Rough Justice by Stephen Leather Page B

that his cheeks were wet with tears.
    ‘I can’t,’ said McElroy. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t do it.’
    The policeman put his arm around McElroy’s shoulders. ‘It’s okay,’ he said.
    ‘It’s not okay,’ said McElroy. ‘That bastard deserves to die. I want him dead. It’s just . . .’ He sniffed and wiped his nose with the back of his hand.
    ‘It’s just you can’t do it, right?’
    ‘I know I should – he killed my Debbie – but . . .’
    ‘It’s nothing to be ashamed of, sir,’ said the policeman. He opened the side door of the van. The burly West Indian constable helped McElroy into the van.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ said McElroy. Tears ran down his face.
    ‘You don’t have to apologise for anything, sir,’ said Fluorescent Jacket. ‘I can take care of this for you,’ he said quietly. ‘If that’s what you want.’
    McElroy wiped his eyes. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That’s what I want.’
    Fluorescent Jacket smiled. ‘That’s what we’re here for,’ he said. He closed the van door. ‘I won’t be long,’ he told the driver, and walked back to the warehouse.
    Caroline Stockmann was sitting at a table by the window with a half-full pint of bitter in front of her. She smiled and waved at Shepherd when she saw him walk into the pub. Shepherd went over to her, unsure how he should greet her. The meeting was official but she was dressed casually in a padded skiing jacket and blue jeans so a handshake seemed over-formal. However, she was the SOCA psychologist responsible for assessing his mental health every six months so a kiss on the cheek seemed equally out of place. She solved the conundrum for him by standing up and proffering her hand. ‘Dan, good to see you again,’ she said.
    ‘I wasn’t avoiding you, honestly,’ he said, as he shook it.
    ‘I didn’t mean to imply that you were,’ she said. ‘I was visiting your old Regiment and thought I might kill two birds with one stone.’
    ‘The SAS is being psychologically assessed?’ he said. ‘I thought being slightly loopy was in the job description.’
    Stockmann sat down and adjusted her square-framed spectacles. ‘Post-traumatic stress disorder,’ she said. ‘Some of the guys are coming back from Iraq and Afghanistan a bit worse for wear so we’re putting together a therapy programme.’
    Shepherd grinned. ‘Therapy? How’s that working out?’
    ‘You might laugh, but the suicide rate among former SAS troopers is about twelve times the national average, and it looks as if PTSD is one of the major causes.’ She glanced at the bar. ‘Can I get you a drink?’
    ‘I’ll get it,’ said Shepherd. ‘Can I get you anything?’
    She raised her glass. ‘I’m fine with this, and I’ve got my car outside,’ she said.
    Shepherd went to the bar, paid for a Jameson’s and soda with ice, and returned to her table. ‘It’s funny being with a civilian,’ he said. ‘Normally I’d never be sitting at a window.’
    ‘This is your home turf, so I didn’t think tradecraft would apply,’ she said. ‘Would you be happier at a corner table with your back to a wall?’ She took a leather-bound notebook and a pen from her pocket.
    Shepherd wagged a finger at her. ‘Now you’ve got me thinking that you deliberately chose this table to put me off balance.’
    ‘Maybe I did,’ she said, deadpan. She sipped some beer. ‘You feel more secure with your back to a wall?’
    ‘Everyone does,’ he said. ‘And windows make you vulnerable. You can be seen from outside, or worse.’
    ‘So the best place to be would be where?’ asked the psychologist.
    Shepherd was a regular visitor to the pub so he answered immediately: ‘The table over there, next to the booths.’
    ‘Not in a booth? That one in the corner seems perfect.’
    ‘The tables are fixed in booths,’ said Shepherd. ‘You can get trapped in a booth. But tables can be pushed out of the way. That table over there gives you a view of the main entrance, the bar, and the door