A Reason to Kill by Michael Kerr

see her, but it was like trying to interview a retard. The light was on, but nobody was at home. I feel sorry for her, but that doesn’t help us. A psychiatrist gave me a lot of psychobabble over how her mind had escaped from a situation that was untenable. She may not remember what went down for days, weeks or months, if ever.”
    “What about the baby? Maybe if he’s taken to her, she’d snap out of it.”
    “I put that to the doc. He said they don’t want to shock her out of whatever state she’s in; that it would be better if she came out of it naturally, when her brain is good and ready to deal with the situation.”
    “Is she under wraps?”
    “Yeah. We’ve kept it from the media so far, but it’ll leak, it always does.”
    “The hitter will kill her if he gets wind of where she is.”
    “I know. We plan on moving her to a private clinic. The bastard must have spoken to her. Whatever’s locked inside her skull could be priceless.”
    “Maybe. Though even a description wouldn’t necessarily help us find the shooter, or tie Santini to it. He could have flown him in from across the pond.”
    “That would be a good scenario for you and Penny Page, Matt. If he’s back in Chicago or somewhere, chugging Budweiser and watching baseball on TV, then you’ve got nothing to worry about.”
    Matt had been looking through the names on the list as they talked. “The priority is digging out whoever served us up to the wop on a plate,” he said.
    “I’ve got Kenny Ruskin over in Computer Crime Section running a check. If anyone on that list is living above his means or looks dirty, Kenny will red flag him, or her.”
    Matt nodded. He suddenly wanted Tom to go. He felt sick and tired. His leg and side hurt, and the need for a Scotch or two, then bed, were becoming more attractive by the second.
    “I think I need to get some kip, Tom. I feel shot.”
    “You were shot, remember?”
    “Is that a poor attempt at humour?”
    Tom smiled. “I’ll make up the sofa bed, and then piss off.”
    “Thanks.”
    Fifteen minutes later, Tom was gone. Matt was sipping Black Label on the rocks. He put the glass down on the coffee table, drew the lounge curtains together, and then lay on the bed and closed his eyes. Sleep wouldn’t come. He missed Linda like hell. Without looking, he knew that her drawers and wardrobe would be empty. The bookshelves in the lounge were almost bare. She had taken all the material, personal items that had made the house a home. He didn’t collect anything. It made him a little sad to realise that he had made no time to read, rarely watched TV, and had no pastimes. Christ, he wasn’t even into sport. He’d played golf, badly, a decade earlier; his clubs were out in the garage, cobwebbed and rusting. It grieved him that he had driven Linda away. Their time together should have been more fulfilling. She had wanted...deserved more than a workaholic cop. It hit him surprisingly hard. He hadn’t got a life. The job was what fuelled and drove his engine. Now, shot-up and feeling totally pissed-off, he wished he’d nurtured their relationship. Nothing grows without sustenance. Love can wither and die like a plant starved of water. And a part of his mind admitted that his being a cop wasn’t making any real difference. The shit he dealt with every day didn’t go away. He had become like a hamster on a fucking wheel, and life was passing him by as he ran on the spot, getting nowhere fast. It struck him that Linda had been a trimming, to kid himself he was a regular guy. If he had really loved her, he would be hurting more, not just feeling sorry for himself. Oh, yes, he missed her, but not enough, or for the right reasons. On one level he knew she had done the best thing by moving on.
    He got up with difficulty. His side and back were sore and his leg ached. After pouring another Scotch he went through to the kitchen. Stared at the wall-mounted phone for over a minute before finally removing it from