His sergeant was busy filling his pipe. When he had it lit he responded. 'One bloke and one rifle,' he said. 'That's what all the fuss is about. If he takes it into his head to start shooting, then you and I, Constable Fairweather, will be sitting ducks.'
Billy lit another cigarette. He was annoyed to see his hand was shaking as it held the match.
Billy stared at the dial of his wristwatch. The minute hand was only a fraction off the vertical. He watched as the second hand began its final revolution and then lifted his eyes and glanced down the long row of laurels. He saw Madden rise to his feet.
The inspector peered through a gap in the bushes.
Then he took off his hat and moved it in a sweeping motion above his head. The line of blue-uniformed officers rose on signal. Billy scrambled to his feet and heard the other men around him do the same.
The two parties of policemen broke through the line of bushes and advanced on the thicket, now a darkening mass of greenery in the early-evening light.
Billy saw ahead of him a stretch of empty heath dotted with small bushes and hollows. He heard the sergeant telling the men in an even tone to spread out further to the right, closing the gap between themselves and the edge of the pond.
As they continued to move inwards he glanced to his left and registered, with a slight shock, the sight of the policeman nearest to him among Madden's group walking with his revolver pointed straight ahead. He noted that the inspector, who was advancing a few paces in front of the blue line, was unarmed.
Billy was struck by how clearly he seemed to see everything. It was partly the limpid evening light, which enhanced the outlines of objects, but he felt, too, that his own senses had sharpened to an extraordinary degree. He seemed to see blades of grass, individual and distinct, beneath his feet. When a flock of wood pigeons flew overhead he picked out the white and grey feathers of the swiftly moving bodies and heard the creak of their wings. The sky above had taken on a deep metallic sheen. The air was cool and fresh- Crack!
The sound of the shot brought him up short, and at the same instant he saw the sergeant, on his right, throw up his arms with a cry and fall to the ground.
Crack-crack-crack!
Billy flung himself face down, dimly aware of another sound his ears had registered. It had come and gone without echo and with the swiftness of thought, ripping the air above him like cloth.
Phew-phew-phew!
Half dazed with shock he heard Madden's voice shouting commands. More gunshots sounded, but of a different calibre, and closer at hand, and he realized the armed men were firing back. He turned his head, keeping his cheek pressed to the ground, and saw the sergeant a dozen paces away lying on his side. His face was a ghastly white, the features contorted with pain.
Billy began to crawl towards him. As he got closer he saw that the wounded man was clutching his left leg and tugging at his trousers. His bared shin was bathed in blood.
'Sarge? Are you all right?'
The voice came from beyond the prone figure and Billy caught sight of Fairweather's helmeted head bobbing close to the ground. They reached the sergeant together.
'… bastard shot me… my leg…'
The sergeant's pupils were distended by shock.
The rifle sounded again, but from further away, and this time Billy heard no accompanying whistle in the air above. He rolled over. Madden had risen to one knee. He was scanning the thicket a hundred yards ahead. He signalled to the men to stop shooting. The crackle of revolver fire now came from the far side of the tangled brush. Madden rose suddenly and Billy caught the faint sound of his voice calling to the men around him. 'Come on!'
The inspector began to run towards the thicket, followed by the line of blue-clad officers. Billy glanced at the sergeant. Fairweather was bent over him, loosening his trousers and easing them down over his legs.
His eyes met Billy's. 'Go on, if you like. I'll see to him.'
Billy got to his feet and raced after the receding line. The gunfire had ceased, but he heard the piercing note of a police whistle. As he pounded over the bumpy ground, stumbling in the hidden hollows, he saw Madden vanish into the fringe of the thicket. The sound of shouting reached him. Orders were being bellowed.
Billy plunged into the brush on the heels of a heavy-set constable, who had fallen behind the others.
The shouting was closer now. Then a single rifle shot sounded, followed by a babble of voices. He heard Madden's roar above the rest.
'Hold him! Put him on the ground! Handcuffs!' Billy ploughed his way through the bushes towards the hubbub and came on a seething wall of blue uniforms. He saw Madden and Inspector Drummond crouched beside the figure of a man lying face down in a clearing in the brush. His wrists were handcuffed behind his back. A rifle lay on the ground beside him.
Madden rose to his feet, and at that moment Sinclair appeared, bareheaded, pushing his way through the bushes. He was breathing heavily. Their eyes met. Madden shook his head. He called across the clearing.
'It's not him, sir. It's not Pike.'
'Over here, sir!'
The shout came from Billy's right. A constable with his helmet skewed burst from the tangled undergrowth.
He beckoned urgently to Drummond, who rose and followed him into the brush. A moment later they heard the inspector's stifled exclamation. 'Christ on crutches!'
Madden's long legs took him across the clearing ahead of the chief inspector. Billy hurried along behind them. They came on Drummond, hands on hips, peering down into a deep pit where the constable stood balanced on a stack of wooden boxes with rope handles attached to their ends. He was trying to prise the lid off one of them, but it was nailed shut.
'Those are rifles.' It was Madden who spoke. 'LeeEnfields.
Stolen from a military depot, I should think.'
'Wouldn't you know it!' Drummond shook his head in disgust. He glanced at the chief inspector. 'What do you think, sir? Offhand I'd say we'd caught ourselves a bog-trotter.'
Sinclair said nothing, but his gaze was bleak.
They returned to the clearing. Drummond bent down and rolled the handcuffed man over on his back.
Billy saw an unshaven face topped by thick black curls. The man wore workman's boots and trousers and a torn fisherman's sweater. He looked to be in his early twenties. Drummond jabbed him in the ribs with the toe of his shoe.
'What's your name, then, Paddy?'
The young man gave no sign of having heard the question. He kept his gaze fixed on some imaginary point in the distance.
'They must have left him to mind the store.'
Drummond jabbed him again, harder this time.
Then he looked up and caught Sinclair's eye on him and flushed guiltily.
'Excuse me, sir. I'll be back in a minute.' Madden was on the move almost before Billy realized it, striding through the brush in the direction from which they had come. He scurried after the inspector.
Dusk was falling, but there was still enough light in the sky to see the three uniformed figures toiling across the field towards them, cradling a fourth man in their arms. Billy broke into a trot, trying to keep up with the inspector's long strides.
'You were told to stay down till further orders in the event of shooting, Constable.'
'Yes, sir. I know, sir. I'm sorry, sir.'
The look Madden gave him was unreadable.
As they came up to the others Billy saw that the sergeant's head was lolling on his chest. He was breathing in quick gasps, but he rallied when he saw Madden's face bent over him. 'I'm all right, sir. Took a bullet in the calf. It bled a bit.'
His legs were bare, one of them roughly bandaged with what looked like a pair of bloodstained handkerchiefs tied together. Madden made the men lay him down on the grass. He took the sergeant's trousers and folded them into a rough pillow.