anger and resentment.
It was the need for revenge.
His eyes flicked back to his reflection.
Get yourself straight. Don’t let them see any weakness
. He took a deep breath, the heat from the car fading as winter started to creep back in. Then he reached for the door, opened it and headed inside.
13 February
Healy looked up to see he was the only one in the office. It was 10 p.m. For a second, twenty-three years of instinct kicked in and he reached for his jacket, his first thought of Gemma and what she would say when he got home. But then reality hit: Gemma had left him, their marriage was over and the only home he had to go to was a dark, pokey flat in King’s Cross he was renting from a friend at Scotland Yard.
He leaned back in his chair and fixed his eyes on the clock at the far end of the room. Below it was a map of central London and two photographs of two different men. Their names were Steven Wilky and Marc Evans. The map had pins, Post-it notes, pieces of paper and marker pen all over it. Healy glanced at his in-tray: burglaries, violent domestics, dealers. He’d been given a second chance at the Met, survived the disciplinary procedure and come out the other end, but he hadn’t done it unscathed. He’d taken a demotion, from detective sergeant down to detective constable, and now he was working the sort of cases he’d left behind a decade ago. They were his ticket back in, the way to win Craw’s favour, but he hated them; hated the satisfaction it gave people like Eddie Davidsonto see him working shitty cases that were plainly beneath him.
What he wanted was something bigger.
What he wanted was Wilky and Evans.
Voices in the corridor. He looked over the top of his monitor and saw Davidson, Richter and Sallows approaching the office, laughing at something one of them had said. He thought about grabbing his jacket and heading out the other door, but it was too late to make a swift exit without being noticed. He’d have to ride this one out.
Davidson entered first, saw movement out of the corner of his eye and zeroed in on Healy. The other two followed suit, the pack mimicking their leader. A smile spread across Davidson’s face, his small dark eyes flicking from one side of the room to the other, making sure no one else was around. Then they all started to approach.
‘I didn’t think you’d need to clock overtime working domestics, Colm,’ Davidson said by way of a greeting. The other two smiled. Davidson came right up to Healy, into his personal space, and then backed away slightly, perching himself on a desk opposite. ‘Or maybe you’re finding them tough to crack.’
The other two laughed. Healy looked at Davidson, then at Richter and Sallows, and felt the muscles in his jaw tighten.
Don’t let them get to you
. There was a flash of disappointment in Davidson’s eyes when Healy didn’t rise to the bait.
‘Seriously, Colm, what are you doing here?’
‘What does it look like, Eddie?’
Davidson’s eyes flicked to Healy’s desk and then back again. ‘It looks like you’re still here at ten o’clock and all you’ve got in your tray are piece-of-shit cases.’
‘Even piece-of-shit cases need closing.’
Davidson frowned, like Healy had said something stupid. Then he looked him up and down, his desk, his work space. ‘What
is
this?’
‘What’s what?’
‘This,’ he said, waving an arm in Healy’s direction. ‘You were away – what? – ten weeks, and suddenly you’re the fucking Zen master?’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘You don’t follow?’ He shuffled off the edge of the desk, running a hand through his beard, and stepped in closer. ‘The old Healy was a prick, but at least you knew where you were with him. You said something he didn’t like, and he flipped out. Screamed in your face, did everything in his power to fuck things up for you and everyone around him. But this new one …’ He stopped, looked Healy up and down like he was pond life. ‘You’re
It was the need for revenge.
His eyes flicked back to his reflection.
Get yourself straight. Don’t let them see any weakness
. He took a deep breath, the heat from the car fading as winter started to creep back in. Then he reached for the door, opened it and headed inside.
13 February
Healy looked up to see he was the only one in the office. It was 10 p.m. For a second, twenty-three years of instinct kicked in and he reached for his jacket, his first thought of Gemma and what she would say when he got home. But then reality hit: Gemma had left him, their marriage was over and the only home he had to go to was a dark, pokey flat in King’s Cross he was renting from a friend at Scotland Yard.
He leaned back in his chair and fixed his eyes on the clock at the far end of the room. Below it was a map of central London and two photographs of two different men. Their names were Steven Wilky and Marc Evans. The map had pins, Post-it notes, pieces of paper and marker pen all over it. Healy glanced at his in-tray: burglaries, violent domestics, dealers. He’d been given a second chance at the Met, survived the disciplinary procedure and come out the other end, but he hadn’t done it unscathed. He’d taken a demotion, from detective sergeant down to detective constable, and now he was working the sort of cases he’d left behind a decade ago. They were his ticket back in, the way to win Craw’s favour, but he hated them; hated the satisfaction it gave people like Eddie Davidsonto see him working shitty cases that were plainly beneath him.
What he wanted was something bigger.
What he wanted was Wilky and Evans.
Voices in the corridor. He looked over the top of his monitor and saw Davidson, Richter and Sallows approaching the office, laughing at something one of them had said. He thought about grabbing his jacket and heading out the other door, but it was too late to make a swift exit without being noticed. He’d have to ride this one out.
Davidson entered first, saw movement out of the corner of his eye and zeroed in on Healy. The other two followed suit, the pack mimicking their leader. A smile spread across Davidson’s face, his small dark eyes flicking from one side of the room to the other, making sure no one else was around. Then they all started to approach.
‘I didn’t think you’d need to clock overtime working domestics, Colm,’ Davidson said by way of a greeting. The other two smiled. Davidson came right up to Healy, into his personal space, and then backed away slightly, perching himself on a desk opposite. ‘Or maybe you’re finding them tough to crack.’
The other two laughed. Healy looked at Davidson, then at Richter and Sallows, and felt the muscles in his jaw tighten.
Don’t let them get to you
. There was a flash of disappointment in Davidson’s eyes when Healy didn’t rise to the bait.
‘Seriously, Colm, what are you doing here?’
‘What does it look like, Eddie?’
Davidson’s eyes flicked to Healy’s desk and then back again. ‘It looks like you’re still here at ten o’clock and all you’ve got in your tray are piece-of-shit cases.’
‘Even piece-of-shit cases need closing.’
Davidson frowned, like Healy had said something stupid. Then he looked him up and down, his desk, his work space. ‘What
is
this?’
‘What’s what?’
‘This,’ he said, waving an arm in Healy’s direction. ‘You were away – what? – ten weeks, and suddenly you’re the fucking Zen master?’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘You don’t follow?’ He shuffled off the edge of the desk, running a hand through his beard, and stepped in closer. ‘The old Healy was a prick, but at least you knew where you were with him. You said something he didn’t like, and he flipped out. Screamed in your face, did everything in his power to fuck things up for you and everyone around him. But this new one …’ He stopped, looked Healy up and down like he was pond life. ‘You’re
Similar Books
