McLean took one cut hand in his, unwilling to move her any more than necessary, even though he doubted she would ever walk again

Fighting for breath, McLean forced himself to his feet, back out of the doorway that had offered him protection. The van careered back on to the street, fighting a way through the traffic like a drunk boxer. He couldn’t see any number plate on the back of it and in seconds it was gone around a corner, off in the direction of Holyrood Park.

Constable Kydd lay 20 feet away from the doorway, her body twisted cruelly.

McLean looked around for the airwave set, seeing only pieces of broken electronics spilled into the road. His own mobile was useless.

Why on earth wouldn’t it hold a charge? He pulled out his warrant card, ran into the path of the nearest car, slammed his hands down on the bonnet. “You got a phone?”

The startled driver pointed at something in a holder suction-mounted to the windscreen.

“I wasnae using it. Honest.”

“I don’t care. Hand it over.”

McLean grabbed the phone even before the driver had it out of the window. He keyed in the number for the station.

Didn’t wait for the preamble that he knew would be coming.

Glazed over

“Pete? McLean. I’m just opposite the Pleasance. There’s been a hit and run. Constable Kydd’s down. I need an ambulance five minutes ago.

“And put out an APB on a white Transit, plate unknown. It’s going to have a bloody great dent in its bonnet though.

“Probably a broken windscreen too. Last seen heading down the Canongate towards Holyrood.”

Still clutching the phone, McLean ran to where Constable Kydd was lying.

Blood was leaking from her mouth and nose, bright and bubbly. Her hips shouldn’t have been able to twist the way they were, and he didn’t want to know about her legs.

Her eyes were still open though, glazed over with shock.

“Stay with me, Alison. There’s an ambulance on the way.”

McLean took one cut hand in his, unwilling to move her any more than necessary, even though he doubted she would ever walk again.

If she even made it the next five minutes. Somewhere in the distance, a siren started to wail. The cheap plastic chair was uncomfortable, but McLean hardly noticed the numbing in his buttocks as he stared across the empty waiting room at the noticeboard and its unseen leaflets.

Even now the journey across town in the ambulance was jumbling into a confused series of flash-images.

A paramedic talking to him in a voice he couldn’t hear; kind but firm hands prising his grip from Constable Kydd’s.

Trained professionals were working what scant miracles they could, fitting neck brace, back brace; lifting the twisted figure into the ambulance.

A figure so small, so young; a journey across town to a hospital he’d hoped never to see again; serious faces with serious words like operation, emergency surgery, quadriplegic.

And now the slow wait for the news he knew could only be some shade of dreadful.

A soft rustling in the air as someone sat down beside him.

McLean didn’t need to turn to know who it was, he’d know that perfume anywhere. A mixture of paperwork, worry and just the tiniest dab of Chanel.

“How is she?” Chief Superintendent McIntyre sounded tired. He knew how she felt.

“The doctors aren’t quite sure how she was still alive when she got here. She’s in surgery right now.” “What happened, Tony?”

“It was a hit and run. Deliberate. I think they were trying to get me.” There. He’d said it. Given voice to his paranoia.

Deep breath

McIntyre took a deep breath, held it a moment as if daring herself to go on.

“Are you sure of that?”

“Sure? No. I don’t think I’m sure of anything any more.”

McLean scrubbed at the dryness in his eyes. Wondered if tears would be misconstrued.

“She saw it coming. Constable Kydd. She pushed me out of the way.

“She could have saved herself, but her first instinct was to save me.”

“She’s a good copper.”

McLean noticed that McIntyre didn’t add: “She’ll go far.” Chances were she wasn’t going anywhere ever again. Not without wheels.

“What were you doing there, anyway?”

And now the difficult part.

“We were on our way back to the station. Constable Kydd was helping to ID someone who came to my apartment the other night when I was out.

“My neighbour saw him acting suspiciously.” God, he sounded pathetic. “McReadie?”

There was the slightest hint of question in McIntyre’s voice, but McLean could tell she wasn’t expecting an answer. He nodded anyway.

“So why wasn’t Sergeant Laird carrying out the investigation? I told you, Tony. Steer clear of McReadie. He’s playing with you.”

“He’s trying to kill me, is what he’s doing.” “Are you sure of that? Don’t you think it’s a bit extreme?”

“No, because the bastard planted 50 grand and a kilo of cocaine to try and set me up, but I didn’t do what he expected me to, so now he’s taken the direct option.

“It’d be very hard for me to testify against him in court if I was dead.”

“Give it a rest, Tony. Melodrama really doesn’t suit you.

Interviewed

“And anyway, according to the duty sergeant, at four o’clock this afternoon when you called in the accident, Fergus McReadie was being interviewed at the station, along with a lawyer so sharp he probably cuts himself getting dressed in the morning.”

“He wouldn’t have done something like this himself. He’d have paid someone.

“I bet you he volunteered to come in this afternoon, too. Make himself the perfect alibi.”

McIntyre let out a long, slow breath, slumped her head against the wall.

“You’re not making this easy for me, Tony.” “I’m not making it easy?”

He turned to face his boss but she wouldn’t return his stare. Talked instead to the empty waiting room.

“Go home. Get some sleep. You can’t do anything here.”

“But I need –”

“You need to go home. If you’re not in shock already it’s going to hit soon enough.

“Do I need to make it an order?”