months. Didn’t take long to earn a moniker like that.”
Anders was used to the technique having employed it in many interrogations and kept pace.
“Kidnappings rose by seventy percent in twenty twelve, after I left. The records are in the public domain.”
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
“I didn’t call myself Santa Muerta.” Cooper gave a patronising sigh.
“Again, that’s not what I’m saying.”
“I followed the law as I have always done. I believe in it absolutely and without question. I’ve saved countless lives and upheld the American constitution as per my Oath.”
“This isn’t America,” shot back Cooper.
“No. This is the United Kingdom, with the oldest Parliament in the world. A law with over five hundred years of moral wrangling and debate behind it. The Peelian principles of an ethical police force are those that I’ve followed my whole career. I’d be honoured to uphold UK law with all of the diligence and care that my reference from the Director of the FBI states.” A tense silence settled across the room as Cooper glared at Anders. She kept her breathing steady and gave him a dispassionate gaze. McDowell grinned and laid his hands flat on the table in front of him. A conciliatory gesture.
“You have to understand, Miss Anders, that we need to ask these difficult questions.” Anders was about to reply, when Cooper cut in once again.
“Damn right we do, so let’s not stop here. You, Miss Anders, started off life as a man, so how can you, of all people, be expected to lead seasoned professionals?”
Chapter 13
Anders and Duncan sped through the streets in a patrol car, sirens blazing as Anders steered them through the traffic as quickly as she could. Duncan maintained a sullen silence and Anders grinned as he clutched his seat belt with one hand and kept the other on the dashboard to steady himself as she weaved around a stationary lorry, cutting the angle as close as she could.
The alert had come through half an hour previously. A neighbour had heard screaming and called the local police, who’d contacted Mal’s team as soon as they arrived at the scene. A husband had taken a Samurai sword to his wife, trying to replicate James Clavell’s Shogun. Luckily, the police had arrived quickly and he had fled, leaving his injured wife behind.
Coleraine Road was lined with old Victorian houses. High ceilings and large rooms with bay windows and front doors that could fit a large sofa through comfortably. Many had been converted to flats, the landlord turning the lower and upper floors into separate living areas to rent out. Spotted among the grand houses were the odd newer structures that had been erected after the Blitz. They were poorly designed, cheaply built and ill at ease next to their expensive neighbours. The Victorian houses themselves had seen their value sky rocket over the last few decades, so many of the owners had significantly less wealth than those who had bought the properties recently. Anders passed Aston Martin’s parked in the street next to old Ford Cortina’s.
The street was on a steep slope and, half way up, Anders spied a squad of patrol cars parked against a tatty group of flats nestled between their more illustrious neighbours. Uniformed officers stood in the road and guided in an ambulance that had just arrived. Anders and Duncan stepped from the car and showed their Warrant Cards to the senior officer on site. He gave their rank a long stare before deciding that he was happy to relinquish control of the scene to the dour man and the attractive, but intense woman. He led them up to the flat where the crime had taken place. It was on the upper floor and they climbed the concrete steps clutched to one side of the building to get there. The senior officer, a balding man in his forties chatted amicably as they made their way up the staircase.
“Marshall Johnson,” he
Anders was used to the technique having employed it in many interrogations and kept pace.
“Kidnappings rose by seventy percent in twenty twelve, after I left. The records are in the public domain.”
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
“I didn’t call myself Santa Muerta.” Cooper gave a patronising sigh.
“Again, that’s not what I’m saying.”
“I followed the law as I have always done. I believe in it absolutely and without question. I’ve saved countless lives and upheld the American constitution as per my Oath.”
“This isn’t America,” shot back Cooper.
“No. This is the United Kingdom, with the oldest Parliament in the world. A law with over five hundred years of moral wrangling and debate behind it. The Peelian principles of an ethical police force are those that I’ve followed my whole career. I’d be honoured to uphold UK law with all of the diligence and care that my reference from the Director of the FBI states.” A tense silence settled across the room as Cooper glared at Anders. She kept her breathing steady and gave him a dispassionate gaze. McDowell grinned and laid his hands flat on the table in front of him. A conciliatory gesture.
“You have to understand, Miss Anders, that we need to ask these difficult questions.” Anders was about to reply, when Cooper cut in once again.
“Damn right we do, so let’s not stop here. You, Miss Anders, started off life as a man, so how can you, of all people, be expected to lead seasoned professionals?”
Chapter 13
Anders and Duncan sped through the streets in a patrol car, sirens blazing as Anders steered them through the traffic as quickly as she could. Duncan maintained a sullen silence and Anders grinned as he clutched his seat belt with one hand and kept the other on the dashboard to steady himself as she weaved around a stationary lorry, cutting the angle as close as she could.
The alert had come through half an hour previously. A neighbour had heard screaming and called the local police, who’d contacted Mal’s team as soon as they arrived at the scene. A husband had taken a Samurai sword to his wife, trying to replicate James Clavell’s Shogun. Luckily, the police had arrived quickly and he had fled, leaving his injured wife behind.
Coleraine Road was lined with old Victorian houses. High ceilings and large rooms with bay windows and front doors that could fit a large sofa through comfortably. Many had been converted to flats, the landlord turning the lower and upper floors into separate living areas to rent out. Spotted among the grand houses were the odd newer structures that had been erected after the Blitz. They were poorly designed, cheaply built and ill at ease next to their expensive neighbours. The Victorian houses themselves had seen their value sky rocket over the last few decades, so many of the owners had significantly less wealth than those who had bought the properties recently. Anders passed Aston Martin’s parked in the street next to old Ford Cortina’s.
The street was on a steep slope and, half way up, Anders spied a squad of patrol cars parked against a tatty group of flats nestled between their more illustrious neighbours. Uniformed officers stood in the road and guided in an ambulance that had just arrived. Anders and Duncan stepped from the car and showed their Warrant Cards to the senior officer on site. He gave their rank a long stare before deciding that he was happy to relinquish control of the scene to the dour man and the attractive, but intense woman. He led them up to the flat where the crime had taken place. It was on the upper floor and they climbed the concrete steps clutched to one side of the building to get there. The senior officer, a balding man in his forties chatted amicably as they made their way up the staircase.
“Marshall Johnson,” he
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