response.
Hawkins took what felt like her first breath in minutes as he stood and retraced his steps to the window.
‘The one good thing to come out of all
this
’ – he turned back to her as he waved a dismissive hand at the noise below – ‘is that it’s given me some leverage with regard to personnel. Your team is on this full time until you hear otherwise, and I’ve secured you some support. You’ve already met the profiler … Hunter, is it? He comes highly recommended, anyway. But you need some permanent help as well. I’m sure you’ll be pleased with who I’ve chosen.’ Kirby-Jones looked at the crowd outside again. ‘In fact, there he is now.’
Hawkins knew what was coming before she stood and walked over to join him.
Thirty feet below them, just about to wade into the seething crowd of reporters, was the only person who could have made her day any worse.
Mike Maguire.
10.
‘Are you coming, Detective?’ Kirby-Jones hovered in the doorway.
Hawkins nodded. Pretending she’d already forgotten they were going to meet Mike downstairs obviously wasn’t working.
She followed the chief superintendent out of the office and along the corridor, struggling to match his long-legged stride as her mind raced. This whole thing was becoming a bad joke: the case alone was nuisance enough, but now she also had to contend with an ex-lover she hadn’t spoken to in months.
What the hell did you say to someone after months without communication when your last words to him had been,
Text me your address and I’ll post you your underwear
?
She’d picked up a rumour shortly after his move north that Mike wasn’t enjoying life in Manchester, and had wondered if he might have returned to the US, where he grew up; his parents still lived in Philadelphia. But Hawkins had been doubtful. Ever since coming to England on an officer-exchange programme, Mike had loved London, and had decided to stay. He’d worked his way up in the Met, despite taking every opportunity to point out how alien to him this quaint little country remained. Now, it seemed, even Hawkins’ equivocal ways hadn’t managed to put him off coming back.
There was no let-up in Kirby-Jones’ pace as they approached the final door leading to the Yard’s lobby. The doors swung open and they strode out into the foyer.
Her eyes darted from face to face: a group of suited dignitaries signing in; two Biotech scientists she recognized from a previous investigation; the counter-terrorist officers who occupied the inner security gates like furniture.
‘Take note.’ Kirby-Jones pointed past her shoulder.
She turned to look at the bank of security monitors suspended above the main desk. On one of the large flat screens, entitled Main Entrance – Broadway, Hawkins saw a shot of the same group of reporters she had encountered earlier. Before them, a statuesque black man with arms raised, was playing to the crowd like some New-Age evangelist.
Mike.
In contrast to Hawkins’ experience of them, however, the hacks appeared relaxed and compliant. Notes were being taken, and suddenly the group guffawed like a drunken football team at a comedy club.
Maguire always had been able to make even the most banal report sound to journalists like an invitation to open day at the government’s restricted files room.
He’d be crowd-surfing next.
‘Don’t worry.’ Kirby-Jones straightened his tie. ‘I’ve already briefed him.’
A moment later, on-screen Mike moved away from the reporters, who began immediately to disperse. He disappeared from the camera’s view and emerged beside the security officers inside the door.
Hawkins watched him being hand-scanned; swallowedhard as he saw them and waved. He looked even sharper than she remembered, in a casual suit over a plain, open-necked white shirt.
He exchanged a few words with the duty officer, who reacted by laughing out loud and patting the American hard on the back before waving him through. Mike
Hawkins took what felt like her first breath in minutes as he stood and retraced his steps to the window.
‘The one good thing to come out of all
this
’ – he turned back to her as he waved a dismissive hand at the noise below – ‘is that it’s given me some leverage with regard to personnel. Your team is on this full time until you hear otherwise, and I’ve secured you some support. You’ve already met the profiler … Hunter, is it? He comes highly recommended, anyway. But you need some permanent help as well. I’m sure you’ll be pleased with who I’ve chosen.’ Kirby-Jones looked at the crowd outside again. ‘In fact, there he is now.’
Hawkins knew what was coming before she stood and walked over to join him.
Thirty feet below them, just about to wade into the seething crowd of reporters, was the only person who could have made her day any worse.
Mike Maguire.
10.
‘Are you coming, Detective?’ Kirby-Jones hovered in the doorway.
Hawkins nodded. Pretending she’d already forgotten they were going to meet Mike downstairs obviously wasn’t working.
She followed the chief superintendent out of the office and along the corridor, struggling to match his long-legged stride as her mind raced. This whole thing was becoming a bad joke: the case alone was nuisance enough, but now she also had to contend with an ex-lover she hadn’t spoken to in months.
What the hell did you say to someone after months without communication when your last words to him had been,
Text me your address and I’ll post you your underwear
?
She’d picked up a rumour shortly after his move north that Mike wasn’t enjoying life in Manchester, and had wondered if he might have returned to the US, where he grew up; his parents still lived in Philadelphia. But Hawkins had been doubtful. Ever since coming to England on an officer-exchange programme, Mike had loved London, and had decided to stay. He’d worked his way up in the Met, despite taking every opportunity to point out how alien to him this quaint little country remained. Now, it seemed, even Hawkins’ equivocal ways hadn’t managed to put him off coming back.
There was no let-up in Kirby-Jones’ pace as they approached the final door leading to the Yard’s lobby. The doors swung open and they strode out into the foyer.
Her eyes darted from face to face: a group of suited dignitaries signing in; two Biotech scientists she recognized from a previous investigation; the counter-terrorist officers who occupied the inner security gates like furniture.
‘Take note.’ Kirby-Jones pointed past her shoulder.
She turned to look at the bank of security monitors suspended above the main desk. On one of the large flat screens, entitled Main Entrance – Broadway, Hawkins saw a shot of the same group of reporters she had encountered earlier. Before them, a statuesque black man with arms raised, was playing to the crowd like some New-Age evangelist.
Mike.
In contrast to Hawkins’ experience of them, however, the hacks appeared relaxed and compliant. Notes were being taken, and suddenly the group guffawed like a drunken football team at a comedy club.
Maguire always had been able to make even the most banal report sound to journalists like an invitation to open day at the government’s restricted files room.
He’d be crowd-surfing next.
‘Don’t worry.’ Kirby-Jones straightened his tie. ‘I’ve already briefed him.’
A moment later, on-screen Mike moved away from the reporters, who began immediately to disperse. He disappeared from the camera’s view and emerged beside the security officers inside the door.
Hawkins watched him being hand-scanned; swallowedhard as he saw them and waved. He looked even sharper than she remembered, in a casual suit over a plain, open-necked white shirt.
He exchanged a few words with the duty officer, who reacted by laughing out loud and patting the American hard on the back before waving him through. Mike
Similar Books
