Hope to Die

Part of the deal if I’m going for Chief Inspector this year. We’ve talked about it, on and off, for ages. But then there was Jake, and then there was the baby and the Gavin Parrie case coming back to haunt us, and it was never the right time. Until – perhaps – now. But it’d be a big change. Maybe even back to Uniform for a bit. Not much more money, and much less hands-on too, even if I do stay in CID. But after twenty-mumble years in the force, and at my age, I need to decide pretty damn soon if I’m happy staying put, and if not, if I’ve got enough ambition – and, frankly, energy – to try to move up. Though as Harrison has already told me, in that ponderous ‘I’m giving you great advice here, lad’ tone of his, ‘Chief Inspector is a stepping stone, Adam, not a place to get stuck.’ So if I go for it, I’m going for Superintendent. And trust me, that is a Big Deal.

Alex touches me lightly on the arm; she knows what I’m thinking. Always. ‘Like I said, it’s OK. Just try not to wake me up when you get back.’

I pull her close and kiss her hair, feeling her body soften against me. ‘Don’t hold me to it.’

‘Promises, promises,’ she murmurs, her lips on mine.

* * *

They told Ev that Gantry Manor would be hard to find, but that was before half Thames Valley turned up and parked out front. The house is lit up like a filmset by the time she gets there, the air throbbing with blue light. The neighbours would be having a field day. If there were any.

Quinn’s at her car door before she even opens it.

‘Evening, Sarge,’ she says with a smile.

Quinn’s eyes narrow; he’s pretty sure she’s taking the piss (which she is), but if he wants the rest of the world to acknowledge his rank he can hardly call her out on it.

‘You’re just in time – I’m about to take the suspect down to the station to be processed. Fawley’s meeting me there.’

She glances across to where two uniformed officers are helping a tall elderly man into the back of a squad car. He has plastic bags taped around his hands.

‘What have we got?’

‘Fatal shooting.’

She nods; hence the bags.

‘Householder told Uniform it was self-defence.’ Quinn cocks his head towards the man. ‘He claims the vic broke in and threatened them.’

Ev frowns. ‘But you don’t believe him?’

Quinn raises an eyebrow. ‘Let’s just say he has a few questions to answer. Starting with why the hell they didn’t call 999.’

* * *

Somer turns over and pulls the blanket closer around her. She’s never had a talent for sleeping, and this is the perfect storm. The scratchy bed, the incessant just-too-loud-to-ignore noise and, even more raucous, the drone inside her own head. The questions she knows Ev wanted to ask – the questions she’d have been asking herself if their positions were reversed. Will she need chemo? Has the cancer spread? Can she still have children? Probably, probably not, and unclear, in that order. But there’s little comfort in any of it. The prospect of chemotherapy terrifies her, and the idea that in some notional happy future world she might actually have a baby is a bad joke.

She curls up tighter, pushing away the pain. The real pain and the Giles pain. She’s written to him, torn it up, written again, and even six or seven versions later she still hasn’t sent the poor, scaled-down, barely comprehensible message she ended up with. She was going to ask Ev to post it – she swore to herself she would – but somehow that never happened either. It was all too hurried at the end – Ev rushing off to her busy police life. She’d looked embarrassed, as she left, as if she was worried Somer might envy her. But she didn’t. She doesn’t know what exactly she felt, but she knows it wasn’t that. The job and all it used to mean seem very long ago and very far away. A long-dead life where she was sharp and ambitious and incisive and professional, and perhaps, in some parallel world, still is. She’s oppressed, suddenly, by the thought of that light-hearted, uncancered Erica stalking her for the rest of her life, doing all the things she would have, could have, should have done. Though her new numbness does have at least one advantage: the disciplinary procedure still hanging over her has lost all power to panic. A shit treated her like shit and she gave as good as she got. If Thames Valley want to fire her for that, then fuck it, she’ll do something else. Though what, and how, and when, are yet more questions she has neither the energy nor interest to address.

* * *

Margaret Swann is in what she’s referred to as the ‘drawing room’, with a uniformed female officer for company. This part of Gantry Manor must be older than the rest – the ceilings are lower, the windows smaller. There’s an inglenook fireplace, a piano draped with a tablecloth, dried-flower arrangements, too much furniture. It all adds up to a distinct run-down country pub feel, which isn’t helped by the string of horse brasses over the hearth. It must be ten years since Ev saw any of those.