Mambo by Campbell Armstrong Read Free Book Online

“Rather nice place. Room to yourself. TV. Magazines to read. Enjoy the privacy, Frank. Think of it as an enforced holiday.”
    â€œWith respect, what I need is to get back on the job.”
    Burr’s smile was small and strained, barely concealing the stress of a man who had just spent the worst four days of his life. There had been endless news conferences, and questions raised in the House of Commons about events in Shepherd’s Bush. A commission of inquiry was being set up, which meant that a bunch of professors and civil servants would be asking all kinds of bloody questions. And the press, good God, the press had squeezed the tragedy for everything it was worth and more. The breakdown of law and order. The incompetence of British security forces. The supremacy of the “super-terrorist”. On and on without end. A mob was howling for blood, preferably Martin Burr’s. And the Home Secretary had commanded Burr to attend a private interview, which could only mean that the Commissioner’s job security was somewhat in doubt. These were not good times. The temper of the country was bad; the citizens were horrified when policemen were killed.
    Burr said, “What would it accomplish if you returned to work? You’d wear yourself out within a day, Frank. You’d be back in this bed in no time flat.”
    â€œI don’t think so. Basically I think I’m in good shape.”
    â€œNotwithstanding a hole clean through your chest. Think of the shock to your system.”
    â€œI can’t just lie here.”
    â€œAfraid you have to,” Burr said. “Anyway, everything that can be done is being done.”
    â€œAnd Ruhr’s back in custody?”
    â€œBelow the belt, Frank.”
    Burr leaned towards the bed. He laid both hands over his face and massaged his flesh in a tired way. When he spoke there were hollows of fatigue in his voice. “Let me bring you up to date. Our explosions people say the parked cars that exploded along Acacia Avenue were detonated by a timing-device and the explosives used were of Czech origin.”
    â€œBrilliant work,” Pagan remarked drily.
    Martin Burr gave Pagan a dark look. “I realise you have very little patience for the kind of systematic work technicians have to do, Frank. Nevertheless, it has to be done.”
    Pagan shut his eyes. There was a tickle in his nostrils. A sneeze was building up. If it succeeded, it would send uncontrollable bolts of pain through his chest. He struggled to overcome it, reaching for a tissue just in case.
    Burr continued. “Twenty-six cars were detonated simultaneously. Nobody we interviewed in the vicinity saw anybody plant the explosives in the first place. The whole thing was done with an extraordinary degree of stealth.”
    Pagan opened his eyes. The sneeze had faded. He lowered the tissue and looked at Martin Burr. “I think we can take stealth for granted,” he said. That tone – it was close to petulant sarcasm. He’d have to be careful not to push it. Alienation of Martin Burr wasn’t a good thing.
    Burr fingered his plastic eye-patch, which he did when he was annoyed. “I understand your impatience, Frank. I also understand that a gunshot wound affects a man’s perceptions. However, I didn’t come here to listen to your cutting little asides. I’ve got enough on my plate as it is.”
    Whenever he was irritated, Burr resorted to a patronising tone that Pagan disliked. Chided, Pagan stared at the window, the gorgeous sunlight, and resolved he’d leave this place today no matter how the considerations of Doctor Ghose turned out. He’d swallow some Pethidine and walk out of this bloody hospital under his own steam. By mid-afternoon he’d be back in his office overlooking Golden Square in Soho, where his anti-terrorist section was located. Lord of his own domain again.
    â€œNow where was I?” Martin Burr said. “Ah,