5. A Call From The Tide
Liam O'Connell woke to the sound of rain drilling against glass, and bass beats still pounding in his skull.
For a moment he thought he was still at the club; lights strobing, sweat in his eyes, vodka burning down his throat as strangers moved like ghosts around him. Then the silence folded in. Just his own room. Just him.
He lay sprawled on top of the duvet, one shoe still on, shirt half open, the reek of stale spirits seeping from every pore. His head thudded in dull, rhythmic waves. When he rolled over, the empty vodka bottle on the bedside table clinked softly against another.
Another night. Another failure to escape.
He dragged himself upright, blinking at the daylight leaking through the blinds. His mouth tasted like metal. On the floor by the bed, his phone vibrated again and again, rolling in a slow circle like it too was trying to escape.
Good luck, he thought.
He grabbed it and shuffled into the kitchenette, yanking open the freezer.
Ice-frosted bottles. He snatched one, twisted off the cap and took a long, shuddering pull straight from the neck.
The vodka hit like battery acid, sharp and merciful.
For a few seconds his thoughts burned away; the memories, the flashbulbs, the headlines.
Dark Peak. The look on Sally's face on that terrible, glorious night when he'd become the hero, when things were still black and white.
Before everything went wrong.
He wanted to drink more, keep going until the fire hit his gut and steadied his hands, but his phone was flashing now. He checked the screen through bleary eyes. One new voicemail.
"Liam, it's me. En route to Dungeness now. Get here when you can."
Sally. Her voice froze him.
Flat, controlled, but with that undertone he recognized: the tiny tremor she could never hide when adrenaline and fear braided together.
He played it again, slower, as if he could read between the breaths.
Dungeness.
The word meant nothing at first. He opened his laptop, typed it in. News flashes from Kent Online bloomed across the screen:
‘MAN FOUND DEAD ON DUNGENESS BEACH – SUSPICIOUS CIRCUMSTANCES'
He let out a quiet laugh that wasn't really a laugh at all. Of course Sally was there already.
She'd been rotting behind a desk for months, same as him, their partnership dissolved into paperwork and avoidance, working opposite sides of the same silent room. He'd watched her shrink in on herself: running at dawn every day, drinking her weight in coffee, steadily shutting down.
He'd wanted to reach out. But after Dark Peak, after everything, he wasn't sure what words would do but detonate them both faster.
And now she was back out there, alone.
He closed the laptop and rinsed his mouth under the bathroom tap, then caught sight of himself in the bathroom mirror.
The eyes staring back looked older than they should: bloodshot, rimmed with gray, a ghost of the man who used to dream of making DCI by 30.
As if on cue, his phone rang.
The first call was Director McMaster, as expected. Florid orders to get down to Dungeness. To back up his partner.
When it was over, he stood motionless before the mirror, feeling the blood drain from his face. Not all the liquor in the world could make this sickness any better.
Then the second call came in, a private number.
"O'Connell," he answered.
"Good morning," came the hard, unsparing tone of Director Wilcot. Measured, educated, clipped. Not his boss. Two tiers above, in Organized Crime Command. "I'll keep this brief. You're heading to Dungeness."
"Yes, sir."
"We've reviewed the initial reports. This case has the potential to become high-profile rapidly."
Liam said nothing.
"You are aware of the sensitivities surrounding Officer Rogers."
He stared at the mirror. At the man who looked back. "Yes, sir."
"She remains a media lightning rod. If this develops into another national spectacle, it won't just be Kent that pays for it. We cannot afford another incident where operational control is lost to narrative."
Lost to narrative. That's what they called it now. "Understood, sir."
Wilcot paused. Not long, but deliberate. "I understand your position. You feel a loyalty to your partner. But you do remember where that loyalty led last time, don't you?"
Liam stiffened. Of course he would mention that. He mentioned it every bloody time. The old partner who'd been in bed with organized crime gangs. Who Liam had covered for again and again, not knowing how deep the rot went.
"Yes, I do."
"Yes you do, sir," Wilcot snipped.
"Yes, sir."
"Good lad. I am relying on you. The Home Office is highly sensitive to reputational exposure right now. The Agency cannot afford this officer freelancing under media glare again."
Liam gritted his teeth. Freelancing must be what they called almost dying in the line of duty.
"Understood, sir."
"You have been clear in your monthly summaries that she's restrained herself recently. That is promising. You will continue to monitor and assess. No deviation from standard evidential protocol. If she remains fully within remit, this remains administrative."
Administrative. Like the threat letter he'd received three months ago. Failure to cooperate will be interpreted as refusal of lawful instruction.
He closed his eyes briefly.
"You understand what's at stake for you here," Wilcot went on, his tone chilling.
"Your future progression. Your suitability for senior command.
Your judgement, especially given your facile belief in your corrupt ex-partner.
This is your chance, O'Connell. Prove your past failure was a one-time slip of judgment, not a serious character defect. "
"I understand, sir."
The line clicked dead. Liam lowered the phone slowly.
Months of this. Careful conversations with his own partner, manicured never to lead to anything that could possibly be incriminating.
Minimal contact. Never being alone too long.
Ignoring her outside investigations, while praying every moment that she did not slip up, didn't reveal too much and put him in an impossible position.
And every day that passed, something inside him thinned. He looked at the bottle on the counter. Ice fogged the glass.
The best partner he'd ever had, and he'd been slow-motion betraying her for months now. In any other circumstance, he'd drink until the sound of his own conscience shut up.
But right now, he just had to walk the line one more time. Steer her. Keep his career. Keep hers. In only nine more months her exchange would be over and she'd be gone. That wasn't too long, was it?
He forced a swift shower, cold and bracing, scrubbing off the stink of the night.
He drank two pints of water, ate a dry slab of stale toast then dressed in a clean suit.
Standing at the door for a moment, he couldn't help but feel he was sinking.
The rain outside hammered harder, as if trying to wash the whole world clean.
He grabbed the keys and stepped out of the house. A moment later he returned just long enough to snatch the bottle off the counter.