Big Muff.
He was on his back, the blood all over his jacket, his hands fluttering weakly at his chest. I watched the black blood bubble out with his final breath. Then I wiped the blood seeping from the corners of my mouth on the back of my hand and walked from the room.
The Saucy Leper looked as though it had been hit by a whirlwind. Tables overturned, broken glass and puddles of blood on the floor, young men clutching broken heads as their girlfriends wept and raved.
A woman went for one of the Somalians – an older version of Ali, and I wondered if they were all his family – as they were dragging Oscar Burns from the pub. He held her off with a straight arm and did not slow his pace.
On the streets I joined the crowds and we all stared at Oscar Burns screaming for help – somebody help, anybody help me – as the Somalians pushed him into the back of their car, some cheap old French rust bucket, guiding him inside almost gently, everything going exactly to plan.
I glanced at the number plate and saw that it had been covered with duct tape. Simple but effective.
Oscar Burns sat in the back seat between two of the Somalians. He looked back once, his eyes wide with naked terror.
Nobody ever saw him again.
10
27 Savile Row
On a Sunday afternoon in April we climbed to the roof of 27 Savile Row, West End Central, to scatter the ashes of Detective Inspector Curtis Gane.
There was quite a crowd. Perhaps a hundred of his colleagues, old and new, including what was left of our Murder Investigation Team. Leading our procession to the roof was his brother, Father Marvin, wearing his clerical collar and a dark suit, and Mrs Gane fiercely clasping a solid brass urn to her heart as if offering her son some final protection.
I looked over the rooftops of London and, when you turned away from Soho in the east, London looked like a city made up almost entirely of parks.
To the south were St James’ Park and Green Park and to the west Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens, and they all went on forever. Among the green expanses of the royal parks, a host of Union Jacks fluttered crisply above the great buildings of the Mall and Whitehall and Westminster. Big Ben began to chime, as if telling us that it was time to say goodbye.
A hundred police officers watched in silence as Mrs Gane fumbled to open the lid of the urn. She tut-tutted to herself, and her remaining son stepped to her side, gently taking the urn from his mother and unscrewing the lid.
He handed it back to her and she smiled with such sweet sadness that I had to look away.
When I looked back she had stepped to the edge of the rooftop railing and was upending the urn.
The ashes of my dead friend came out as soft as sand and were immediately taken by the wind. The dust glittered briefly in the fading sunlight of that spring afternoon and then it was gone, taken by the wind. Then we hung our heads and silently remembered our lost friend.
Our MIT was back at work now so DCI Whitestone and DC Wren said goodbye to Mrs Gane and Father Marvin on the roof, and I walked them down to the street.
We had said all the words that we needed to say so Mrs Gane just smiled and hugged me and told me to take care of my beautiful daughter. I held her for a second longer than necessary and wondered if we would ever meet again.
Then I looked at Father Marvin.
I held out my right hand.
‘Thank you for loving my brother,’ he said, his voice only choking on the last word, taking my hand but wrapping his left arm around my shoulders, pulling me close for just a moment. But the moment was long enough to make my breath stop with shock.
Because I felt the power in that good man’s arms and as we came apart our eyes met with the secret knowledge that Father Marvin was a better man than I would ever be, a man with the strength to hold a pillow over the face of a soul in torment, and the love in his heart to do it.
‘Our brother is at peace now,’ he said.
Epilogue
Looking at the
He was on his back, the blood all over his jacket, his hands fluttering weakly at his chest. I watched the black blood bubble out with his final breath. Then I wiped the blood seeping from the corners of my mouth on the back of my hand and walked from the room.
The Saucy Leper looked as though it had been hit by a whirlwind. Tables overturned, broken glass and puddles of blood on the floor, young men clutching broken heads as their girlfriends wept and raved.
A woman went for one of the Somalians – an older version of Ali, and I wondered if they were all his family – as they were dragging Oscar Burns from the pub. He held her off with a straight arm and did not slow his pace.
On the streets I joined the crowds and we all stared at Oscar Burns screaming for help – somebody help, anybody help me – as the Somalians pushed him into the back of their car, some cheap old French rust bucket, guiding him inside almost gently, everything going exactly to plan.
I glanced at the number plate and saw that it had been covered with duct tape. Simple but effective.
Oscar Burns sat in the back seat between two of the Somalians. He looked back once, his eyes wide with naked terror.
Nobody ever saw him again.
10
27 Savile Row
On a Sunday afternoon in April we climbed to the roof of 27 Savile Row, West End Central, to scatter the ashes of Detective Inspector Curtis Gane.
There was quite a crowd. Perhaps a hundred of his colleagues, old and new, including what was left of our Murder Investigation Team. Leading our procession to the roof was his brother, Father Marvin, wearing his clerical collar and a dark suit, and Mrs Gane fiercely clasping a solid brass urn to her heart as if offering her son some final protection.
I looked over the rooftops of London and, when you turned away from Soho in the east, London looked like a city made up almost entirely of parks.
To the south were St James’ Park and Green Park and to the west Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens, and they all went on forever. Among the green expanses of the royal parks, a host of Union Jacks fluttered crisply above the great buildings of the Mall and Whitehall and Westminster. Big Ben began to chime, as if telling us that it was time to say goodbye.
A hundred police officers watched in silence as Mrs Gane fumbled to open the lid of the urn. She tut-tutted to herself, and her remaining son stepped to her side, gently taking the urn from his mother and unscrewing the lid.
He handed it back to her and she smiled with such sweet sadness that I had to look away.
When I looked back she had stepped to the edge of the rooftop railing and was upending the urn.
The ashes of my dead friend came out as soft as sand and were immediately taken by the wind. The dust glittered briefly in the fading sunlight of that spring afternoon and then it was gone, taken by the wind. Then we hung our heads and silently remembered our lost friend.
Our MIT was back at work now so DCI Whitestone and DC Wren said goodbye to Mrs Gane and Father Marvin on the roof, and I walked them down to the street.
We had said all the words that we needed to say so Mrs Gane just smiled and hugged me and told me to take care of my beautiful daughter. I held her for a second longer than necessary and wondered if we would ever meet again.
Then I looked at Father Marvin.
I held out my right hand.
‘Thank you for loving my brother,’ he said, his voice only choking on the last word, taking my hand but wrapping his left arm around my shoulders, pulling me close for just a moment. But the moment was long enough to make my breath stop with shock.
Because I felt the power in that good man’s arms and as we came apart our eyes met with the secret knowledge that Father Marvin was a better man than I would ever be, a man with the strength to hold a pillow over the face of a soul in torment, and the love in his heart to do it.
‘Our brother is at peace now,’ he said.
Epilogue
Looking at the
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