Over the years, from uniform to plain clothes, he had sat in countless plastic chairs drinking awful brown liquid, and staved off boredom by reading and rereading posters full of stern advice. Advice he forgot instantly in the relief of leaving the hospital. But now, sitting in another plastic chair, nursing another plastic cup of unspecified brown liquid, all those years came back to him.
Waiting for car crash victims to come round and see what parts of their anatomies, their minds, they had lost in the process. Having to tell them they were lucky to be alive. Seeing the look in their eyes saying they didn’t share his opinion.
Waiting for women whose husbands had turned their homes into war zones and used them as punchbags and target practice to come through surgery. Seeing if the latest tactical round of tough love had made them brave, given them the courage to press charges and break away to a new start, end the war and win the peace. Or left them wilting and broken, giving their nominated murderer one more chance, because he really did love them.
Waiting while injured children were opened up and operated on, watching every single solid belief the parents had built up about the world and their place in it shown up for the lie they were. Their life’s guarantee torn up and no one to complain to about it.
Mickey had sat there every time and hoped their heartache wouldn’t infect him. But this time was different. This time he was the grieving friend, the anxious relative. Looking up every time a nurse or doctor walked past. Asking them what was happening, knowing he would only get an answer when there was one to give. Knowing he had to wait like everyone else.
And it was his boss. His boss. Getting in this state about his boss. He couldn’t believe it. Then he thought about it, and could well believe it.
Phil Brennan was more than just a boss to Mickey. Where others in the force had seen only a bull-headed borderline fuck-up, Phil had seen something special and given him a chance. And Mickey hadn’t let Phil — or himself — down. Or he had tried his best not to. Phil had encouraged him, nurtured him. Brought out things in him he didn’t know were there. Made him the best DS he could be. And feeling valued, working as part of Phil’s MIS team — the Major Incident Squad — for the first time in his career, his life, Mickey had felt like he truly belonged. So to Mickey, Phil was more than his boss. He was one of his own. Closer than family.
The double doors at the end of the corridor opened. In strode a stocky, compact man. Red hair, red face. Early forties. Wearing a weddings-and-funerals suit, but under duress and clearly uncomfortable in it. He looked like a retired rugby player but one who could still surprise with a quick burst of speed or a bout of aggression.
DCI Gary Franks. Phil’s — and Mickey’s — new boss.
He reached Mickey, stopped.
‘So, what have we got, then?’ His Welsh accent as vivid as his red hair. ‘How’s our boy?’
Mickey stood up, ditched his plastic cup in a nearby bin, grateful to be relieved of the pressure of drinking it. ‘Still the same. In surgery.’
‘Chances?’
Mickey shrugged. ‘Pretty good, they say. If they can … you know.’ His features darkened. ‘Better than his father’s.’
Franks nodded. ‘Bloody waste. His father gone like that, his mother hanging on … Any word on the daughter?’
‘Nothing.’ The words seemed reluctant to leave Mickey’s mouth. Forensics are on the scene. They’re thinking if she was right near the blast, it could have … ’ He trailed off.
Franks nodded. ‘But they’re not sure.’
‘They’ve got uniforms on door-to-door. She’s prioritised. If anyone’s seen her, they’ll find out.’
‘And Marina?’
Mickey had opened his mouth, about to tell him what had happened, when DC Anni Hepburn arrived. Out of breath, perspiring. Chest rising and falling rapidly, her dark skin covered by a thin sheen of sweat. Mickey, despite the situation, couldn’t help stealing an admiring glance at her. Or several. She caught them. The sides of her mouth flicked up in response, then it was back to work.
Mickey and Anni had been dancing around each other for months. Both of them clearly attracted to the other, neither wanting to make the final push. In case something were to go wrong and a good friendship — not to mention a great working relationship — was lost. But the attraction was there. It crackled in the air between them like invisible static.
‘Just the person,’ said Mickey.
‘Sorry, got here as quick as I could,’ said Anni, taming her breathing.
Franks turned to her. ‘Marina?’
Anni looked at Mickey, as if unsure whether to continue. Mickey returned the look. She had no choice.
‘She’s gone,’ Anni said.
‘What d’you mean?’ said Franks. ‘Gone where?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Anni. Cautious.
MIS didn’t have a good history with its recent DCIs. But Franks, blunt and straightforward, honest to the point of offensiveness, seemed different. He had been brought in to give stability, to ground the team. He hadn’t been in place long, but they had all taken to him. Even started to respect him. And the respect was mutual.
Franks gave her a look that would have terrified the Pontypool front row.
‘She’s taken my car.’
Franks frowned. ‘What happened?’
‘She told me she was going to the loo, and off she went.’
‘And you just let her go.’
‘What could I do?’
He kept staring. Mickey could see Anni becoming uncomfortable. ‘What state was she in?’ he asked.
‘How d’you think?’
Franks didn’t respond.
‘But she’s one of the team,’ Anni said. ‘One of our own. Maybe she’ll come back.’
‘You think it’s likely?’ asked Franks.
‘I’m going after her,’ said Mickey. ‘I just called in here to see if there was anything she’d left that I could pick up. But there isn’t.’
‘And she hasn’t contacted either of you?’
They both shook their heads.
‘There was one other thing,’ said Mickey.
The other two waited.
‘An eyewitness at Aldeburgh. The guy who stopped Marina going back inside the cottage. DS James from Suffolk said he told her that when Marina was trying to get back to the cottage, she started shouting, “What have I done?”’
Silence. Franks looked at him long and hard.
‘“What have I done?” You sure of that?’
Mickey nodded.
‘It could mean anything,’ said Anni. ‘Perhaps she blamed herself, thought she’d, I don’t know, left the gas on or something.’
‘Did she mention that to you?’
‘No,’ said Anni. ‘Nothing like that.’
‘“What have I done?” … ’ Franks was again lost in thought. He looked up, back at his two junior officers. ‘You’ve both worked with her longer than me. What d’you think?’
‘You mean you suspect her?’ said Anni. ‘You think she’d deliberately blow her own family up?’
Franks shrugged. ‘Would she?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Definitely not.’
Mickey agreed.
Franks nodded. ‘Running always means guilt.’
‘Not always, sir, just usually,’ said Mickey.
‘Ninety nine per cent of the time,’ said Franks. ‘In this case, it’s the only thing we have to go on. And since she’s not around, we can’t ask her.’ He looked up and down the hall. Mickey watched his eyes, his face. Got the impression that Franks shared his feelings about waiting in hospitals.
‘Right. This is still Suffolk’s call and we can’t be seen to be treading on their toes. They’re looking into what happened at the cottage, they’re looking for the daughter. But … ’ Franks pointed at Mickey, ‘I want you looking for Marina. And even though it pains us to admit it, with no one else in the picture and her doing a runner, it looks like she’s got some serious questions to answer.’ He turned to Anni. ‘Stay here for now. See what you can get from Phil Brennan or his mother when they come round.’