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Authors: Cassandra Chan
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and full of good humor.
“We’ll sort it out, never fear,” he said encouragingly when he stopped by the hospital on his way into the Yard. “You just concentrate on healing up so we can have you back on the job.”
Gibbons grunted. Everyone seemed very intent on reassuring him, but he did not want palliatives, or to be told that his colleagues were handling everything; he wanted to be handling it himself.
“So you didn’t find out anything last night?” he asked. “No one saw anything?”
“Not that they wanted to say,” answered O’Leary. “You know that neighborhood, Jack—they don’t talk to the police if they can help it. But Lambeth station has everyone out this morning. I haven’t been down there yet, but I rang as I was coming in, and DC Cummings tells me they’re bringing in everyone who reported hearing the shots last night. They’ll dig up something in the end, I’m sure.”
Gibbons merely grunted again and shifted cautiously while O’Leary hid a yawn behind his hand.
“Carmichael’s not turned up yet,” he went on, “but Inspector Hollings is already down in Walworth, and Inspector Davies is off
looking into your robbery. I don’t suppose you think the shooting was connected to that, do you?”
“It doesn’t seem likely, does it?” said Gibbons. “I mean, I’d barely started investigating—I don’t remember most of yesterday, but I can’t believe I solved the case between lunch and dinner.”
O’Leary grinned. “It would be like you if you did,” he said.
Gibbons waved this away. “Nonsense,” he said, in no mood for flattery. “On the other hand,” he added, “I can’t see why anyone else would want to shoot me. I wasn’t robbed, was I?”
“No,” said O’Leary. “They gave me all your effects in hospital and your wallet was there and everything accounted for. You had your ID, two credit cards, an Oyster card, and twelve pounds, seventeen pence.”
“That sounds about right,” sighed Gibbons. “I can’t remember what money I had left, but it was certainly less than twenty quid. So when did you find me?”
O’Leary obliged with a recap of the events of the previous evening, passing over his own horror at finding his colleague lying in a pool of blood on the street with a pack of frantically busy paramedics ministering to him while the rain came down.
For his part, Gibbons felt grateful for any information that helped fill the gaps in his memory. He kept thinking that with enough reminders he would eventually remember more, but so far this hope had come to nothing.
Carmichael was thoroughly out of temper with himself. He had intended to rise early and make another visit to the hospital before getting on with the day at Scotland Yard, but instead he woke too late to do anything but shower and grab a quick cup before setting off for work. He was the more annoyed as he knew he was now at an age where he could no longer do without sleep as he had in his youth, but refused to admit it to himself.
Despite having got nearly five hours’ sleep, he felt anything but alert and the messages backed up on his mobile phone testified to the fact that his underlings had got ahead of him, making him even more irritable. He left for the Yard having snapped at his wife and
been tartly reproved for it, and tried to take stock of all his messages along the way. He intended to ring Gibbons when he was done, but he was still sorting it all out when he arrived at his office and in his hurry to get hold of Hollings he forgot.
When Carmichael stormed into the office, Chris O’Leary was on his sixth cup of coffee and really did not think he could stay awake much longer. The sight of his superior striding past—without so much as a glance to acknowledge the sergeant’s presence—stung him to alertness, and he straightened in his chair as he watched Carmichael turn out of sight around the corner. There was a pause and then O’Leary—who was waiting for it—heard the door
“We’ll sort it out, never fear,” he said encouragingly when he stopped by the hospital on his way into the Yard. “You just concentrate on healing up so we can have you back on the job.”
Gibbons grunted. Everyone seemed very intent on reassuring him, but he did not want palliatives, or to be told that his colleagues were handling everything; he wanted to be handling it himself.
“So you didn’t find out anything last night?” he asked. “No one saw anything?”
“Not that they wanted to say,” answered O’Leary. “You know that neighborhood, Jack—they don’t talk to the police if they can help it. But Lambeth station has everyone out this morning. I haven’t been down there yet, but I rang as I was coming in, and DC Cummings tells me they’re bringing in everyone who reported hearing the shots last night. They’ll dig up something in the end, I’m sure.”
Gibbons merely grunted again and shifted cautiously while O’Leary hid a yawn behind his hand.
“Carmichael’s not turned up yet,” he went on, “but Inspector Hollings is already down in Walworth, and Inspector Davies is off
looking into your robbery. I don’t suppose you think the shooting was connected to that, do you?”
“It doesn’t seem likely, does it?” said Gibbons. “I mean, I’d barely started investigating—I don’t remember most of yesterday, but I can’t believe I solved the case between lunch and dinner.”
O’Leary grinned. “It would be like you if you did,” he said.
Gibbons waved this away. “Nonsense,” he said, in no mood for flattery. “On the other hand,” he added, “I can’t see why anyone else would want to shoot me. I wasn’t robbed, was I?”
“No,” said O’Leary. “They gave me all your effects in hospital and your wallet was there and everything accounted for. You had your ID, two credit cards, an Oyster card, and twelve pounds, seventeen pence.”
“That sounds about right,” sighed Gibbons. “I can’t remember what money I had left, but it was certainly less than twenty quid. So when did you find me?”
O’Leary obliged with a recap of the events of the previous evening, passing over his own horror at finding his colleague lying in a pool of blood on the street with a pack of frantically busy paramedics ministering to him while the rain came down.
For his part, Gibbons felt grateful for any information that helped fill the gaps in his memory. He kept thinking that with enough reminders he would eventually remember more, but so far this hope had come to nothing.
Carmichael was thoroughly out of temper with himself. He had intended to rise early and make another visit to the hospital before getting on with the day at Scotland Yard, but instead he woke too late to do anything but shower and grab a quick cup before setting off for work. He was the more annoyed as he knew he was now at an age where he could no longer do without sleep as he had in his youth, but refused to admit it to himself.
Despite having got nearly five hours’ sleep, he felt anything but alert and the messages backed up on his mobile phone testified to the fact that his underlings had got ahead of him, making him even more irritable. He left for the Yard having snapped at his wife and
been tartly reproved for it, and tried to take stock of all his messages along the way. He intended to ring Gibbons when he was done, but he was still sorting it all out when he arrived at his office and in his hurry to get hold of Hollings he forgot.
When Carmichael stormed into the office, Chris O’Leary was on his sixth cup of coffee and really did not think he could stay awake much longer. The sight of his superior striding past—without so much as a glance to acknowledge the sergeant’s presence—stung him to alertness, and he straightened in his chair as he watched Carmichael turn out of sight around the corner. There was a pause and then O’Leary—who was waiting for it—heard the door
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