Chapter 0 #3
The wee loon watched her eating, clutching his unused chopsticks to his stabproof vest. ‘But I’m famished . . .’
She gave him The Look.
‘OK, OK: Operation Basilisk is all those Lithuanian teddy bears coming into the country, stuffed full of drugs.’ Wriggling in his seat, whimpering like a Jack Russell terrier on the verge of starvation. ‘Pleeeeeeeease, Guv, can’t I just . . .?’
Gah . . .
She rolled her eyes, then held out the open carton, so he could steal a spring roll. Because never let it be said she wasn’t kind to small animals.
His chopsticks flashed, grabbing a crispy tube of delight. All whingeing forgotten. ‘Thanks! That’s—’
A flash of searing light tore through the small business park, slashing at Roberta’s eyes – then the BOOOOOOOM! arrived, riding the shockwave.
The patrol car’s windscreen shattered, hurling a blizzard of safety-glass shrapnel into her face and chest, as the blast rocked the car back on its springs.
She raised her arms to protect herself, even though it was far too late for that.
Then the car’s back end jerked upwards as a dishwasher-sized chunk of offshore-valve-equipment slammed into the bonnet, tearing through the metal with a shrieking CLANG! and burying itself in the engine block.
Her airbag went off – the white fabric zooming into focus as it shoved Roberta back in her seat, blocking out the tattered windscreen and adding the fizzy-pepper spice of gunpowder to the air. Competing with the choking fug of whipped-up dust.
And in the aftermath, the only sound was the deafening howl of tinnitus, like a thousand rape-whistles screeching in her ears.
She battered the airbag out of her face, deflating the thing, shoving it away. ‘JESUS CHRIST, WHAT WAS THAT?’
Tufty’s bag had inflated too, so she battered it down as well.
The wee loon was all squint in the driver’s seat, caught side-on as he went for a spring roll. Glassy-eyed and shaking his head, blood dribbling down his cheeks and forehead. Mouth hanging slack. The same expression he usually had after six pints.
‘TUFTY! ARE YOU OK?’
No answer.
Outside, a blanket of glowing white smothered the world, as if this morning’s fog had returned for revenge. Only instead of water vapour, it was dust – so thick that the car’s crumpled bonnet faded away about halfway down.
‘CONSTABLE!’ She grabbed Tufty’s arm. ‘CONSTABLE QUIRREL, CAN YOU HEAR ME? ARE YOU HURT?’
He blinked at his hands, and then at her. His eyes widening. ‘GUV? ARE YOU ALL RIGHT? GUV?’ Reaching across the car, his trembling fingers touched her cheeks.
She slapped his hands away. ‘GET OFF ME, YOU IDIOT!’
Opening the car door, Roberta staggered out onto the tarmac.
The wail of car alarms filtered through the tinnitus, accompanied by people screaming.
Sodding hell . . .
She grabbed her peaked cap off the dashboard, shook the safety glass out of it, then crammed the thing on her head. ‘YOU:’ pointing at Tufty, ‘CALL FOR BACKUP!’
‘WHAT?’ He struggled out of the car, but his legs didn’t seem to be working properly and down he went. ‘EEEEK!’
‘OH FOR GOD’S . . .’ Roberta punched the button on her Airwave. ‘DI STEEL TO CONTROL, WE NEED BACKUP AT SILVERMOSS BUSINESS CENTRE, WESTHILL.’
. . .
No reply.
Unless . . .?
‘CONTROL?’ She turned the volume up full. ‘HELLO?’
A barely audible voice whispered out of the handset: ‘No need to shout. Any reason you want—’
‘I NEED BACKUP NOW! FIRE AND AMBULANCE TOO.’ She lurched out into the dust, making for where the press conference should be. If it were visible. Following the shrieks of pain.
Coughing and spluttering.
Every breath burning.
Ghostly bodies came into focus through the gloom. Some sat on the tarmac, moaning. Others were sprawled across the ground, not moving.
Oh God . . .
She knelt and felt for a pulse on a middle-aged bloke in a torn shirt and bloodstained trousers. Gash across his forehead.
Come on, you little—
Yes. Unconscious, not dead.
Roberta slumped. Took a deep breath. Coughed. Coughed some more. Then arranged Mr Still-Alive into the recovery position, and moved onto the next prone figure: another middle-aged man, a placard’s handle lying across his slack palm. ‘IT’S TIME FOR A BETTER brITAIN!’
She was still struggling to find a pulse when he groaned, so probably still alive. Recovery position.
A woman ran past, clutching one arm to her chest, blood streaming down her face from a tattered hairline.
Yeah . . . This whole situation needed more than just one sexy Acting Detective Inspector and a halfwit PC with concussion.
She pressed the Airwave button again. ‘EXPLOSION AT BUSINESS PARK! MULTIPLE CASUALTIES. POSSIBLE FIRES, DON’T KNOW.’
‘Backup on its way. Secure the scene.’
‘WHAT?’
Why did everyone have to mumble?
Roberta fiddled with the volume again, but it was already as loud as it would go. ‘HELLO?’ She gave the handset a shake. ‘WHAT’S WRONG WITH THIS BLOODY THING?’
There were no more unconscious bodies here, so she lurched on into the dust, waving one hand in front of her to clear some of it away – which made sod-all difference – the other clasping a hanky over her nose and mouth as a makeshift breathing mask.
Scattered chairs.
A digital camera.
A vague grey shape resolved itself into a small knot of journalists and, going by the cluster of fallen placards, rent-a-mob supporters. About six of them in total, and half were motionless, lying beneath a chunk of corrugated-metal sheeting.
Right, that needed shifting.
But before she got there, Graeme Anderson strode out of the dust cloud.
A cut snaked its way across one cheek, scarlet dribbling down to soak into his shirt.
He took one look at the fallen, got both hands under the metal sheet and wrenched it up and away.
Letting it fall to the side with a reverberating clang that cut straight through the high-pitched screech in Roberta’s ears.
Then Anderson slipped his suit jacket off and draped it over one of the injured journalists.
A couple of reporters already had their cameras up, filming and snapping away, even though the dusty bastards should’ve been helping the injured.
Hope all their pictures turned out crap. Wasn’t as if they’d get much, anyway: with the sun blazing down on all this dust, it was like wading through milk. But milk that tasted of stale bread, mouldy jam, and raw mince . . .
Roberta had another go at wafting it away. ‘ANYONE SEE WHAT HAPPENED?’
Anderson helped one of his rent-a-crowd sit up – a large gammony man in tears, both hands curled into bloody claws.
And still the sodding press were more interested in getting this on film than sodding helping.
She tried her dodgy Airwave again. ‘WHERE’S MY BASTARDING BACKUP, YOU USELESS BUNCH OF—’
CLUNK.
It was almost as loud as the initial blast.
Then a galaxy of stars exploded straight through Roberta’s skull and out through her eyeballs. Sharp and callous. So bright that they turned the dust-cloud grey, then the colour of clay, then black . . .
The tarmac rushed up to meet her knees as they buckled.
She blinked.
But nothing was in focus anymore.
And everything went—