Sibson had twisted on his haunches to watch Grace speaking to the young constable. He was looking directly at the pair of them when the sniper’s bullet hit.
Grace had pushed her hood back and was combing a hand unconsciously through her hair and Sibson wondered if she had any idea of the way Robertshaw was gazing at it.
Yes, lad, she has that effect, doesn’t she?
Grace had just pointed to something and the young copper refocused with a sudden jerk, nodding profusely, a flush staining his neck. She smiled, dazzling, touched his shoulder as she moved on. Robertshaw stayed rooted for a moment longer, staring after her, then seemed to shake himself and turned away abruptly.
And as he did so, Robertshaw’s right arm above the elbow exploded, as if he’d been holding a live grenade, an obscene pink mist spraying outwards. Sibson just had time to register the bizarre shock of the dispersal before the noise of the shot struck them all.
He had been a CSI for a long time. Had seen the aftermath of explosion, fire, suicide, tragic accident and murderous rage. Nothing prepared him for the grotesque experience of seeing a man go down from a single large-calibre round, breaking the sound barrier more than twice over, and hearing the whine and the crack and the rolling thunder that followed a terrifying two seconds later.
He remembered Major Frederickson’s estimate of the time delay. Four or five seconds. My God, Sibson thought. He’s moved closer.
Everyone had dived, woefully slow, the report alone knocking them flat. The public was largely evacuated by now, even with Jim Airey on traffic duty, but there were enough people left to panic. Sibson heard screaming, a cacophony of over-revved diesel engines as drivers instinctively put their foot down, animal trailer behind or no. The crash and grind of at least two vehicles trying to take the same route to safety, graunching against each other.
Sibson, on his belly, twisted round searching for Grace. He caught a flash of red hair, down on the ground about twenty feet from where the young policeman must have fallen. Sibson’s view of Robertshaw’s body was hidden by the wreckage of the showjumps between them and, in some ways, he was thankful for it.
“Grace! Are you all right?”
“I’m…yes, I’m OK, but Daniel’s terribly injured.” Her voice was clear, just a touch of an underlying tremor. “He needs help.”
Sibson opened his mouth to shout a warning, but another voice cut across him in a familiar bellow.
“You keep your damn head down, McColl!” DI Brian Pollock yelled. Sibson looked across, found the thickset inspector had managed to wedge himself under the front bull bars of a 4x4 at the edge of the arena.
Pollock met Sibson’s gaze across the bloodied grass, and the CSI read anguish despite the fierce tone. “You just stay where you are,” Pollock warned. “Until we have this area secured, you will not move, do you hear me?”
“Grace,” Sibson said gently, sensing her gather for the fight. “There’s nothing you can do for him.”
For a moment there was silence, then Grace’s voice came again, icy in its composure. “Of course there’s something I can do. He’s bleeding out right in front of me. I can—”
“Darling, please, just listen to them!” Another voice—Max Carri. Next to the ambulance and still wrapped in his blanket, with DC Weston struggling to hold him back from going out to his ex-wife.
“No, you listen.” Sibson heard the towering anger in her voice. It sent a cold streak of fear straight down his spine, because people were bravest when they were angry. And the last thing he wanted right now from Grace was the kind of stupid selfless bravery that gained dead soldiers posthumous medals and a twenty-one gun salute across their graveside.
“I’m going to help him,” she said, ripe with it now. “And if I’m shot, you can say ‘I told you so’, but if I lie here and a young officer dies because I was too much of a coward to try to save him, I damn well deserve shooting. And, frankly, so do the rest of you.”
Sibson saw Pollock shut his eyes. “Dammit all, Grace. Stay down.” There was no mistaking the pain in his voice. “That’s a direct order.”
“You overstep your authority, detective inspector. I’m a civilian.” There was a defiant edge to her now. “You can’t give me direct orders.”
“Richard, can’t you control your own people?” Pollock roared.
“Hard to argue with someone determined to do the right thing,” Sibson replied, even though his heart was a stone in his throat.
“Grace!” Carri called again, outraged, stricken. “Darling, for God’s sake, you don’t have to do this. Please.”
Sibson saw her head move, searching until she located him. “I’m sorry, Max,” she said without a hint of regret. “But of course I do.”
Sibson saw her bunch herself, preparing to rise. Outside the arena, Carri dropped his blanket to reveal a pair of designer boxers, and leapt into the back of the ambulance. Moments later, he reappeared with an armful of dressings and bandages. He did not look as ridiculous as a man in his position should have done, Sibson realised. Maybe it was the sheer courage that lent him some degree of respect. That and the fact he was still crusted with the blood of the sniper’s previous victim.
“Weston—restrain that civilian,” Pollock barked. “Arrest him if you have to.”
Weston stepped in front of Carri when he would have started forwards. Sibson was too far away to hear what passed between them, but he was at the right angle to see Weston take the dressings Carri held, stuffing them into pockets, clutching the rest tight to his chest. Then, ignoring the howl of wrath from Pollock, Weston turned and ran, doubled low, out into the field of fire.