Post Mortem, Gary Bell [best fiction novels .txt] 📗

the street and hurtled left instead of right onto Drury Lane, head first into the one-way system.

The blast of a horn; it looked as if the driver of the moped simply didn’t hear it. The next screaming sounds were those of brakes. For a split second, the assailants glowed white in the headlights of an oncoming van, but the moped nimbly avoided the bonnet and left the van to swerve straight into a parked Range Rover. Then the pair were gone, only seconds after arriving.

I made it to Bruce House with nails in my chest, very nearly suffocating on my feet. The first thing I saw was a young woman sprawled on her back, unconscious. It looked as if she’d fainted; I hoped to God that was all that had happened to her. Omar was still moving, jaw clenched, using a single elbow in a sort of half trench crawl for the doors. Blood smeared behind him in a slug-trail across the pavement. I glanced back to make sure Zara was all right and saw her on the phone again.

Omar blinked up at me, almost casually. ‘Hey, man. I think I’ve just been shot.’

‘Try not to move,’ I rasped, dropping to my haunches. ‘Where are you hit?’

‘Shoulder, feels like.’ He frowned, his elbow wobbling beneath his own weight. ‘Have I been shot?’

‘Yes. You’re in shock.’

‘Oh. Right.’ He gave up trying to struggle and simply collapsed down into a plank.

I didn’t know whether or not to move him. I wished I knew first aid. To my right, diners were warily looking out of the Turkish restaurant on the corner. The sirens were loud now, but the street itself was unnervingly quiet. Even Omar Pickett, who must’ve been in agony, wasn’t making a sound.

First came the paramedics, then the police, and before I knew it the whole street was swarming with uniforms amid flickering blue lights. I backed away to sit on the kerb with Zara, who was extremely shaken up and looked close to tears.

I’d only just sparked a cigarette when a familiar voice spoke down at us.

‘Well, what do you know? Elliot Rook QC at the scene of the crime.’

I blew smoke and nodded. ‘Evening, Detective Inspector.’

Linford looked furious. ‘So, which one of you is going to explain to me what my missing informant is doing bleeding out in the back of that ambulance?’

We glanced at one another, and then we told him everything that had happened.

Instead of drinking in the Knights Templar, we spent our Sunday evening going over and over our brief encounter with this supposed cleaner, describing him as best as we could, while Linford’s team moved back and forth between the cordon at Bruce House and chambers.

Rupert Stubbs was on his way to our building by nine o’clock and, as I was no longer required at the scene, I got out of there before he could turn up and pull my pants down in front of all the journalists and investigating officers. Zara desperately wanted to go to the hospital to see Omar, but Linford almost laughed in her face when she suggested it.

‘I’ll have armed officers on that ward all night,’ he snapped. ‘Nobody is getting into that place without a uniform. As for the two of you, I hope you’re happy with yourselves. You’d better pray my informant makes it through the night.’

‘See you in court tomorrow,’ I mumbled; it was all I could think of in the circumstances.

28

As it turned out, I saw DI Linford slightly earlier than expected the following morning. After a long, exhausting night, I wasn’t particularly thrilled to find him waiting for me on the courthouse steps with a manila envelope in his hands.

‘You know something, Rook,’ he sniffed, ‘I never like handing these things out.’

He passed me the envelope. It wasn’t sealed, and it contained a single sheet of paper, which I tipped out into my hand.

‘Oh, Jack, you shouldn’t have!’ I said. ‘My very own Osman warning, and it’s not even my birthday.’

‘There’s something wrong with you,’ he said, turning to walk into the courthouse.

‘How’s Pickett?’ I called after him.

‘He’ll live,’ he said brusquely, glancing back. ‘You’d better take stock of that warning if you want to do the same.’

I found Zara sitting in the public canteen. She looked up and managed a thin smile as I approached, but her expression was almost empty. ‘Let’s hope today isn’t as bad as yesterday.’

‘It hasn’t started out too well,’ I replied, and sent the envelope skidding across the tabletop.

She slid out the warning to read it and her eyes grew larger with every word. ‘When did you get this?’

‘Linford just handed it to me outside.’

‘Fuck! What are you going to do?’

‘I don’t know. Ignore it like I do the pictures on the cigarette packets. Maybe frame it. At least this one didn’t end up on my ex-wife’s doormat.’

‘What?’ she asked, returning the envelope.

I shook my head. ‘Come on, we’d better get ready.’

A few minutes later we were changed into our wigs and gowns and had gone our separate ways. Zara’s case was coming up to the time when her client would have to give evidence, followed by his witness, Omar Pickett – but that obviously wasn’t going to happen. Zara had no choice but to apply for an adjournment. Her trial was listed to start at ten o’clock, whereas mine began at half past.

Her application must have gone well, because I spotted her in the public gallery before we’d even started for the day.

Lydia entered the courtroom only a couple of minutes before the trial was called on. She slid into the seat behind me, and when I glanced back at the sound of her arrival she mouthed a simple enough greeting: ‘What the fuck happened? Are you OK?’

I flicked her a casual thumbs up and felt stupider for it.

The most shocking moment of the morning – even more so than the threat to my life – was seeing Charli Meadows for the first time when she