of material in his hand.
‘There was nothing we could do,’ the paramedic said without looking around. ‘He was gone before we got here.’
McLean stood up, catching hold of a nearby car to steady himself as the world started to spin. The street was chaos now: fire engines lined up, too many to count; ladders and hoses and noise; the smell of steam, charred wood, burning plastic and flesh.
‘Are you all right, sir?’ It was the paramedic, McLean realised in a tiny part of his brain. Mostly his concentration was on the lump of burned something that had blown out of the student flat. He knew what it was now, finally understood what had happened.
‘Andy?’ he said, looking around for the large policeman.
‘I think we need to get you checked over, sir.’ The paramedic put a hand on McLean’s arm. He shrugged it off.
‘I’m a police officer.’
‘You’re a police officer going into shock, by the look of things.’
‘I’m OK. Just a bit woozy is all. A bit too much smoke.’
A large figure hove into view, and it took McLean a while to realise it was Sergeant Houseman.
‘Andy? There you are. Get onto the station. Get Dagwood down here.’
‘It’s two in the morning, sir. I don’t think he’ll be there.’
‘Well, wake him up. No, on second thoughts that’s not such a good idea. But tell him anyway.’
‘Tell him what, sir? Don’t you think you ought to go with the paramedics?’
‘I’m fine, Andy.’ McLean held up the lump of charred something, flaking a corner off with his thumb. All around him was chaos, his whole life had just gone up in flames, and yet he was struck by how ridiculous everything was.
‘It’s hash, Andy. The stuff we’ve been trying to track down for months now. Little bastards were growing it right under my nose.’
And then he couldn’t help it. The laughter bubbled out of him like vomit. He choked and gasped for air, his lungs protesting at the smoke they had inhaled, but he just couldn’t stop. Even when the paramedic slipped an oxygen mask over his head.
19
‘You know what you are, Tony McLean? A selfish bastard, that’s what.’
He sits at the kitchen table, coffee mug held between his hands, trying hard to find a way to protest. But even as he mouths the familiar response, he can’t help admitting, deep down, that she’s right.
‘Look, Kirsty. It’s not as if I had any choice in the matter—’
‘Don’t you give me that. Don’t you even start on that.’ She’s standing in the doorway, hands on hips, long black hair loose today, trailing down her back. The skirt he gave her for her birthday looks good, goes well with the green of her eyes. Even in her anger, he can’t help but notice them and smile, just a little.
‘Are you even listening to me? God, it’s like talking to a child. We’ve been planning this weekend for months.’
That wipes the smile off his face. ‘I know, K. I was looking forward to it too. And it’s been in the leave sheets since July. But you know what Duff’s like.’
She throws herself into one of the kitchen chairs. He’s never seen someone do that before, but there’s no other way of describing it.
‘I know what you’re like. Spineless. You don’t stand up to these bullies soon, they’re not going to have any respect for you, you know.’
‘Duff’s a detective inspector, K. You know how hard I’ve worked to get into CID, and it’s only a temporary posting whilst Keen’s off with his broken leg. If I don’t make a good impression now, when am I going to get another chance?’
‘So that’s it then?’ The chair topples backwards to the floor as she leaps up, just as violently as she had sat. ‘Drop everything at his master’s whistle? Roll over and have your tummy tickled.’
‘Kirsty, I—’
‘Forget it. Just ... Forget it.’ She grabs her coat from the rack in the hallway, slams the door so hard on the way out that it bounces back open again. He hurries after her, out onto the landing
‘There was nothing we could do,’ the paramedic said without looking around. ‘He was gone before we got here.’
McLean stood up, catching hold of a nearby car to steady himself as the world started to spin. The street was chaos now: fire engines lined up, too many to count; ladders and hoses and noise; the smell of steam, charred wood, burning plastic and flesh.
‘Are you all right, sir?’ It was the paramedic, McLean realised in a tiny part of his brain. Mostly his concentration was on the lump of burned something that had blown out of the student flat. He knew what it was now, finally understood what had happened.
‘Andy?’ he said, looking around for the large policeman.
‘I think we need to get you checked over, sir.’ The paramedic put a hand on McLean’s arm. He shrugged it off.
‘I’m a police officer.’
‘You’re a police officer going into shock, by the look of things.’
‘I’m OK. Just a bit woozy is all. A bit too much smoke.’
A large figure hove into view, and it took McLean a while to realise it was Sergeant Houseman.
‘Andy? There you are. Get onto the station. Get Dagwood down here.’
‘It’s two in the morning, sir. I don’t think he’ll be there.’
‘Well, wake him up. No, on second thoughts that’s not such a good idea. But tell him anyway.’
‘Tell him what, sir? Don’t you think you ought to go with the paramedics?’
‘I’m fine, Andy.’ McLean held up the lump of charred something, flaking a corner off with his thumb. All around him was chaos, his whole life had just gone up in flames, and yet he was struck by how ridiculous everything was.
‘It’s hash, Andy. The stuff we’ve been trying to track down for months now. Little bastards were growing it right under my nose.’
And then he couldn’t help it. The laughter bubbled out of him like vomit. He choked and gasped for air, his lungs protesting at the smoke they had inhaled, but he just couldn’t stop. Even when the paramedic slipped an oxygen mask over his head.
19
‘You know what you are, Tony McLean? A selfish bastard, that’s what.’
He sits at the kitchen table, coffee mug held between his hands, trying hard to find a way to protest. But even as he mouths the familiar response, he can’t help admitting, deep down, that she’s right.
‘Look, Kirsty. It’s not as if I had any choice in the matter—’
‘Don’t you give me that. Don’t you even start on that.’ She’s standing in the doorway, hands on hips, long black hair loose today, trailing down her back. The skirt he gave her for her birthday looks good, goes well with the green of her eyes. Even in her anger, he can’t help but notice them and smile, just a little.
‘Are you even listening to me? God, it’s like talking to a child. We’ve been planning this weekend for months.’
That wipes the smile off his face. ‘I know, K. I was looking forward to it too. And it’s been in the leave sheets since July. But you know what Duff’s like.’
She throws herself into one of the kitchen chairs. He’s never seen someone do that before, but there’s no other way of describing it.
‘I know what you’re like. Spineless. You don’t stand up to these bullies soon, they’re not going to have any respect for you, you know.’
‘Duff’s a detective inspector, K. You know how hard I’ve worked to get into CID, and it’s only a temporary posting whilst Keen’s off with his broken leg. If I don’t make a good impression now, when am I going to get another chance?’
‘So that’s it then?’ The chair topples backwards to the floor as she leaps up, just as violently as she had sat. ‘Drop everything at his master’s whistle? Roll over and have your tummy tickled.’
‘Kirsty, I—’
‘Forget it. Just ... Forget it.’ She grabs her coat from the rack in the hallway, slams the door so hard on the way out that it bounces back open again. He hurries after her, out onto the landing
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