Amy was helpless, legs dangling uselessly. All she could do was hold on to him as he moved across the landing and kicked open the door to her bedroom. In three strides he reached the bed and laid her down amongst the quilt and cushions. He took his hand from her mouth. ‘You bastard!’ she screamed, and she reached up and grabbed him by the neck, pulling with all her strength until he tipped towards her and she found his lips with hers.
When they broke apart she was breathless, and he was grinning at her. ‘You were brilliant,’ he said.
She couldn’t resist a smile. ‘Just doing my job, Detective Inspector.’
He kissed her again, lightly this time, then brushed her hair from her eyes. Such lovely, dark eyes. He gazed at her, full of admiration and desire. ‘What would Dr Bennet say if he could see us now?’
A shadow passed over her face. ‘He’d hate it. He thinks you’re the kind of cop who would beat someone up just because they were gay.’
‘I wouldn’t mind taking a pop at him sometime. But not because he’s gay. Because he’s such an obnoxious little shit.’
She pushed him away. ‘He’s my friend, Jack. My best friend in the whole world. I’d never have survived the last two-and-a-half years without him.’
MacNeil drew a deep breath and held his tongue. ‘I know. But you’ve got me now.’
‘For how long? As long as it takes the novelty to wear off?’
‘Don’t be silly. You know how I feel about you.’
‘I know how I’d like you to feel about me. I’m not sure you’ve ever really told me.’
‘Let me show you, then. I’ve never been good with words.’ He leaned over to kiss her again. At first she resisted. She hated it that the two men in her life were so at odds that she had to keep one secret from the other. It wasn’t even as if they were in competition. MacNeil forced her lips apart with his tongue, and finally she succumbed, passion rising in a sudden flood tide.
When they had told her that she was unlikely ever to walk again, she had thought her sex life was over. The spinal cord had not been severed, just damaged. And she had always kept control of her bladder and bowels. But she just didn’t know if she would ever have any feelings down there again. Until that first time with MacNeil. And it had been like the first time ever. Full of pain and pleasure and tears. And until that moment, she had never quite trusted his motives. Why would a healthy strapping man like MacNeil be interested in a little Chinese girl who couldn’t walk. But he had been so gentle with her that she had known immediately there was much more to him than met the eye. A complex, shy, caring man full of the hang-ups instilled in him by his Presbyterian upbringing. It wasn’t that he was homophobic, he was just embarrassed by any overt display of sexuality. And Tom wore his homosexuality like a badge.
MacNeil stripped off his shirt and slipped off each of her boots, before removing her blouse and her long black skirt. Then he paused suddenly. ‘We shouldn’t do this,’ he said. ‘I might give you the flu. I’m more exposed than you are.’
‘Then we might as well stop living now, because we’ll die anyway.’ Amy gazed up at him. ‘And if we don’t live life while we can, then we’ll die without ever having lived.’
II
The white Mercedes truck rattled east on Aspen Way. The dual carriageway was deserted. The truck passed under the Docklands Light Railway, and the lead grey waters of West India Quay slopped against the concrete berths all along the south side of the road. There was the merest thinning of the cloud overhead, and the cold morning air was suffused with a watery glimpse of insipid yellow light.
Pinkie felt uncomfortable in his ill-fitting uniform, but secure in the anonymity afforded him by the gas mask and goggles that covered most of his face. The peak of his baseball cap was pulled down low over his eyes, and he kept a careful watch on the soldiers who approached as he turned right and swung his vehicle into the opening that led to the North Bridge beside Billingsgate Fish Market. There were twenty or more troopers based here in what had become a semi-permanent camp, a Mexican stand-off with the snipers on the far side of the water. There were armoured vehicles and a barbed wire barrier. He pulled up and rolled down his window. He smelled fish on the breeze, even though the fleets had not been out for weeks now. The stink had been absorbed into the fabric of the place.
The lead soldier approached cautiously, pointing his weapon up at the driver’s window. He held his hand up for Pinkie’s papers, gave them a cursory glance and then handed them back. He flicked his rifle through the air. ‘Take the mask off.’
Pinkie’s heart sank. He hadn’t thought they would ask that. He removed his baseball cap and snapped off the mask.
The soldier looked at him suspiciously. ‘Where’s Charlie?’
‘Sick,’ Pinkie said. And he saw the soldier take an almost involuntary step back.
‘Did you have any contact with him?’
Pinkie shook his head. ‘Don’t know the man. They took me off another run.’
The soldier seemed relieved. ‘Put the mask back on.’ He turned and shouted to the engineers at the barrier, ‘Let him through.’ And the soldiers peeled back the rolls of barbed wire to make a path through to the bridge.
Pinkie pulled his mask into place and slipped into first gear. The truck grunted and lurched forward towards the bridge. On the far side of the water, glass skyscrapers rose sheer into the mist. Company logos betrayed ownership. The McGraw-Hill Companies. The Bank of America. Pinkie ran anxious eyes along the skyline, looking for the snipers he knew had their rifles trained upon him. But he saw no one. He drove slowly up the ramp, past an empty blue security booth and stopped in front of the bridge. It was raised from the south side at an angle of around forty-five degrees. It was designed to let large vessels pass beneath it, but it created a very effective barrier. Someone, somewhere, threw a lever, and the bridge began a slow descent until it became, once again, a roadway passing south across the water into Canary Wharf, and the Isle of Dogs beyond.
Pinkie eased the white Merc slowly across to the other side, and in his side mirror saw the bridge begin to rise again. He glanced at the clipboard on his dash. The route and drop-off points were clearly marked. He would have to follow it meticulously to avoid arousing suspicion. He knew there were other checkpoints at Trafalgar Way and at Westferry Road, below the Bank Street roundabout. His exit on the return leg was through the checkpoint on West India Avenue, heading for Westferry Roundabout. But until then, he was in no man’s land. An island of self-imposed quarantine in the heart of East London.
Pinkie had often wondered why it was called the Isle of Dogs, when in fact it was really a peninsula, a deep loop in the river. Only now did he realise that the loop had effectively been cut off from the north bank by the network of wharfs and waterways built to serve what had once been the busiest docks in the world. Apparently it was where Henry VIII used to keep his dogs, hence the name. At least, that’s what Charlie had told him, just before Pinkie gently slid six inches of cold stainless steel between his ribs. He was a nice boy, Charlie. Shame he’d had to die.
Pinkie headed south, through Canada Square towards Jubilee Place, along canyons of tarmac between towering structures. There was no sign of life, not a single, solitary soul in the streets. Canary Wharf was like a ghost town. Opposite the tube station, the statue of a partially headless creature, half-man, half-horse, flanked by six stark leafless trees, gazed out east towards the hazy but distinctive shape of the Dome on the far bank of the river. An armless torso lay canted at an angle beneath the horse’s belly, a head set into a niche in its flank. Pinkie allowed himself a tiny smile. And they called this art?