into his arms outside, lay still and staring on her bed, flanked by two empty, perfectly made beds either side. The beds of her sisters – one already dead and the other barely alive. The father’s first victim. He’d taken the time to close her eyes and straighten her clothes before going in search of the rest of the family – no doubt planning equally clean and peaceful deaths for her siblings. But the mother was always going to feel his rage, and when the son fought back everything had changed.
Without warning King’s legs buckled and he fell to his hands and knees, but even they could no longer take his weight as he collapsed onto his side, knocking the last of his breath from him as his eyes flickered and closed. At last the darkness came and took the nightmare away.
Nine months later
King sat in front of his computer inputting yet another crime report into the Met’s CRIS system, feeling as bored and frustrated as he’d felt for the last few weeks. At first he’d been happy just to be back at work instead of climbing the walls in the hospital and then in the small flat he shared with his partner, Sara Taylor, a fellow police officer also based in Newham Borough. But now being stuck in an office was more than he could bear and he was longing for the streets. He was still treated as something of a hero after what had happened, but he knew that reputations didn’t last long in the police and if he didn’t make it back to the streets soon his peers would start to consider him as little more than a civvy – police slang for a civilian employee – who was no longer capable of the task of being an officer. He had to get back in the action, even if it meant lying about his true physical and mental state – even if it meant not telling anyone about the nightmares that plagued most of his sleeping hours.
The phone on the opposite desk rang loudly and made him jump. He hoped no one had noticed as he watched the civvy speak curtly into the phone before quickly hanging up and looking across the computer screens in his direction.
‘Apparently the Chief Superintendent will see you now, Jack,’ she told him, smiling. He smiled back and practically leapt from his chair. This could be the call he’d been waiting for – the green light to return to the streets.
As he hurried through the main CID office he almost bumped into Detective Sergeant Frank Marino coming from the other direction. Frank grabbed hold of his arm to steady them both.
‘What’s the big hurry?’ Marino asked with a smile.
‘Sorry, Frank,’ King apologized. ‘I just got a shout to go see Gerrard. I might be getting the OK to return to full duties.’
The smile slipped from Marino’s face. ‘Full duties? You sure you’re ready for that? What happened to you was …’ he struggled to find the words.
‘I’m fine,’ King tried to reassure him. ‘Back and shoulder’s still a little stiff and sore, but nothing I can’t handle.’
‘It’s not the physical stuff I’m concerned about,’ Marino told him. There was a silence for a few seconds. ‘That was a tough situation you had to cope with. Fortunately the sort of thing not many of us will ever experience. It can leave scars no one else can see.’
‘I’m fine,’ King answered again and tried to smile, but couldn’t.
They watched each other for what seemed a long time until Marino interrupted their silent conversation. ‘Tough trial too. Wanker of a defence barrister grilling you for more than two days looking for holes.’
‘Yeah, well, he was wasting his time,’ King answered – the bitterness still thick in his voice.
‘Yes he was,’ Marino agreed. ‘I’ve never seen a cop as young as you handle something like that as well as you did.’
King nodded, looking a little embarrassed before replying. ‘Thanks. I just did what I had to do.’
Marino watched him for a few seconds. ‘You’re a good cop, Jack, you know. You had a lot of good results before … Real good arrests. Not easy to gain the respect and trust of other cops when you’re on accelerated promotion – but you have. If you want to go the way of the CID I can make it happen. A couple more months flying the Crime Desk then we can get you on a plain-clothed squad and look to get you into a trainee detective slot as soon as we can. It’s a good option, Jack.’
King took a deep breath before answering. ‘I appreciate the offer, Frank – but I need the streets. Walking around out there in uniform makes me feel … makes me feel good. I missed it, you know. I need it.’
Marino gently let go of his arm. ‘OK then. Good luck, but if you’re not ready, or if you change your mind once you’re back out there – you’re welcome back here any time.’
‘Thanks,’ he replied. ‘Anyway, mustn’t keep Superintendent Gerrard waiting.’
‘No. Of course not,’ Marino agreed and watched King head off across the office.
King walked so fast through the station that several times he almost broke into a jog, nodding quick hellos to people he knew and some he didn’t until he’d climbed to the top floor of the station and reached Gerrard’s door. He took a deep breath and knocked, resting his hand on the handle in anticipation of a swift reply. He wasn’t disappointed as almost immediately he heard Gerrard’s voice calling him inside.
As soon as he entered he was greeted by the usual sight of Gerrard sitting straight-backed behind his desk as Inspector Joanne Johnston stood to the side. Jack knew it would be Gerrard doing the talking, but was in little doubt who was really in charge. Johnston had a fearsome reputation as being a ruthless self-promoter destined for the top – prepared to stab anyone in the back who got in her way, including Gerrard. Her appearance was, as ever, immaculate; her uniform tailored at her own expense to best show off her athletic, thirty-three-year-old body, her brown hair cut into a short pixie style to best frame her pretty face. Looks that had already lulled more than a few male colleagues to drop their guard only to be crushed. A reputation that had already earned her the nickname of the ‘Poisonous Pixie’ at Bramshill Staff College.
‘Ah, Jack,’ Gerrard smiled. ‘Please take a seat.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ King replied, sitting in one of the two chairs that faced Gerrard.
Gerrard looked down at the obligatory file that lay open on his desk and then back to King, looking as serious as King could remember seeing him. ‘Inspector Johnston and I were just having a chat with HR about yourself – going over your latest medical reports, psychological reports, that sort of thing – something we need to do before considering anyone for full duties. Fortunately it’s not like the old days when we’d have just patched you up and slung you back out on the streets. Times have changed. Things have moved on – for the better.’
King didn’t agree. Being patched up and slung out sounded perfect to him. Talking to psychiatrists hadn’t taken away his nightmares, but perhaps the streets could. ‘I understand,’ he managed to reply.
‘However,’ Gerrard smiled again, ‘having taken everything into consideration, we have decided to allow you to return to full duties.’
King felt his heart soar with excited relief, but his stomach knotted with anxiety. He told himself it was nothing – that it was to be
