut any ice? Had it hell. Mac suspected he’d been sent home ’cause Powell needed to be seen to be doing something, which meant he viewed Mac as a cross between a fall guy and a scapegoat. That he was wrong didn’t make it any easier.

Mac had been a copper since leaving school. Never considered any other pursuit – still entertained the vague notion that putting away the bad guys was a decent way for a good guy to earn a crust. Sure, it got him down now and then dealing with death, lives destroyed, witnessing the dark side of human nature, knowing the depraved depths to which villains sank. No sense getting worked up about it. Cops faced danger and potential violence more or less every shift. Case of kitchen and heat. If they couldn’t hack it, they’d not last long.

Like Mac’s marriage. A victim of unsocial hours, too many burned dinners, missed birthdays, family weddings, parents’ evenings: too late too many times, in more ways than one.

He rubbed a hand down his face. How he wished he’d spent more time with the kids. Mind, Luke and George were no longer nippers. At eighteen and sixteen, they were into girls and gigs rather than hopping on a train from Derby to spend a weekend with their old man. How many home visits had Mac had to cancel or cut short over the eight years since the divorce? Christ knew.

Enough of the misery memoir, Mac. He spotted a pub up the road where he could drown his sorrows. The Royal Oak, if he remembered right. Bit of a dive, with tacky carpets and tired décor, but it’d do. He pulled into the car park, cut the engine. He’d dropped in here for a pint and a pie after the Ray Pitt floorshow. Seemed an age since the mad git had jumped off the balcony. Mac snorted. Couldn’t stop thinking about the job even now. Little wonder given what else he had going for him.

He sat on a stool at the bar, ordered a pint of bitter, took a glance round. The only other customers were two old geezers playing dominoes at a table near the window. Doubtless the extra light on tap came in handy. Mac pocketed his change, sank a few mouthfuls. Okay, he earned a few bob beer money doing a bit of stand-up on the side. Not the black humour most cops bandied about at crime scenes. That’d have people running screaming for the exits. Nah. Mac’s comedy was light observational stuff, to raise a few laughs on a night down the boozer. For Mac it almost balanced out the stresses of the day job, too. The odd gig or open mic wouldn’t be enough to fill a gaping hole, though. And Bev was right: Mac was no Peter Kay.

Bev. He gave a wry smile. Could see her now, waving him off from the nick. She was a good kid. He’d do anything for her. Watched her back enough times. And she needed protecting, mostly from herself. If Powell was right and she had a mind to wreak revenge on Curran, it could only end in tears. He knew she’d cried an ocean already. Byford had meant the world to her and Curran was a despicable scrote, but …

Mac looked down, swirling the dregs. No matter what the motive, how strong the justification, cops who crossed the thin blue line were beyond the pale: reviled and ostracized by colleagues, crims, Joe and Joanna Public alike. As for a copper serving time, cons took no prisoners, so good luck with that. How could he stand by and let Bev risk all that?

‘Cheer up, pal, it might never happen.’

Mac glanced up to see the landlord, all tattoos and false teeth, beaming as he polished a glass.

‘How do you know, mate?’ What if it already had?

‘I hope the other guy came off worse, anyway.’

‘You what?’ Mac frowned, hadn’t a clue until the landlord indicated his temple.

He gave the bump a gentle stroke and threw the landlord a weak smile. ‘Yeah, right.’

The guy could be dead by now, for all Mac knew. Knew he’d stabbed him, though. Deliberate? Self-de-fence? Accidental? Even Mac couldn’t be sure, unless he was kidding himself. He’d certainly blurred the lines with Powell. He’d told it straight about the rugby tackle, but played down the extent of the scuffle and entirely omitted the fact he’d disarmed the perp. Without a doubt, Mac had been holding the knife at some point. He vaguely remembered the perp trying to grab it back. He might’ve stumbled, fallen on the blade. Or Mac might’ve lashed out in the heat of the moment. If he knew one way or the other, he’d definitely tell Powell. Probably. Christ, what a bloody mess.

Maybe he’d crossed the line already, while Bev still only had it in mind. He cringed when he stroked the bump again. He’d be buggered if he’d own up to going slap-bang into the wall after tripping over his own feet.

‘Want another, pal?’ the landlord said tilting his head at Mac’s glass.

‘Nah, you’re all right.’ He made to get off the stool, then: ‘Actually, mate, did a guy called Ray Pitt ever drink in here?’ The Oak was certainly in his neck of the woods.

‘Did he ever?’ The landlord smoothed a hand over his shiny pate. ‘Christ, the business nearly went bankrupt when he topped himself. I jest, pal, but not a lot.’ Apparently with the slates he’d had on the go Pitt could’ve taken up roofing. ‘I tell you, my takings took a bigger dive than he did.’

Mac gave a lopsided smile. This guy could give Al Murray a run for his money. ‘I heard he’d come into a bit of cash.’

‘News to me. He certainly didn’t flash any round here. Why’d you want to know?’

Mac told him he was a cop tying up a few loose ends into Pitt’s suicide. Like he’d meant to do over a week ago.

‘Want my opinion? Ray Pitt was never the same after the car smash.’

‘Car smash?’ He recalled Norm the nosy neighbour saying Pitt had hired a motor to take the kids away for a few days, but nothing about an RTA.

‘Couple months back.’ The landlord looked round like the walls had suddenly grown ears, then leaned an elbow on the bar. ‘He’s in his cups one night, starts telling me about a bit of business he’d done for some bloke, driving job. Well dodge if you ask me.’

‘Go on.’

‘He was supposed to ram a car off the road. Make it look like an accident. Some sort of insurance scam, he reckoned.’

‘And?’

‘All went tits up. Pitt found out later the other driver bought it.’

Mac frowned. ‘How come later?’

‘Didn’t hang round to find out, did he?’

A hit-and-run couple of months back. Mac ordered another half, slipped his notebook out of a pocket. ‘Tell me more.’