to his feet, his eyes never leaving King’s.
‘Got something to say, Billy?’ he asked, but the boy didn’t answer as he turned towards the corridor and strolled after his fleeing friends. ‘I’ll see you around, Billy,’ he tried to wrestle the initiative from the boy, but it was already too late.
Once the sound of their retreating feet had faded King examined the table, taking the remains of the resin and unsmoked joint before carefully placing them in a pouch on his utility belt.
‘Better not leave this behind.’ He spoke more to himself than anyone.
‘No,’ Renita agreed, sounding a little confused. ‘I guess not.’
‘Come on,’ he told her. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
A few minutes later they were back in the bright sunshine that overheated the microclimate of the estate and made everything shimmer and dance – the warmth giving King’s fading hangover new life.
‘We should find a drain,’ Renita told him.
‘A drain?’ he asked. ‘What the hell d’you want to find a drain for?’
‘You planning on booking that resin and joint in as property found when we get back to the station?’
‘No,’ he laughed. ‘Got enough paperwork to get through without wasting my time booking this in.’
‘Exactly,’ she explained. ‘So chuck it down the nearest drain.’
‘Not this time,’ he replied casually.
‘Oh,’ she said, sounding a little suspicious. ‘You’re not planning on getting stoned, are you?’
‘No,’ he laughed again. ‘I don’t even smoke cigarettes.’
‘So why d’you want to keep it?’
‘I’d just rather keep hold of it,’ he smiled. ‘You never know when it might come in handy – when we might need it to encourage someone to tell the truth.’
‘That’s a route fraught with danger,’ she warned him. ‘Every little toe-rag’s got a mobile they can record shit on these days.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ he reassured her – a call coming through on his radio saving him from any further questioning.
‘PS 42.’ The voice on the radio used his shoulder number as his call sign. ‘PS 42 receiving – Control over.’
‘Now what,’ he complained, before answering professionally. ‘Go ahead, Control.’
‘Can you take a domestic dispute,’ the male voice from Control Room back at Newham Police Station asked, ‘at number 24 Millander Walk? That’s your patch, I believe. Informant’s a Debbie Royston – says her boyfriend is drunk and won’t leave the house.’
He froze for a second. It was his first domestic since the incident. The familiar images from his nightmares rushed him – the girl in the white dress staggering towards him, the maroon blood spreading through the pristine material. The mother and son lying together in a scene of carnage, but always worst of all – the tiny figure of the girl no more than six years old, lying still and peaceful, her eyes wide open in death with barely a mark on her body. His radio blared again and brought him back to the present.
‘Can you deal, 42? Control over.’
‘Yes,’ King answered, his voice almost too weak to hear. ‘Yes,’ he repeated more strongly. ‘Show me as dealing. I’m with 274.’
‘Thanks,’ the voice acknowledged. ‘I’ll show yourself and 274 as assigned.’
‘You all right?’ Renita asked.
‘I’m fine,’ he lied as they began to walk to the location of the domestic.
‘Is this your first domestic since … you know?’
‘Yeah,’ he answered. ‘Can’t avoid domestics for the rest of my career. I’ll be fine.’
‘I can handle it on my own if you’d rather,’ she offered. ‘No one need know.’
‘No,’ he snapped at her slightly before gathering himself. ‘No. I want to deal. I have to.’
As they approached the scene of the reported domestic, King was relieved to hear the normal sounds associated with such an occurrence – a man and woman screaming at each other – dispelling his fear that he was about to walk into another silent trap of horror.
‘Sounds like things are in full swing,’ Renita joked before they had to dive head first into other people’s misery and anger.
‘Great,’ he replied through gritted teeth as they approached the front door and found it already open – the sounds of exchanged profanities spilling out onto the communal walkway. King knocked on the door once, called inside, ‘Police’, and then entered without waiting to be invited, quickly taking in his surroundings – looking for any immediate dangers, obvious or hidden. Other than the duelling couple he saw none, although he was surprised by the size and clever open-plan design of the kitchen and living area of the maisonette, noting that it was clean and ordered, with no shortage of decent mod-cons, least of all the oversized LED TV dominating the space. He was relieved the fight was taking place in the living area and not the kitchen where deadly weapons always lurked close to hand, denying the attacker time to think – time to take stock before they committed a serious armed assault or worse.
‘Someone call the police?’ he added to get everyone’s attention.
The man looked in his direction and grimaced before continuing to shout at the woman standing only inches in front of him. ‘Why did you have to go and call this fucking lot?’
‘Because you’re a drunken arsehole – that’s why,’ the woman King assumed to be Debbie Royston answered him.
‘All right,’ King said calmly as he moved towards them. ‘That’s enough. Who called us?’
‘Me,’ Royston answered, ‘and I want this fucking drunk out of my house.’
‘You Debbie Royston?’ he asked.
‘I ain’t going fucking anywhere,’ the man interrupted.
‘You,’ King pointed a finger into the man’s chest, ‘be quiet and don’t interrupt me again.’
‘Yeah, I’m Debbie Royston,’ she now answered, ‘and this is my house and I want him out of it.’
‘I’ll get to that,’ King assured her, ‘but right now we need to know if anyone else is in the house?’
‘My kids,’ she answered, still shouting everything she said. ‘Hiding upstairs scared half to fucking death because of this bastard.’
‘Shut up, you stupid slag,’ the man began again.
‘One
