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I don’t remember a time when I didn’t know Emily Wilson. Can bring to mind now a yellowing photo of her in a dungaree dress, her hair in bunches, clapping as I blow out candles on a birthday cake shaped like a donkey. You could say that we were friends, but that as a word seems incomplete. She was a part of my childhood, like the trees or the iron railings that lined our road at its steeper excesses, the ones that we would tumble over – in our minds the Olympic gymnasts of the future. She was always there.

I stand there, shivering now, follow Del’s gaze down towards the blue lights and the tarmac. ‘Is she okay?’

The words have left my mouth before I realise that it’s a stupid question. That I haven’t seen an ambulance. That there is nothing here but death.

Del shakes his head.

I stare down at the motorway. This really is a shit day. ‘Do you know . . .?’

‘An accident. Driver said she came from nowhere.’ Del shrugged, trying to be a policeman again instead of a kid who has just seen his classmate dead. ‘These things. They happen, I guess.’

We both stand there, nodding, even though I’m not sure what it is that we are agreeing to.

‘You seen her recently?’

I shrug. ‘I don’t know, maybe like a year ago. We . . . we grew apart.’ When my father died and my world fell apart and the For Sale sign went up, and suddenly my mother and I are whisking away, living in Mumbles, because, darling, that’s where everyone wants to live, and the teenage me screeching that I don’t give a shit where everyone wants to live, that it’s not what I want. But it had all changed anyway, and there was no choice, and so we left. I didn’t see Emily much after that.

Del isn’t looking at me. He is staring out across the dancing blue lights. ‘I bumped into her, couple of months back. She’s a nurse.’ Caught himself, looking back down at where her body lies. ‘Was a nurse. She was taking care of that Lowe boy. You know, the one from the shooting?’

It feels like the breeze has chilled, and I start, look at him. My mouth opens, but before the words can come out, a sound breaks out, an inappropriate musical tone, breaking into the night air. We both turn, staring down at the body – Emily – watch as figures move towards it, towards Emily’s ringing mobile phone. Then, before they can reach it, it stops, and the silence returns, deeper now.

I shake my head, trying to regain my train of thought. But it is gone, lost in the thought that someone is calling Emily, that she will never answer again.

‘The driver . . .?’ I ask.

‘Gutted. Couldn’t do anything about it. Didn’t see her till it was too late.’

I nod. Thinking.

‘You know,’ Del glances back at me, ‘I’d get into a lot of trouble . . .’

‘I’ll sit on the name, Del. Until its official release.’

He studies me. ‘Yeah?’

‘Yes.’ I cross my arms, fix him with a look. ‘I wouldn’t burn you, you know that.’

Del studies me for a moment. ‘You still single?’

I grin. ‘Why Del, are you flirting with me?’

He pulls a face. ‘Yeah, cos that’s what I need. Another bloody woman on my plate. No, I’m just saying . . . I could set you up.’

‘Yeah, whatever.’

‘No, seriously. That guy down there,’ he points down towards the murky figures who knot around the police cars, ‘he’s single. Nice guy.’

‘You mean the one who’s up-chucking on the hard shoulder?’

He winks at me. ‘That’s the one.’

I laugh. ‘Thanks, Del. I think I’m okay.’

‘Well, if you’re sure . . .’

I watch the figures. I can see heads glancing up towards us, know I have to tell him to leave because soon he’ll be in trouble. I pause for a moment. ‘Del?’

‘Yeah?’

‘What shoes was Emily wearing?’

Del gives me a long look. ‘Seriously, Charlie. My wife’s a thousand months pregnant. That should tell you that I’m not gay.’

‘Ha-ha. Rapier wit. Just . . . was she wearing heels?’

‘I . . . yeah . . . I had to collect one from . . . Yeah, she was.’

I look. From left to right. Down the precipitously steep bank. ‘Then let me ask you this. How the hell did she get there?’

He frowns. ‘How do you mean?’

I flick my fingers along the westbound carriageway. ‘It’s three miles to the nearest exit.’ Back along the eastbound. ‘Two that way.’ Down towards the embankment. ‘This is pretty steep all the way along. So how the hell did she get here? I mean, say she did walk. It would have taken her a while. You would have had reports of someone walking along the M4.’

Del nods, thoughtful.

I fold my arms across my chest, suddenly cold. ‘Unless, she was dropped off here. Unless someone left her.’

ADEN TRIED NOT
to breathe. Kept his tread soft, heavy boots crunching lightly against fallen leaves, ground that had not seen rain in far too long. A breath of air, the first of a stiflingly hot day, wound its way through the darkened trees, making the leaves whisper and dance. Beads of sweat worked their way from beneath his ballistic helmet, trickling down, along the sides of his face. The sub-machine gun heavy in his hands.

He could see the lights in the distance, the orange glow of the hospital car park bisected by the black of trees. Could just about make out the boxy outline of the hospital building, low-slung, the occasional splotch of white light from unshielded windows. The odd flutter of movement as dark figures passed before the light. Aden thought about how easy it would be to shoot them. Pick a spot, somewhere in between the trees, somewhere with nice clear sight-lines, drop to one knee, steady, steady, making sure that your target – the splotch of light, the figure within – sat central within your scope. Squeeze the trigger. He could feel it, the movement of the cold metal, the recoil, the boom that seems to come from far away. And then, seemingly all at once, the shattering of glass, the figure folding into itself, vanishing from the light.

Two nights in a row, the same call to the control room. Man with a gun seen at Mount Pleasant Hospital. They had been kitting up, still in the station when the orders had come through, Aden just about ready to head out, Rhys running in, late as usual, having to throw his kit together just so they could make it out of the door. Tonight, thought Aden. Tonight he would find him. Aden gathered his breathing, adjusted his grip, slick with sweat now, his gaze playing against the dark shapes of the trees, the shadows that seemed to form an army. Listened.

There were footsteps behind him. And for a second, just a second, Aden’s heart stopped. It was as if he had forgotten about Rhys; the darkness and the shadows and the chattering leaves had convinced him that he was out here all alone. He paused in his movement, spared a glance back over his shoulder at where the younger man stood, his weapon held high and level, ballistic helmet pulled low over his brow. Rhys’s face was set, lips pulled so tight that they seemed to vanish, his gaze sweeping across the trees.

It was the boy’s second week back. Boy. Rhys Malloy was hardly a boy. Not really. Maybe ten years younger than Aden’s thirty-four. But Rhys seemed like a boy. With his wide eyes, olive skin, the kind of looks that the ladies went nuts for. Aden knew this – they told him. The female officers he shared coffee breaks with, went through training with, bumped into in the gym. They all had the same question. When’s that hottie Rhys coming back?

Aden caught the younger man’s gaze, held it. Okay? A silent nod.

Aden turned, shifted his grip on the G36. Flicked the narrow torch that he carried at the trees. Where are you? Where are you, you bastard?

Aden measured his step, keeping his tread cautious on the uneven ground. The man had been seen running through the hospital corridors, had vanished before security could get there (and for this Aden offered up a silent prayer of thanks), out through the sliding doors, the puddled light of the car park. Into the woods. Was he waiting? A dark figure sitting up against the shadow of a tree, watching their torchlight dancing towards him, his weapon raised, his finger on the trigger. Aden’s heart thudded in his ears, and he shook his head slightly. Calm down. Concentrate. Then something else, a memory of rain and blood, breaking through the way it always did. Aden gritted his teeth, forcing his breathing to slow. Not now.

Then Aden heard a sound, one that seemed to come from nowhere. It filled the air, getting louder and louder. A bright beam of light swept through the trees, breaking up the darkness. The trees looked like sheepish adults caught in a game of musical statues. Tuk-a-tuk-a-tuk-a-tuk-a. Aden looked up, shielding his eyes from the downdraught of the helicopter as it swept overhead. The light marching from left to right, right to left.

This would be it. If he was in there, if he was hiding, this is when he would run, flushed out by the chase. Aden felt his finger hard against the trigger, scanning the treeline. Waiting. Aden tried not to think about the last time, with its driving rain and the darkness that was so absolute, trying not to think about the blood and whether the trigger would move. It was just like training. That was all.

Then, after minutes or hours, a crackle of static, the radio sparking to life.

‘Yeah, Whisky Tango Three Eight, we got nothing up here. No visual. No heat signatures. Your boy’s rabbited.’

Again.

Aden stopped, sighed. He lowered his weapon, thumbed the radio. ‘Okay, roger that, Hotel Lima Nine Nine. Thanks for the help, guys.’

‘Any time.’ Then the helicopter lifted, the wind dissipating as it climbed, and suddenly the light was gone.

‘Shit!’ Aden could feel the adrenaline roller coaster begin to enter its downward slide – so many chemicals, nowhere to go. He kicked at a fallen branch, a lacklustre effort that made him feel no better.

Rhys had lowered the G36, pushed his helmet back. ‘Thought we’d get him tonight.’ He looked to Aden like a little boy home from school.

Aden stood, eyes roaming across the darkness, the trees that seemed now to be crowding in, closer than they had been before. Where are you, you little bugger? He let his gaze run from the brightness of the car park, hugging the side of the building, closer, closer, turned, peering through the trees. There were more lights through there. Street lights, little orange dips of colour.

‘That’s Mullins Road, right?’

Rhys looked, gaze following Aden’s nod. ‘Yeah. But the other ARV has swept it.’

‘Maybe he’s leaving a car there. Ducking through the woods, out that way and into a car,’ said Aden.

‘Maybe,’ shrugged Rhys. ‘There’s no CCTV there, though.’

Aden glanced back at him. ‘There’s not?’

Rhys shook his head. ‘I worked a couple of cases there when I was in uniform. Residents were always complaining that the cameras hadn’t worked in years. And you know how that goes.’ He sighed, shifted the weight of the weapon. ‘You want to head back?’

Aden stood, staring through the trees at the street lights beyond. ‘Let’s just pop into the hospital for a second.’ He could see Rhys’s expression, see his fight between deference and confusion, and Aden grinned. ‘You’re allowed to say it, you know.’

‘Um, okay. Why? Aren’t CID going to do the follow-up now?’

Aden nodded. ‘Yeah. But I’m curious. Let’s just go and have a look.’

The light of the lobby was jarring after the darkness. It was quiet, few people moving about this late at night. But Tony Waterton stood at the centre of it, G36 held loose in his hands, his face set like he was ready for war. He looked at them. ‘Nothing?’

‘Nah.’ Aden shook his head. ‘We’re just popping up to the ward.’

Tony gestured across his shoulder to the toilets. ‘Just waiting for Kate. We’ll do another sweep inside before we head out.’ He shifted the gun. ‘See if we can flush this bastard out.’

‘Call us if you need us.’ Aden turned to the left, pulling at the door that closed off the stairwell, and took the stairs two at a time, his gun jostling against his hip. ‘It was Ward 12, yeah?’

Rhys trotted to keep up. ‘I think so.’

‘So, I meant to ask, how are you doing? Being back, I mean. You finding it okay?’ Aden didn’t look at Rhys, instead studying his boots, the tread against the steps.

‘It’s . . . it’s fine. A bit . . .’

‘Bit of a shock to the system?’

Aden glanced across, saw Rhys’s nod, the downturned eyes. It had been almost a year. A year in which Rhys and Tony stepped out of their lives, back into uniform – not that you’ve done anything wrong, mind, it’s just procedure; just a couple of months while the IPCC investigates. A couple of months that grew and grew, until in the end it seemed that the two were never coming back to Firearms. And everyone said, everyone knew, that they had done the right thing, that they had done the only thing they could do, that by pulling the trigger they had saved their own lives, and Aden’s too. But this was the way it worked, whether you were right or not. And Aden was lucky. That he hadn’t had to go through it. Because, after all, he hadn’t pulled the trigger.

Aden tugged at the door, harder than he intended to, studying the ward signs up above, anything to distract himself from that night. Took a right. The security guard stood before the doors of Ward 12, his arms folded, face grim. He had to be approaching seventy. His gut lolled over the top of his trousers, his blue shirt straining at the buttons, a grey cowlick, curling above his forehead. Aden fought back the urge to shake his head. If the gunman came back, this guy would be the first one down. ‘All right, mate? Firearms police. Need a chat with the witness.’

The man nodded, slowly, eyes taking in the uniform, the weapons. ‘See some ID?’

Aden heard Rhys sigh behind him and fixed a smile on his own face, pulled free his warrant card. ‘PC Aden McCarthy, officer number 492. This is PC Rhys Malloy, 1077.’

The man took the card, studied it for longer than was necessary, then, without looking at them, reached behind him and gave the ward door three sharp raps. A moment, two, then the intercom sparked to life. ‘Yes?’

‘Got police here for you. Need to see the witness.’

A pause and then a long buzz, the door swinging inwards.