Dawn was coming up over Sir Wilfrid Coyn’s shoulder. Not that he saw it. He had his face in his hands, the base of his palms buttressing his cheekbones, eyes down, staring at the top of his desk. Quint could see it, but Quint was far too busy pacing and shouting. Only Troy saw the weak glow of autumn sunlight straining to break free over Bermondsey. He sat facing the two of them in silence.
‘I don’t bloody believe this. I just don’t believe it. Two coppers dead in a single evening. It’s the worst we’ve had since I don’t know when. Why in God’s name didn’t you send a squad car to Camberwell?’
‘They would not have got there any quicker than I did,’ Troy said softly.
‘At least you’d have had back-up; you wouldn’t have been steaming in on your own!’
‘Blood was already dead. Mary was already dead.’
‘Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ!’
Quint fumbled in his pocket for a cigarette. His lighter would not strike and he slammed both down onto Coyn’s desk.
‘Cowboys,’ he was saying. ‘Complete bloody cowboys!’
This seemed to jolt Coyn to life. He took away his hands and stared at Troy. ‘It’s a mess, Freddie,’ he said simply.
‘Cowboys!’ Quint repeated.
Coyn shot him a look. He retreated to the window, found another cigarette and matches and lit up.
‘Daniel has a point,’ said Coyn.
‘Cowboys?’ Troy echoed as though the term meant nothing to him.
‘You do seem to have displayed a somewhat cavalier attitude, Freddie.’
‘Blood killed Fitzpatrick. I had enough evidence to convict him of that. Then he shot Mary in front of me and Clark. He ceased to be a copper at that moment. I pursued him as I would pursue any murderer. You can call it what you like, I call it my duty.’
Quint could not stay silent. ‘Call it what we like – you arrogant bugger! It’s what the press’ll call it that bothers me. Two dead coppers, Troy. Two dead coppers on a single night! Just think about that!’
Coyn picked up a handwritten sheet of foolscap from his desk. Pushed aside the five-page report Clark had spent the last hour typing up for Troy.
‘I’ve read Constable Selwyn’s report. He’s the beat bobby you summoned. He says he thinks you were carrying a gun when he got to you.’
Quint snatched the cigarette from his lips long enough to say, ‘What?’
‘He’s mistaken,’ said Troy.
The Webley now lay in the middle drawer of his desk.
‘He’s confident enough to have put it in writing.’
‘In that light, at that time of night? He’s rash to be confident of anything.’
Quint exploded. ‘You’re lying! You’re a lying son of a bitch! You went there armed to the teeth to tackle Blood. You’re as mad as he was. What did you think you were going to do? Shoot him? Jesus Christ, Troy, it’s not ten minutes since the Ryan brothers! Or did you think we didn’t hear about that up in Birmingham. Troy, everybody knows you shot the Ryan brothers!’
‘Constable Selwyn made an understandable mistake,’ said Troy.
‘And is this an understandable mistake?’
Coyn picked up a second sheet and pushed it across the desk to Troy. It was a standard Scotland Yard medical certificate.
‘The chief surgeon passed it onto me. The signature seems to baffle him. Said he cannot make head nor tail of it. I can. It says Kolankiewicz.’
Troy said nothing.
‘Freddie, you’ve been unlucky. You’ve lost a good colleague, you’ve lost a suspect and you’ve taken a bullet yourself. Go home and take a week’s sick leave.’
Troy covered his left hand with his right, felt the crisp and bloody bandage beneath his fingers.
‘It’s just a scratch.’
‘Go home, man!’ Coyn stood up and put every ounce of energy into three short words. His voice boomed far louder than the rantings of Quint. He went borscht red in the face. He roared.
Troy left. It was the first time he had felt the slightest twinge of respect for the man.