None of them.
It was the off-duty police officer whose daily run took him over the motorway bridge; who witnessed the whole thing happen and called it in, delivering essential information to control room, but ultimately powerless to stop the tragedy unfolding beneath him. That’s who developed PTSD. Who blamed himself for not doing more. That’s who ended up retiring through ill health; who became a recluse. The bystander.
‘Sorry,’ she said instead. She heard Lexi sigh.
‘It’s okay.’
It wasn’t, and they both knew it, but neither of them wanted to fall out. The next time they spoke, Lexi would talk about the plans for Christmas, and Kelly would say how great work was, and they would pretend everything was okay.
Just like they’d done for the last ten years.
‘How’s work?’ Lexi asked, as though she could read Kelly’s mind.
‘Okay. Same old, you know.’ She tried to sound upbeat, but Lexi wasn’t fooled.
‘Oh, Kel, you need a new challenge. Have you thought any more about reapplying for a specialist unit? They can’t hold it against you for ever.’
Kelly wasn’t so sure. Her departure four years ago from British Transport Police’s Sexual Offences Unit had been rapid and uncomfortable. She had spent nine months off sick, returning to what had been presented to her as a clean slate, but was really a punishment posting. Kelly had thrown herself into shift work, quickly becoming one of the most respected officers on the Neighbourhood Policing Team; pretending to herself she was a uniform cop through and through, when every day she yearned to be dealing with serious investigations again.
‘The attachment you’ve just done must have helped.’ Lexi was persistent. ‘Surely now the bosses can see you’re no longer—’ She stopped abruptly, obviously unsure how to summarise the time Kelly had spent off work, unable to leave the flat without breaking into a sweat.
‘I’m fine where I am,’ Kelly said shortly. ‘I need to go – there’s someone at the door.’
‘Come and see us soon – promise?’
‘I promise. Love you, sis.’
‘Love you too.’
Kelly ended the call and sighed. She had so enjoyed her three-month attachment on the Dip Squad, the unit dedicated to tackling the huge number of pickpockets operating on the London Underground. It wasn’t the kudos of being in plain clothes – although after four years in uniform it had been a welcome change – it was the feeling of actually making a real difference; of making a dent in a crime wave affecting so many people in the city. Since Kelly had joined the job, more and more specialist units had been created: all the serious crimes were now hived off to squads; leaving the Neighbourhood Policing Teams with little more than by-law breaches and antisocial behaviour. Kelly had been back in uniform for a week, and apart from Carl Bayliss’s, the only collars she’d fingered had belonged to kids with their trainers on the seats, and the usual Friday-night drunks barging through the barriers and turning the air blue. Was she ready to go back on to a specialist squad? Kelly thought she was, but when she had broached the idea with her inspector, his answer had been short and to the point.
‘People have long memories in this job, Kelly. You’re considered too much of a risk.’ He’d given her the Dip Squad attachment as a consolation prize; a step up from shift, but with little risk of becoming emotionally involved. He had intended it to satisfy Kelly, but all it had done was remind her what she was missing.
Lexi was right; she needed to move on.
5
It’s unusual to see Katie much before midday; the tips at the restaurant are better in the evenings than at lunch, and she’s never been one for early nights on her days off. Yesterday, though, she was upstairs before ten, and when I looked in on my way to bed (hard to break the habit of a lifetime) she was fast asleep. Now, while I’m lying in bed trying to summon up some enthusiasm for a wet Monday morning, I hear the whine of the electric shower, accompanied by the knocking sound I’d hoped I’d imagined over the weekend.
‘It’s broken.’
Simon makes a sound that might be agreement, reaching an arm above the duvet to pull me closer to him. I wriggle away.
‘We’ll be late for work. I’m going to have to get someone out to look at that shower; it’s definitely not right.’
‘It’ll cost a fortune – you know what plumbers are like. They’ll invoice us for a hundred quid before they’ve even stepped through the door.’