As Tina crossed the landing and went into her bedroom, her feet bare, she felt something sharp dig into her big toe. She stifled a whimper as she inspected the carpet and stumbled, landing on her bed. She inspected her toe and picked out a small whitish piece of plaster, about the size of a garden pea.
The sound of footsteps, light but hurried, taking the stairs two at a time, made her turn towards the bedroom door. A small tap followed.
‘Tina? You okay?’
It was John. She got up and, avoiding the dust patch on the carpet, padded over to open the bedroom door.
‘Yes, I’m fine,’ she said.
‘I heard you cry out and then a bang,’ he said, looking beyond her shoulder into the room.
‘I trod on something and stumbled. I’m fine, honest.’ She turned to look back at the offending dust pile. ‘Dimitri’s been leaving a trail of dust and dirt for me to clear up. He had an old cardboard box earlier.’
John followed her gaze. ‘Oh, sorry! A bit of overkill on my part.’
‘Possibly. I think I’ll be safe now. As far as I can see, no more booby traps for me to avoid.’
She met his look, suddenly very conscious of how close they were to each other.
‘Right. Okay.’ For the first time he didn’t sound so in control. He backed away a few steps. ‘I’ll … er … leave you to get some rest. Goodnight, Tina.’ He turned and she could hear him taking the stairs nearly as quickly as he had come up them.
She closed the bedroom door and sat down on her bed. What happened there? She wasn’t quite sure. In the briefest of moments an unspoken sense of mutual awareness had passed between them. A depth of awareness she hadn’t experienced for a long time.
Tina closed her eyes. So much was happening right now, maybe her senses were simply heightened, feeding her imagination.
John eyed Martin across the table of the café they had met in to discuss the Porboski case. He didn’t like what Martin was saying, but knew it had been coming. Martin leaned in closer.
‘Look, John, the bottom line is, if Pavel fails to turn up this weekend and we don’t get any further intel on where he is, then Brogan will be calling you back to HQ. He’s griping about man-hours on searching through CCTV and enquiries that are leading nowhere. At the moment, our only saving grace is that we have definite ID on our guests from Stockholm and that Baz Fisher is still missing.’
‘Where the hell could he have gone?’ said John.
‘No one is talking. It’s not looking good.’ Martin took a mouthful of coffee. ‘Apparently, there’s some movement on another case that Brogan wants to follow up and, as far as he’s concerned, he’s paying you to do nothing more than babysit,’
‘Bollocks,’ muttered John, his frustration simmering.
‘Brogan’s getting stick from above. The recent robberies on the post offices in the Hackney area is attracting attention. The local media has been full of it this week.’
‘The post office is well insured,’ said John. ‘Does Brogan want to tell that to Neil’s widow that despite reliable intel, we’re not going to bother too much about catching the killers?’
‘Listen, mate,’ said Martin. ‘This is me talking to you as a friend. Off the record.’
‘Why do I get the impression I’m not going to like what’s coming?’
Martin ignored John’s comment.
‘I know how much this case means to you. We all do. But, mate, this guilt that you carry around with you the whole time, it’s not doing you any favours. Some things you have to let go.’
‘And some things you can’t.’
‘You’re not responsible for what happened at the Moorgate robbery.’
John looked out of the window. Martin had no idea what he was talking about. This was a conversation John didn’t want to have. ‘Thanks for the advice, but let’s just drop it now.’
Martin let out a defeated sigh. ‘That counselling you had worked, then.’
It was John’s turn to ignore the remark. He rubbed at his scarred shoulder.
The counselling – it had been part of his rehabilitation back to work after the shooting. A condition that he had begrudgingly adhered to. He knew the game and played by the rules. He had made all the right comments, said all the right things. He hid his guilt. He hid his need for justice. It paid off and he had been declared fit to return to work, but he had never once lost sight of what he needed: atonement.
Chapter 15
Tina sat on the edge of her bed to fasten the strap of her shoe. Black, strappy sandals to go with the black, strappy dress she had picked to wear for the work’s do. It was a simple shift dress with a few beads embroidered around the neckline to add a bit of sparkle. She hadn’t worn it for several years; it was sitting in the back of her wardrobe. She remembered the last time she had worn it, on a night out with Sasha. It was his birthday. It was the last birthday they were to spend together. Guilt brushed the back of her neck, sending a small shiver down her spine.