Moira flinches. The noise feels as if it’ll split her head in two. She swallows down another wave of nausea. Keeps listening.
‘I can do what I want,’ says Philip, his tone getting more pompous. ‘I’m an experienced police officer and I live here. I’m entitled to—’
‘You ain’t entitled to do shit.’ There’s a hard steel core to Golding’s tone now. The volume’s lower, but the level of menace is dialled up to the max. ‘I know all about you, DCI Sweetman – or rather, ex-DCI Sweetman. I did my homework and got in touch with a friend over in the UK who put some feelers out, because I was thinking to myself: what kind of senior meddles in homicide cases? Well, now I know exactly what sort of man does that. I know what you did, and why the British police force had to get shot of you fast.’ The detective’s words have become a hiss. ‘Getting involved in my investigation won’t save you; there ain’t nothing that’s going to do that. You killed that little girl and we both know it. So don’t try and play the big saviour here, because you’re nothing but a liar and a fraud, and if you get in my way again, I’ll make sure all your friends here in this senior community know. Hell, I might even let it slip to the journalists that hang around the precinct too – something fun for them to look into on a quiet news day.’
Philip doesn’t reply. Seconds later Moira sees Golding stride past the ambulance towards the CCTV office. She doesn’t see Philip again. Wonders if she should try and talk to him, then decides against it. She’s not sure she’s stable enough on her legs to climb out of the ambulance anyway.
So she sits in the ambulance and waits. Thinking. Her mind’s whirling at a hundred miles an hour trying to make sense of what Golding had said – that Philip hadn’t just retired, that he’d been forced out; that he killed a child. She can’t make sense of it. Her brain seems sluggish in making connections, like it’s on go-slow. It’s frustrating.
She closes her eyes.
It’s too bright in here. It feels as if the light is boring into her brain.
She feels so very tired.
Moira wakes with a start. Feels spaced out, disorientated. Jarred awake by the rattle of the gurney. Opening her eyes, she sees the paramedics flinging open the doors of the other ambulance and loading the gurney, with Hank strapped on to it, inside. The two original medics, who were treating Hank before he started crashing, climb into the other ambulance. The blonde paramedic and her assistant medic come back inside with Moira.
‘How’s Hank?’ asks Moira, as the other ambulance pulls away, and the lights and siren start.
‘Not so great right now, but he’s hanging in there,’ says the blonde paramedic as she moves across the ambulance to Moira and leans down, peering at her head wound. ‘You should have some stitches.’
‘Can you do them here?’
‘No, ma’am, you’ll need to come with us.’
Moira feels her adrenaline flare. She needs to stay on the case, not sit in a hospital unable to do anything. There’s so much going on – Philip and the revelation from Golding, and Hank being rushed to hospital. ‘I can’t do that. Can you fix it with some butterfly strips?’
The paramedic frowns. ‘I could, but it’s not the optimum solution here, if you come with us to—’
‘Thanks, but no.’ She gives her what she hopes is her most charming smile, although given that she’s feeling so weird right now it’s possible it’s closer to a grimace. ‘Patch me up with the strips. Please.’
The paramedic says nothing for a few moments. Then nods. ‘Okay, ma’am, but I’m noting down that they were your choice.’
‘That’s fine with me.’
She gets to work, putting some antiseptic wash on to a cotton pad and pressing it against the wound on Moira’s forehead.