Controlled Explosions by Claire McGowan Read Free Book Online Page A

way.’
    Bob found he was nodding. He would do it. Of course he would.
    ‘Head on home after,’ said Johnson. ‘Pick up some flowers for Linda, she’ll like that.’ Bob couldn’t bear the way he said it. The network. The old boys. In it together. He stood up, taking the envelope in his hand. That was how you got through the job – you did what you were told. You never asked was it right, because that way you’d never have any peace, ever again.
    Bob made his way down the corridors of the police station. He put out his hands to the walls, the carpet tiles fraying and falling off, as if they might close in on him. It was hot still, so hot, a stale, sweaty layer of it pressing all over your skin.
    Outside in the car park he breathed in, but the air was no better – smoky, with the tang of burnt-out fires. The sky was burning red too, the exact shade of blood. What was it Linda used to say to Ian?
Red sky at night, shepherd’s delight.
It would be hot again tomorrow.
    ‘… has to be soon, he’s getting spooked, I think …’
    Bob turned instinctively at the sound of the voice. For a moment he was confused – who was she talking to? – then he realised the Corry girl had a mobile phone tucked up in her hand, hidden under her fall of hair. She started for a second, then recovered. ‘Give me a minute,’ she said into the phone, and then, to Bob: ‘Sergeant Hamilton. I’m awful sorry to hear about DC Maguire. Is he all right?’
    ‘Bullet in the leg. I’m away down to see him now.’
    ‘Tell him I was asking for him, will you?’
    He looked at her. Her face was flushed, as if he’d caught her out, but she had herself in hand all the same. A cool customer. ‘I will. Goodnight, miss.’
    ‘It’s DC.’
    He felt the anger rise. ‘I have to head on.’
    She stepped forward, pushing back her fair hair where it had fallen loose around her face. ‘Sergeant – can I ask you something? How long have you worked with DI Johnson?’
    ‘Nigh on thirty years or so. We started out together.’
    ‘You trust him?’
    He looked at her. Apart from the hair, she was composed, her black suit neat and pressed. No sign she’d been working all day in the oven of the police station. Cold and sharp as a nail. ‘With my life,’ he said.
    ‘Has he ever asked you to do anything you felt wasn’t right?’
    Yes. This. Fire a good man when he’s down. ‘Miss Corry. It’s not appropriate for us to be having this discussion about a senior officer.’
    She just looked at him. ‘It’s Detective Constable Corry. And I’m afraid that if you won’t have it now, you’ll be having it later, with some more … significant people than me. Does that make sense to you?’
    ‘That’s not for me to say.’
    ‘Bob. Did you not wonder how those kids had a list of police home addresses? It’s not such an easy thing to get hold of, is it?’
    ‘I don’t know what you’re saying.’
    ‘I think you do. Am I making myself clear here, Bob? I’m trying to help you.’
    He looked away. ‘Excuse me. I have to go.’
    PJ was on the secure ward, the one with soldiers outside. If anyone got wind there was a police officer in hospital, it wouldn’t be beneath the IRA to smuggle in guns, finish the job. Even in this so-called ceasefire. Bob showed his pass to the very young, very nervous squaddie on the door, whose gun was nearly bigger than himself. ‘Thanks, Sergeant, that’s fine.’ Liverpool accent. Shaving cuts on his neck. All this might be over soon. Hospitals without guards. Getting into your car without checking beneath it. A new world. And Bob would have to be part of it, since he wasn’t on the list. It was hard to take in, life on this side of the mirror. Bob pushed open the swing doors.
    PJ was all alone in the eight-person ward. He was staring at the wall, his leg covered in plaster, hoicked up in a metal cage. There was no sign of the daughter, for which Bob was deeply grateful. He couldn’t have dealt with her today,