Stroking the Flame - Prologue. Prologue

“If you really want to conceal something where nobody will think to find it,” Uncle Dom once mused, in a moment of rare lucidity, “then put in plain sight, right under the seeker’s nose.”

Six weeks before Christmas, and peering through the dust mottled net curtains of the stake-out council flat in Bermondsey, as first light began to silhouette the nearby high-rise office block and lighten mounds of snow in the street below, Ben Whitehead was taken by a sudden and incredibly vivid sexual image. Without thinking, and completely out of character, a smile blossomed on his face.

Bad move.

“The fuck are you grinning at, Whitehead?” growled Detective Sergeant Banner, seated to his right beneath a blanket, in the absolute stillness of the room. Ben’s superior purposefully lowered the night binoculars he’d been using to surveil the vacant shopfront of the Greek restaurant on street level. “Whatever it is, spill.”

Thankful for the darkness, Ben cursed himself. Of course he had been thinking about Colin. Colin McCann. Almost a year on and his heart still raced at the thought of his partner. Partner. No hesitation in his self-talk anymore, Colin had firmly established a place in his head and heart as his significant other. Especially so with the particular picture that had just snuck into his thoughts. Colin lying naked face down on the hotel four-poster in Athens reading a magazine, those perfect snowy white globes of his muscular arse bouncing on the duvet, legs wide apart, as Ben had emerged one evening from the shower. It took a huge effort of will not to reimagine the next forty-five molten minutes of that scene. But at least he had the memory to keep him company in this frozen hell-hole, and maybe a replay to look forward to later today, once this ill-fated surveillance operation had finally run its course.

“He’s been like that all year. Ever since his tumble,” came Trainee Detective Constable Longman’s voice from across the room. Bundled up inside a sleeping bag, propped against the wall, knees tucked into his chest, Ben had thought the new recruit was sleeping. “You think it might be brain damage?”

In February Ben had been involved in a murder case that had brought him face to face with brother and sister professional killers. The tumble Longman referred to had happened when he tried to give chase to the brother, Carter Schwartz, through the rear grounds of a stately home. In hindsight, doing so in pitch black had not been such a good idea as he found out when he fell headlong into a ditch, broke his arm and fractured his ankle. On the upside, the case had brought Colin into his life.

“Nah, not the brain,” said Detective Constable Singh, emerging from the small bathroom in the hallway to the sound of a flushing toilet. “Try further south. Reckon he’s got hisself a nice warm pussy waiting to wrap itself around his cock when he gets home later today.”

“Is that so, Ben?” asked Banner, turning to him quizzically. “You got a puss on heat waiting for you at home that you haven’t told us about? Kept that one on the QT.”

“Mind your own fucking business, the lot of you,” he muttered sternly, but when the three men laughed as one, Ben couldn’t help laughing along.

“Objection, your honour. Witness deflection is tantamount to admission of guilt,” said Longman.

“Piss off.”

“Lucky bastard,” chuckled Singh, sitting to the side of the small round table and lighting up a cigarette. “My old woman won’t let me near her at the moment. Four kids is enough, she says. So until I get the snip week after next, honey’s off the menu. Least I might be healed in time for Christmas. Fuck, right now even the dog’s arse gets me hard.”

“Singh!” came Longman’s disgusted voice. “Fuck’s sake.”

“What about condoms?” asked Ben.

“Wife’s not a fan of shrink wrap. And the pill gives her migraines.”

“What do they do, Singh? For the snip?” asked Banner.

“GP says it’s pretty straightforward. No general anaesthetic, just a local to numb around the ballsack. Then they use a knife to cut into each side, fish out the sperm tube—”

“Fuck. Shut up, Singh,” cried Longman, horrified. “Too much information.”

“And then seal the thing somehow, cauterise or tie the thing up—”

“Seaman’s knot?” laughed Banner.

“Then Bob’s your fucking uncle. Back to shagging the missus in five to six weeks, hopefully. Happy New Year. Although I’m seriously not sure I can last that long.”

“Get yourself down the Bell and Whistle Thursday night. Banner’ll take you,” said Longman. Recently divorced Banner, usually discreet with Ben as his only confidante, had taken Longman under his wing during his training. Over a pint, he had inadvertently let slip to Longman about visiting the place. “Divorced, separated and widowed. Ladies gagging for a shag.”

“Yeah, but I ain’t divorced or separated, am I?”

“They don’t know that. Or how about an online hookup?” suggested Longman, a little too eagerly. “Sites like Fling or Dalliance. Twenty five quid a month. Full of bored housewives all wanting a bit of action on the side. Totally safe and private.”

And soulless and shallow, thought Ben, but said nothing. Once a practitioner of the online gay friends with benefits scene, he now thought back to the cold detachment of those days and nights with a shudder.

“Not a chance in hell. If my old lady ever found out—and, trust me, she would—she’d perform the fucking surgery on me herself. With a meat cleaver, kitchen knives and pair of knitting needles. Anyway, didn’t I hear somewhere that queers use those places? To offer straight guys like us blow jobs?”

“And exactly how would you know that?” asked Longman.

“Aren’t homos supposed to give the best blow jobs?” asked Banner.

Conversations tended to get thin on the ground when spending too much time with the same team. They’d already covered work issues, old or cold cases, colleagues—including female colleagues with the best boobs—families, and even plans for Christmas which Ben kept purposely vague. Now that Ben’s mother had passed away in October after her long drawn-out illness, he and Colin agreed to spend Christmas day with Janine and her clan followed by a skiing trip over the New Year. Right now he could sense another of his lads' ugly and intrusive conversations about to raise its head.

“Right,” said Ben, standing up and stretching. “Breakfast. My shout, sarge. It’s probably the last one for this op. Unless you tell me otherwise, I’m getting the usual.”

“Send the newbie. That’s what he’s here for.”

“Sod off, Singh,” said Longman.

“I’ll go if you like. S’gotta be better than sitting here scratching our arses,” chipped in Banner.

Every day and night for the past two weeks they had gone through the same routine. Rarely leaving the upstairs bedroom, watching the comings and goings on street level two floors below, taking turns to eat and sleep. Their cover had been the builders van parked below at the back of the flat, and the plaster and paint stained overalls they wore. To any of the neighbours they were simply a bunch of builders with an urgent renovation job to finish. A good cover, too, because building works were actually ongoing in this two-floor flat above the florists, the company having packed up early for the Christmas break. But Banner knew his men would be ready to jump into action at a word from him. Which is why they had been cherry picked; Ben, Nick Banner and Chandra Singh old hands on the force, and Luke Longman with only two years under his belt, but as old a soul as you could ever meet.

“Saturday morning. McD’s doesn’t open until six,” said Longman, checking his watch, as Ben made for the open doorway. “So you’ll have to hit the Patel-e-deli.”

“Hoi,” chided Singh. “That’s my people you’re dissing, sonny boy.”

Two roads away from the back stairs fire escape sat a row of restaurants including a small deli open twenty-four-seven, run by an Indian family. Hence the men had been fed and watered regularly even though as yet—and now highly unlikely—none of them had caught one whiff of action.

“No, it’s okay, lads,” said Ben, from the doorway, shrugging into his overalls and then his warm overcoat. “I could do with some fresh air.”

“I’ll see you out,” said DS Banner, struggling up from the floor and following him.

“Think we all could do with some fresh air after what Singh just unloaded in the bog.”

“I’ll dump your head in the fucking bog if you keep on…”

Downstairs, Ben checked his wallet while Banner stood to one side. They had joined the force together over ten years ago, and even though Ben was five years Banner’s junior, they were like brothers. Banner’s red curly hair and opaque complexion distinguished him from his colleagues. Handsome in a raw, rugby player kind of way, Ben knew he could rely on the man in any high risk situation, had on numerous occasions. Adverse hours and the tough demands of the job had led to Banner’s wife seeking solace in the arms of a neighbour eighteen months ago, which had ultimately led to their messy separation and even messier divorce.

“Sure you don’t want me to go, Ben?” asked Banner.

“Nah. Stick around and make sure those two don’t kill each other,” said Ben, nodding to the stairs, before turning and catching Banner staring at the bare wooden floor. “You okay, Nick?”

“Yeah,” groaned Banner, meeting his eyes. “Tired. Waste of fucking time again, eh?”

Without needing to answer, Ben simply grimaced and shook his head.

“You don’t think the old man’s yanking our chain, do you?”

Ben didn’t want to let on that he had thought the same thing. But DCI Newnam had served the force for the best part of thirty years and, in the eyes of those who had worked closely with him, watching his rise through the ranks, the man had flawless instincts. Having said that, he was known to play politics. Perhaps he had decided to keep Ben and his crew away from the action after his cock-up on the case before last, where a police officer had almost been killed because Ben jumped into action too quickly.

“You know what they say. Nobody’s intel is bulletproof. So what’re you doing for Christmas?” asked Ben, changing the subject as he began unbolting the door. Like Ben, Nick Banner also valued his privacy and usually edited what he told his two other colleagues.

“Keeping up appearances. For the sake of the kids. Meeting Janice and her new man at a local restaurant Christmas Day. One big happy broken family. Merry fucking Christmas.”

“What about that chick from Bromley?” Ben asked, turning to his friend. “Thought that was going great guns?”

“So did I. Until her ex decided he’d made a mistake. Never even returned a text message after that.”

“Sorry mate.”

“What can you do?” he said, with a grimace and a resigned shrug.

“Next year, Banner. Next year’ll be your year. Mark my words.”

“Yeah, we’ll see. Are we going for a drink after this is done?”

“Don’t see why not. After we’ve reported in. Think we all deserve one or two, don’t you?”

“Yeah, I do,” said Banner, but another thought clouded his brow. “And I need to talk to you about something. Bit sensitive, like. Without the lads listening in. Is that okay?”

“You know it is. Always,” said Ben, even though he had an uneasy feeling in his gut. Hiding his sexuality from his work colleagues had become as natural as breathing but he felt sure one day somebody would stumble on his secret. Maybe somebody had. It would be just like Banner to want to give him the head’s up. So far only DS Chaudhary knew about him and Colin, and he preferred to keep things that way. Banner was not only a good cop, but a loyal friend, so whatever he had to say would be in Ben’s interest.

“So,” said Ben, opening the door and letting icy air flow flutter the loose shreds of wallpaper on the hallway wall. “I’ll use the four-two-three-two. And I’ll switch my phone on. Put yours on vibrate.”

“Roger that.”

When he snapped the front door quietly closed behind him, cutting off the upstairs banter, he heard Banner lock up and bolt the door from the other side. His reason for volunteering to fetch food was only partly true. Something felt off about this case and, officially, he should call his superiors and voice his concerns. But apart from the fact that DCI Newman was away in the US on a conference, he wanted a chance to run things past Chaudhary first. Even though they were not working together right now, he continued to seek her advice and good sense. Besides he’d be meeting up with DCI Newman’s stand-in—hopefully DI Pollard—later and could talk things over with him then.

Descending into the back yard, immersing in a bouquet of mixed floral perfumes emanating from beneath the locked back door to the florists, he walked the few strides to the tall wooden back gate. With a hand clutching the ice-cold handle of black metal he yanked hard. Iced hinges groaned under his effort but gave way. On the street outside, nobody had braved the morning. Flurries of snowflakes whipped up as he stood to survey the scene. Pulling up the collar of his overcoat, he scrunched across the virgin snowfall in the lane and headed towards the main street.

For two weeks they had laid siege to the Greek restaurant, The Athenian, tipped off that the Russian owners were about to land some serious cargo. Uncut cocaine and, if his team had been called in, a shitload. No way would Newnam have sanctioned the stakeout without solid and reliable inside information. But over the fortnight, nothing. Usual trade at lunchtime, mostly from suited workers in adjoining business districts, and then painfully infrequent customers in the evening, leading Ben to wonder how the owners could justify the place. But then, according to Newnam, they had other more lucrative and less legitimate sources of income to fall back on. Last night, from his hotel room in Washington DC, Newnam himself had actually called the team, told Banner to shut up shop at lunchtime. Which would hopefully mean a quick face-to-face with whoever was standing in and then home to Colin’s bed. Maybe he could pick up some take-out Thai food on the way home, preempt Colin’s knee-jerk response to prepare something special for him. Not that he objected to his partner’s home cooked meals. Colin excelled in the kitchen. But he wanted Colin’s other special talents in the bedroom tonight. Sudden thoughts of his partner sunbathing aboard his father’s yacht, the Lady Chatelaine, last September warmed him again and despite the bitter cold, his cock began to swell against his thigh.

When his foot slipped from under him and he almost fell to the ground, bracing his hands against a brick wall at the last minute, all thoughts and arousal vanished.

“For fuck’s sake. Concentrate, Whitehead,” he growled at himself. Fortunately nobody had been around to witness his carelessness.

When he turned into the second street, shops and buildings on either side sheltered him from the worst of the weather. Bermondsey, for all its urban renewal and gentrification, was not one of Ben’s favourite parts of London. Not that he spent much time there, but the district hugging the south side of the River Thames continued to be a hotspot of criminal activity. Although now long demolished, in Dicken’s Oliver Twist, the grim dilapidated wharfs housing Fagin’s homeless boys stood along the river in Bermondsey. Now the site provided a mixture of luxury residential and modern commercial accommodations, owned by the affluent and a far cry from the residents of yesteryear. Crime still continued under those roofs, just very different types of crime with a very different class of criminal. When he turned into the restaurant street he could well have been walking straight into a Christmas scene from the fifties, lined mostly with traditional wooden shop fronts, some with their Christmas lights still burning, with only the once institutional scarlet telephone boxes gone now, and only the omnipresent brown and green recycle bins hinting at a new millennium.

Taking advantage of the lull, he pulled out his phone and scrolled through the names. Nothing would have pleased him more right then than to call Colin and let him know he’d be home that evening. Just the sound of his partner’s voice made him feel more whole, more substantial. Surely he should have been over this phase by now, past the honeymoon period of their relationship. But if anything, the connection between them had intensified. He only hoped Colin wasn’t getting overwhelmed by his constant hunger. Although nothing about his partner’s behaviour indicated that he wanted anything less. In bed, Colin gave as good as he got, which is what Ben loved about him.

Ahead of him, the door to the deli opened inwards and an elderly woman emerged, carrying a small brown package. After hesitating to observe the sky, she shuffled off in the opposite direction. Ben selected the speed-dial number for Chaudhary while stepping into the cloying warmth and pungent medley of freshly baked pastry and smoked meats.

“Usual, love?”

Ben nodded to the Indian lady while waiting for Chaudhary to pick up. On the four occasions he had forked out for breakfast, the sari-clad woman had been there as regular as Singh’s bowels. A force of habit, he turned his head slowly each way to scope out the rest of the space. Beyond a small crack in the doorway behind the counter, somebody—probably the husband—read a newspaper at the table; at six in the morning, two other souls—one a teenaged boy the other an elderly man—had braved the weather and sat at opposite ends of the small cafe-cum-deli, hunched over mugs of hot drinks. Beneath the table, the boy’s cloth newspaper bag spoke of a paper round still to be completed. At the other end, the old man simply appeared lonely, staring through the shop window. Outside, the street remained empty.

“Make the espresso a double. And throw in four of your chocolate mini muffins,” he added, after briefly pulling the phone away from his ear.

“Bloody brass monkey weather out there s’morning, innit?” she said, in perfect cockney augmented by an Indian accent, as her thin hands tackled the industrial sized coffee machine with practised ease. Ben smiled and agreed. Early November had been mild compared to recent years, but the winter had taken hold with a vengeance mid month. According to media sites, parts of rural Britain had been cut off completely, and emergency measures were already in place to drop supplies by helicopter. Media coverage majored on the possibility of a white Christmas rather than the fact that some people might not even have food or heating.

When his call to Chaudhary went to voicemail, he thumbed the red telephone icon to end the call and decided to try later. She might be on another call. But just as he was about to return the device to his pocket, her name popped up on the display.

“Hi Jo,” he said. “Did I wake you?”

“I’d have had to have been to bed for that to happen. I’m down at the station. Dramas aplenty last night. Someone broke into the bungalow of one of our key witnesses. Place got turned over. No idea what they were looking for, but yours truly got called out.”

“The Morgan case?”

“What else?”

Constantine Morgan had been the business partner of Sir Jeremy Winterbourne. Video footage of an American businessman being executed as he sat in his car late at night, parked up in the WinterCorp car park, had come to light earlier in the year. Although the nighttime CCTV video images could not be significantly enhanced, there could be little doubt that the assassin was Morgan’s right hand man, Tomas Hand. Hand had been killed the night of the raid on the Winterbourne estate, more than likely shot by Morgan’s personal assistant, Nichole Schwartz. Unfortunately, except for Colin’s testimony that he had overheard Nichole admitting to that, nothing had ever been proven because she and her brother, Carter Schwartz had vanished. The Schwartz siblings, it transpired, were another story altogether—professional assassins themselves—providing more wheels within wheels than Big Ben’s clock.

While Morgan’s legal team spent months building their defence case, convincingly distancing Morgan from the actions of his deceased henchman, and before the man in question had stepped one foot in the courtroom, he and a female friend died in a plane crash over the Atlantic Ocean off the coast of Tenerife, allegedly due to bad weather. Neither Chaudhary nor Ben believed that. Despite the deaths of the two main suspects, the crown prosecution had continued to pursue the case. Because, according to the British legal system, death does not vindicate the guilty.

“Where’s the witness?”

“Safe house. Has been the past two weeks. Taking no chances.”

“No security detail on the bungalow?”

“Of course there bloody is,” she replied, sourly. “But clearly not enough. So what’s up?”

He understood why Chaudhary could give little away. Highly public and sensitive, information about the case had to be treated with kid gloves. After Ben finally returned to work following a fortnight in hospital and then another ten days of home rest looked after by Colin, he found their partnership had been dissolved. Ben’s tireless work, sound judgement, and quick thinking on the convoluted Morgan and Schwartz case had earned him praise, but his reckless pursuit of Carter Schwartz and consequential hospitalisation had Detective Superintendent—DSU—Callaghan shutting down any suggestion of promotion. Back on the job, he had been assigned to a couple of new cases under the watchful eye of Detective Chief Inspector Newnam—someone he at least respected and who respected him—while Chaudhary continued to work on the dubious dealings of Constantine Morgan with more than a passing interest in what had happened out in the Canary Islands. Following Chaudhary’s lead, Ben went on to explain about the failed stake-out.

“Thing is, Jo, this is the third time Newman’s been wrong on this case. I know he usually has solid intel but I’m wondering if he’s being played by his source. That maybe we’re being distracted while the real deal is going down in another part of town.”

“No,” said Chaudhary, quietly but firmly. “Newnam doesn’t make those kind of mistakes. If there’s something bogus about his informer, he’d be onto them by now. More likely they were tipped off. Who’s there with you?”

“No way, Jo,” said Ben, horrified that Chaudhary would ask if one of his men might be involved. “I’m playing the A team.”

“Not what I meant, Ben. So you’ve got Singh, Bradley, Banner, and the new kid?”

“Not Bradley. He’s on paternity leave. But yeah, I’ve got the usuals including Longman.”

“Fair do’s. You been called in yet?”

“Last night. We shut up shop lunchtime.”

“Today?”

“Yep.”

“There you go, then. So what time are you checking in with Newnam?”

“Callaghan. Newman’s away in the states. Conference and then holiday. Nice work if you can get it.”

“Shit, of course. Look, Ben, just give him the hard facts, okay? And don’t rise to the bait.”

“It’s okay, Jo. Banner’s in charge, remember?”

Most colleagues on the force knew that DSU Callaghan frowned on Ben Whitehead. Fortunately, many of those like Ben and did what they could to help out.

“What time are you all meeting him?”

“Two. Face to face.”

“Good. Then let Banner do the talking and don’t be tempted to interrupt or chip in unless instructed,” she said, her tone firm, but then softening. “So you’ll be seeing lover boy tonight?”

While the elderly Indian lady placed a carrier bag of thick brown paper on the counter, he couldn’t help the sheepish grin that lifted one corner of his mouth. Mistaking the gesture, the Indian woman provided a toothy smile in return before collecting the thirty pounds Ben had placed in front of her.

“Uh-huh. Might take the boys for a couple of pints first.”

“Good call. Send Colin my best. Tell him my mum thinks his banana bread is a knock-out.”

“Will do. And thanks, Jo.”

“Any time.”

Ben was busy grinning at the phone, when the Indian lady’s voice caught him by surprise.

“She sounds nice. Lucky you, eh?” she said, pushing his change across the counter, before running through his food order with him, tapping the lids of the hot drinks before piling on top the other wrapped food.

“One double espresso, three flat whites, three bacon sandwiches, and one heated cheese and tomato panini. Oh, and four chocolate muffins. That should see you right, love.”

By the time he reached the flat, whistling softly to himself on the stroll back, forty minutes had passed. Any scant daylight that was going to grace this dull day already filled the sky. But with the promise of a hot shower, a comfortable bed and his favourite bedtime pastime to look forward to, not even a miserable day could dampen his spirits. As arranged with Banner, he rapped a bare knuckle on the font door panel.

Clunk-clunk-clunk-clunk.

Clunk-cluck.

Clunk-clunk-clunk.

Followed by a balled fist.

Boom-boom.

“Food delivery, ladies.”

While waiting for the door to open, he craned his head over the fire escape to the peaceful scene below. Cars appeared sporadically now beyond the rickety wooden fence, cautiously navigating the snowy lane, but none of the neighbours or other local residents appeared to have risen from Saturday morning slumber.

“Open up, Banner,” he said, after turning back and resting his head against the door.

To focus his hearing, he held his breath. Something felt wrong. Copper instinct on overdrive, perhaps. Too quiet, too still. And something else. A familiar smell—faint but there nonetheless invading the sharp odours of paint and turpentine. Quietly kneeling to the floor, he placed the bag of food on the ground, reached a hand into his coat pocket and pulled out his phone. Despite protests from his men, all of them trained AFOs—Authorised Firearms Officers—guns had not been issued for this assignment. Any serious developments and Ben had complete autonomy to call in the Armed Response Unit. Even if he didn’t always agree with the rules, he knew not to rock the boat. He flicked through the display, found Banner's number and connected. Distantly, from somewhere inside the flat, a phone buzzed, but nobody answered.

“What the fuck,” muttered Ben, a coldness taking hold of him.

Staunching his impulse to take immediate action, he dialled in the situation and waited until he had confirmed backup. Thinking things through clearly before acting had been systematically drummed into him by Chaudhary with her calm professionalism, and, strangely enough, Colin, who Ben had witnessed doing the exact opposite—ignoring logic and cool rationale. One more call to make before he decided what course of action to take.

DSU Callaghan.

“Wait for backup,” came the curt response.

“Banner's phone rang from inside. And he’s not picking up.”

“Doesn’t mean a thing. Remain where you are.”

“Sir, with all due respect, someone could be injured in there. And I might be able to offer first aid or support.”

“You say the front door is intact. No sign of breaking and entering?”

“Correct.”

“Then do as I say. How many times have you been told to stop acting before you think things through properly? Remain where you are until armed backup arrives. You’ve no idea who or what could be waiting for you in there. Our boys should be no more than a few minutes away. I’m coming too. Call me the moment you know what the hell is going on.”

“Yes sir.”

After the call, Ben stood glaring at the phone in his hand. What he wanted to do was to throw the device as far away from himself as he could. What he did instead was to take a few settling breaths before deciding whether to heed Callaghan’s words. Raising his head slowly and scanning the back of the buildings he saw no sign of cars speeding to his assistance, heard no distant sirens although that would not be unusual in this case. Although the man’s words of caution made sense, these were his men inside, trusted colleagues—his friends—and he could not in all good conscious wait around to find out their fate.

Bracing a hand on either side of the door frame, he lifted his size twelve boot and kicked hard. As old and worn as the structure looked, the front door barely moved in the frame. After two more attempts, producing only dust and splinters, the thing began to yield. Eventually, he succeeded by turning his good shoulder—the one that hadn’t been shot in February—to the door and charging with his full body weight. Instead of the door swinging inwards, however, the hinges gave way and he pushed his way into the flat.

Downstairs everything appeared as it had when he left. If anyone was upstairs they would know he’d entered by now, but he heard no movement or sound from above. Step by careful step he made his way up the staircase until he could see into the main bedroom. Nothing appeared out of place from his vantage point except for the corner of a mottled net curtain moving in the breeze. Had someone opened a window? And then the smell hit him. Fresh blood. During his career, he had visited enough crime scenes to recognise that oddly metallic but distinctive smell.

A cautious step beyond the threshold, and the whole horrific scene opened before him. Singh’s body slouched lifeless in a chair at the table, the head lolled forward onto the chest of his bloodstained white shirt. In the ashtray, the remains of a cigarette smouldered still. Banner lay backwards prone on the floor, legs buckled awkwardly beneath him in a pool of blood. His body had been thrown back by the force of whatever had hit him in the head, the eye of the intact part of his face still staring up at the ceiling. Ben almost missed Longman, crumpled in the corner of the room, a huge gaping hole in the left of his skull and spattering of blood sprayed onto the whitewashed wall. Leaning over the young detective, he placed his index and middle fingers over the man’s carotid artery, to the side of your windpipe and found a pulse, weak, but there nonetheless.

Glinting in the light then, Ben’s eye picked out something shiny on the floor, and he dropped down just as the whizz of a bullet cracked a hole in the window and buried itself with a powdery thunk into the wall above Longman’s head. Instantly he rolled towards the sole window and yanked at the cord for the window blind. With a soft rattle and a thunk, the blind fell into place and the whole room became gloom, cutting off from the sniper’s vision. Gripping Longman under the shoulders and cradling his head in one hand, he dragged the young policeman’s body out into the hallway and kicked the door closed. But not before another random bullet pierced an upper panel of the door and sank into the side wall. Struggling to the end of the hall, well out of the range of the trajectory of the shooter, Ben laid Longman up against the wall, trying to gather his thoughts and decide his next course of action. At one point he felt sure he heard a distant shot but perhaps that was a car backfiring. After what seemed like hours, shouts from below brought him back to himself and he crawled for the top of the stairs.

“DS Whitehead,” called Ben, showing his badge to the young police constable breaching the stairwell, who introduced himself as PC Walker. “Don’t let your men anywhere near the front bedroom. Or near the front of the building, come to that. A sniper has the place covered. Two of our men are down in there.”

“Christ! Is he dead, Ben?” came another voice coming from the top of the stairs that Ben recognised instantly. Detective Inspector Bartholomew Pollard. Thank goodness, a friendly face in the drama.

“Hi Bartie—uh, sir. No, but he’s been shot in the head,” said Ben, rechecking the pulse in Longman’s neck. “Lost a hell of a lot of blood and his pulse is barely there.”

“What the fuck happened here?”

Ben glanced at the young police constable before giving Bartie a knowing look.

“We’re under fire. A sniper, probably in the office block a couple of roads behind the Greek restaurant, picked us off in the front room. Took out two of my team. Probably waiting for first light. Can we get a unit over there? They may have scarpered by now, but we should take no chances. And before anything else, we need to get one of our boys to call an ambulance. We’re going to need Longman alive. If only to understand what the fuck happened. I’ll get PC Walker to help me get him into the small bedroom at the back.”

“Roger that. We brought in a fly-car as a precaution. Almost here. Leave the on-site medical attention to them. They’ll do what they can. But I’ll call in the sniper and radio for an ambulance pronto.”

“Thanks, sir.”

DI Pollard did as requested quickly, efficiently, and with a frightening authority to his voice that Ben barely recognised. By the time all three had carried Longman into the spare room and laid him carefully on the make-do mattress—one his men had used to take sleeping breaks—the emergency response medics had arrived. Ben stood by waiting for an initial assessment which came in the form of a sympathetic grimace and shrug from the woman in charge. DI Pollard placed a steadying hand on Ben’s shoulder and was about to speak, but was stopped short by the sound of a familiar bass voice booming from below stairs.

“Whitehead. DC Whitehead! Where the fucking hell are you?”

DSU Callaghan.

“Let me deal with him, Ben. Stay up here with Longman,” said DI Pollard, squeezing his forearm. “Until the ambulance arrives.”

And even though Ben was grateful for the moment of respite—the eye of the storm—he knew from the DCU’s tone that they would be talking very soon, and hoped he would find the inner strength to remain calm.

Because he—they both—had a hell of a lot of explaining to do.