White sheets. Bed. Nurse. Hospital. Ringing. Ringing. Ear bleeding. Rain beating against the window, branches swaying in the wind.

'You have a perforated eardrum,' the nurse said.

'What?'

'You have a perforated eardrum.'

'What?'

'You have . . .'

She stopped. 'I'm glad to see you have retained your sense of-'

'What?'

'I'm glad . . .' She stopped. 'How are you feel-'

'What . . .?'

'He can be very annoying.'

My eyes flitted left. Patricia was sitting there. Tear-stained. She sounded like she was about twenty miles away.

'I think I may have a perforated ear drum,' I said.

'Yes,' said Patricia, 'and three broken ribs, and concussion and some minor burns. The doctor said it was a miracle you weren't killed.'

'What?'

She looked at me.

The nurse said, 'He's disorientated, and the sedative, and the morphine for the pain . . . Will I tell them he's awake?'

Trish said, 'The police are waiting outside to interview you.'

My head felt like it was filled with cement. I said, 'Is the other guy okay?'

'What other guy?'

'In the other car.'

'What other car?'

I looked at her. 'The car I crashed into. I'm sorry about the drugs and the money, did it go everywhere?'

'Dan. It was a bomb. Or an IED, as they call it these days.'

'A bomb?'

'Bomb.'

'A bomb bomb? Oh yes. Now I remember. It was the IRA. Oh no, they're gone. It was the Diffident IRA, although they're too shy to claim responsibility.'

'Dan . . .'

'No, in fact it was the Surreal IRA, though I'm surprised, they're usually all over the place . . .'

'Dan!'

I looked at her. 'What?'

'How are you feeling?'

'Fine,' I said.

I had not yet moved my head off the pillow. I tried.

And I wouldn't try that again in a hurry. Everything swam and I almost threw up.

The nurse said, 'Easy there.'

'You're lucky to be alive,' said Trish.

'A miracle,' said the nurse. 'You're lucky she was there.'

'Who was where?'

'You swallowed your tongue, nearly choked to death. Lucky there was a Romanian woman, gave you the kiss of life, got you into the recovery position.' She looked at Trish. 'So will I tell Detective Constable Hood it's okay to come in?'

'No,' I said.

'No?' said Trish. 'But-'

'No.'

There was a jug of water on the locker beside me. I tried to reach for it and nearly fell out of bed. The nurse came to my rescue. She poured, and held it up to my lips. I sipped greedily. She smelled of mandarin oranges and Dettol.

She said, 'The police officer is very keen to-'

'No.'

'All right, dearie, have it your way.' She set the cup down and turned for the door. When she opened it, I caught a glimpse of Hood, sitting on a chair against the corridor wall. He started to get up. The nurse closed the door behind her.

I closed my eyes. Trying to remember.

I said, 'Are they okay?'

'They?'

'I had Jaffa Cakes.'

'Dan . . .'

Coffee. Jaffa Cakes. Big Issue. School kids.

Leg.

I sat up again.

'Bobby?'

'He's gone . . .'

'Gone . . . What . . .?'

'They took him . . .'

Dizzy. I slumped back down. It was flooding back. I held on to the side of the bed to stop it tipping up. I let go and waited for it to settle. I pinched my nose and closed my eyes and took big gulps of air in through my mouth. The Millers. They were not supposed to be able to do that. That wasn't the deal I had struck with Pike. He was supposed to have them arrested in the early hours of the morning. He was supposed to announce a new crackdown on organised crime and that the Millers were in custody and would be charged with terrorism, drug trafficking, murder, membership of a proscribed organisation and playing music in public without the proper licence. As part of the investigation, a number of police officers would also be arrested and charged with blackmail, extortion, murder and other offences related to collusion with paramilitaries.

But evidently not.

I suppose it did not surprise me.

Of course, I knew better than to put all my eggs in one basket. I had a Plan B. I knew I had a Plan B. I was reasonably sure I had a Plan B. I just could not, at that moment, with my eggs scrambled, remember exactly or even vaguely what it was.

'Joe . . .' I said. 'What about . . .?'

'He's down the corridor,' said Trish. 'Broke his jaw, knocked him out, fire bridgade found him just in time, the whole building has gone up.'

'My office?'

'Yep,' said Trish.

'The police know about Bobby?'

'Yes, of course, they're looking for him.'

'Him . . . out there?'

'Yes . . .'

I shook my head. I glanced at my watch. The face was cracked.

'What time is it?'

'What? Oh three o'clock.'

'Three?'

'You were unconscious for . . .'

'It doesn't matter.'

I rubbed at my jaw. My teeth felt like they'd been yanked out, and then smacked back in with a toffee hammer.

The Millers had Bobby. On past form they would torture him until they learned the whereabouts of their missing cash and drugs, and then they would kill him. They were fearless. They had completely ignored my threat to release the evidence against them virally. The only reason I was alive was that traditionally Loyalist paramilitaries are a bit shite at making bombs.

There were raised voices in the corridor.

The door opened and Maxi was standing there, grim.

I managed a smile and said, 'Don't worry, I'm harder to kill than they think.'

But then I saw that he had blood on his shirt, and smudges of black on his face and hands. Hood was behind him, white-faced.

'Maxi?'

His voice was gravel-dry.

'They killed my wife,' he said.

49.

Maxi sat crumpled in the chair by my bed, and he cried, and he cried, and he cried. He was a big man, hard but fair, and as far as I knew, he had spent a lifetime keeping his emotions in check. But now here he was, distraught. It was just plain wrong, like watching John Wayne having a breakdown. Trish had never met him, and knew little about him, but she still sat on the arm of his chair and put her arm around him and he cried even more, against her; and I lay there in bed, knowing, yet again, that I was the reason his wife was dead and his retirement home burned to a crisp. I had drawn him in and the Millers had punished him for it.

Hood stood awkwardly by the door. He said, 'I don't know what the hell is going on.'

And in an extraordinarily fluid movement, Maxi leapt from his chair and grabbed Hood by the throat and began to crack his head back against the door frame. With each bang he spat out: 'Ask . . . your . . . pal . . . Springer!'

'Please . . . stop.' Trish had a hand on his arm. Maxi's purple face turned to her, and he seemed to struggle to place her, and then he slowly nodded and let go of his former colleague, and Hood slid down, clawing at his throat and gasping for breath. There was blood on the door frame. Maxi backed away towards his chair. He tripped on the leg of the bed and stumbled and fell back on to the seat. Trish looked at me helplessly as he buried his head in his hands.

'I don't . . . understand,' Hood rasped. 'We'll be all over this. Why would Springer . . .?'

Before, he had been full of the swagger of a young cop on the make, but I could now see the confused kid in him. He had had two mentors in Comanche Station now one was in bits in front of him, the other was teetering on his pedestal.

Hood felt the back of his head, then examined the blood on his hand. Maxi saw it and wiped his sleeve across his own face. He shook his head.

'My wife, my girl . . .' he said. 'She was . . . unrecognisable.'

Trish stroked the top of his head. It was a soothing motion, but she said, 'Bastards.'