CHAPTER 100
Eric took as much time off as he could, because the problem with cut feet is that there is no way to walk on them without flexing and opening the scars.

I had all sorts of crap to get through that had been on hold for quite a while, not least being the obligatory second opinion that I needed. Sally might sign me off her books, but as the rules stood I needed two separate referrals from the trick cycling people, which meant, quite simply, that I had to relive the whole story all over again to a different face, an oddly neat man called Chandrasekhar. Now, I am far from neat, and Eric always complains about the way I leave tights to dry in the bathroom, next to the empty cup from the tea I drink in the bath, and to be honest my days as Fat Adam were not a hymn of praise to anal retentiveness, but…

“Call me Raj” must align his pens and blotter with a laser.

We still had the best part of a year to go before I could be fitted in for slicing away my past, so he made it plain he was prepared, if necessary, for a long game. Steph had warned me about him, which is cheating, I suppose, but there was a twinkle behind his regimentation. Off we went, and there was exactly what my mole had prepared me for: short, sharp, interrupting questions. Sally had drawn me out, teased my problems from their ingrown tangle, but Raj challenged them. I found myself almost doubting my existence as a woman, reaching into my soul and asking me what I was. It turned out I already knew that one, and so did Eric. It was now just a matter of convincing Raj.

I was healing, though, and eventually I could actually get around without feeling as if my feet were splitting apart as I walked. I tried telling Eric that I therefore needed some nice new shoes, but he wasn’t listening. As soon as I could, I was back on the bike, and the stiffness of the cycling shoes’ soles helped avoid the bending and flexing that hurt so much. It was Den I wanted to see, him and Darren, and the short trip out to each of them gave me a chance to get out of the confines of our house. In between visits to Raj, descents on my place by hordes of ‘family’, and attempts to get myself in the mood to take either of my flutes for a spin, I was getting a little couch-potatoish. It was good to get some blood pumping.

Den seemed to look no better each time I visited. He was having problems with infections, as odd pieces of foreign matter worked their way out through his flesh, and the strain showed. He was back, though, and every now and again, especially when he thought his wife wasn’t looking, I was treated to that smile. I must stress that the smiles were aimed at his wife, not at me; I was just lucky enough to be there for them. They gave me hope, but I was still shocked at how much body mass he was losing. Oddly, he seemed uninterested in the progress of the investigation into his attack. That was, to my copper’s mind, profoundly wrong.

Kirsty had picked up on it as well.

“You’d think he’d want to know what the hell was happening, yeah, and he don’t seem to give a toss. Not right, is it?”

I was interested, though, and although I wasn’t made privy to the details, I picked up enough from Richard to get a general idea.

The people nicked were, of course, three of my old friends, one queen bitch included, and a number of members of a certain North Eastern family. I managed to put two and two together myself when I found out that the Cuthberts’ more legitimate activities were in construction. Their sidelines included stolen plant. There is a tradition of the Irish navvy, and it is largely drawn from life rather than prejudice, but the aspect that is harsher and just as faithful to reality is the Irish organised criminal. Decades of violence and gun law had brought the Irish their own twin mafias, each utterly hating and despising the other but more than happy to work together where they could make money. One of their biggest moneyspinners is stolen plant.

I was only guessing, but it made sense to me. Somehow, one of my perverts had come into contact with one of the Cuthberts, and notes had been compared. Eddy had known Geordie, and Geordie had once dealt with Paddy, who turned out to know the Boys, and for a consideration…

It made perfect sense to me, but it was so extreme, so seriously over the top in its savagery, that I knew there must be more, more that the Met, and Richard, and even bloody Den, wouldn’t reveal. Anyway, at some point there would be a trial. Patience, Sherlock.

At the other destination, Darren was embarrassing in how he wanted to make sure I was properly looked after, and for once I found Naomi’s self-control cracking, as she visibly struggled not to laugh out loud as he bustled about with cups and trays of sandwiches and biscuits. That was what finally decided it for me. I needed to get back to work. I could sit playing hostess to mad friends no longer, I needed to start being fully human again.

As I walked into Custody on my first day back, there was a round of applause, and flowers at my little desk. Absolutely everyone wanted to know how I was, and then how Den was, and then, and then…for a few minutes I regretted my decision to return so soon, and then Nev was in with a shoplifter and my autopilot kicked in. That lasted until just after my meal break, when Jim stuck his head round the door.

“Super wants to see you, Annie”

Knock and wait. It was like being sent to the Head at school, and I almost expected an authoritarian bellow of “COME!”

Instead, he opened the door himself as his secretary busied herself preparing coffee.

“Sergeant Price! Annie! How wonderful to have you back! Now, sit down, sit down, we have things to discuss. Emily, can we have privacy just for a little while? Thank you”

She left us a pot of coffee that made the Inspectors’ sludge seem like some semi-evolved life-form, and quietly shut the door as she departed. The boss was straight to the point, unusual for him.

“There are two things I need from you Annie, and one of them is your discretion. There are heavy and smelly political issues involved here, and we need to present a common face to the foe, or at least the press. You do understand that there is paramilitary involvement in the attack on Sergeant Armstrong?”

“I had guessed that, sir. Stolen plant was my guess as a connection, aye?”

“Very good, Sergeant, very good, and you are clearly wasted in Custody.. Now, as you are aware there is a peace process allegedly in operation in that benighted province. Little adventures like this one put that under scrutiny, and there are elements of that process who tend to have ways of demonstrating their dissatisfaction. Such demonstrations do not…officially disrupt the political process, but bombings like Armstrong’s clearly do. If I say that the gentlemen arrested by our colleagues across the water were assisted somewhat in stepping forward, you will understand.”

“Ah. Would that be how the arrests were so quick?”

“Coffee, Sergeant Price?”

“Ah. Thank you, yes, sir. I assume that is the end of my briefing, aye?”

“You assume correctly. Mum is, of course, the word. Not even Sergeant Armstrong. Now, that award. You showed remarkable courage in responding to the attack, especially after your own traumas. The Home Secretary is aware, and wishes to recognise that in her own way”

“Some sort of presentation, sir?”

“Some sort of Queen’s Gallantry Medal, Sergeant. At the Palace, no less”

“But…what the hell will I wear?”

“Spoken like a woman! Uniform, of course. Best tunic, skirt, smart shoes.”

I sighed. “We don’t get tunics and skirts any more, it’s all cargo trousers and wicking tops and stab vests”

He smiled. “You will find your uniform order filled, Annie. We have ways of finding your sizes, after all. Now, we will let you know when the presentation is due. Congratulations, Sergeant Price”

I rose to go, but had to ask that final question.

“Why not Dennis, sir?”

“His connections to the other suspects, of course. I mean, one of them was his fiancée, after all”