At home he kept the old Honda 250 chained to a concrete pillar under the flats next to the wheelie bins. He let it be known that if anybody messed with it, it he had easy access to chemicals that could dissolve a body down to nothing in a couple of hours. Pure bullshit, but so far the local toerags had kept their thieving hands off it.

Now he unchained the bike and fired it up, letting it warm through while he zipped up his jacket and got himself together.

Someone had attacked the boss. Bad, Kelly had said. The idea left him shaky. More shaky maybe because he saw the after-effects of violence every day. He’d helped clean up after domestics and home invasions that ended in a bloodbath.

Where? he wondered, buckling the strap on his helmet. He didn’t ask why. He’d long since stopped looking for reason. A funny look, a spilled pint, a nice pair of trainers. All good enough cause for a fist or a quick blade.

But Ray McCarron wouldn’t be an easy target. He’d been a copper—still had that way about him. And he was fast for an old guy.

Not fast enough.

Anger pushed the shakiness aside. Tyrone toed the bike into gear and accelerated out onto the main road.

This time of the morning he could go straight down the Mile End Road, then head west through Shoreditch, past King’s Cross, and skirt the bottom end of Regent’s Park to hit the A40. That would take him straight out to Park Royal. It was a route he knew well enough—he went that way to work sometimes if it wasn’t rush hour.

Tyrone had been riding a bike ever since he was old enough. Before then if truth be told but he wouldn’t admit as much to his mum. He’d always been big for his age and the local coppers were more interested in valid tax and insurance than they were with checking the face and the licence matched up.

It was only since he’d started working for the boss that he’d seen another side of the cops. The right side, he supposed. Before then they’d been the enemy swaggering into his home territory like invaders, all cocky, ready to swoop on one of his mates. Sometimes they were justified but it could just as easily be a random thing. Like they didn’t care who they picked up as long as they picked up somebody.

Now he saw most of them as pros who dealt with the worse side of life with dedication and more care than they let on. His jaw clamped under his visor. He just hoped they cared enough to get a result on this one.

Or Tyrone would be looking to do their job for them.

11

Kelly sat on a wooden bench in the hospital courtyard garden staring at the swirling pattern of slate in front of her.

It was a sculpture as much as a piece of landscaping and was supposed to represent an echogram of the heart laid out in different coloured cobbles that spiralled inwards to a central point.

She’d watched the texture of the piece solidify as the sun rose slowly over the city and filtered down into the garden. Called ‘Echoes of the Heart’ it was intended to provide an oasis of tranquillity for patients and visitors but all Kelly felt was an overwhelming sense of sadness.

Ray McCarron had been rushed in an hour ago with a shopping list of injuries that frankly dismayed her. Shattered elbow, cracked ribs, concussion, possible fractured skull and internal bleeding as well as cuts and bruises just about everywhere.

The only way she could hold it together was to think of it in coldly clinical terms. Whoever worked him over had done a very professional job. Nothing bad enough to be fatal—she clung to that thought—but plenty that would afford a painful lasting reminder.

She put her head in her hands. If she’d been a weeper she would have wept but tears were a luxury she’d dispensed with a long time ago.

“Kel! How is he?”

She twisted to see Tyrone barrelling towards her still clutching his bike helmet. He came straight over the top of the cobbled artwork without noticing it was there.

So much for deeper meanings, Kelly thought and something of her self-pity seemed to collapse with the pretence.

“He’s out of surgery,” she said forcing optimism into her voice. “Going to have us waiting on him hand and foot for weeks after this I bet. We’ll be lucky if he puts the kettle on and makes the rest of us a brew ever again.”

Tyrone nodded like he knew exactly what she wasn’t saying and asked hesitantly, “Do they know who?”

Kelly shook her head. “The police have asked for the CCTV from the office but I doubt it will tell them much. He was in the hallway so the car park camera won’t have caught much and we’ve no coverage inside the building.”

“This happened at work?” He frowned. “I thought he was, y’know mugged or somethin’. How did you . . . I mean . . . who . . . ?”

“I found him.” Kelly looked down at her hands. “The security company rang me. Apparently he set the code but then didn’t shut the outer door within the time and the silent alarm triggered. They couldn’t raise Ray as the main key holder so they called me as secondary.”

Tyrone swore softly under his breath. “Bastards. Did they take much?”

“No. Upstairs was untouched.” She paused unsure how much to put onto Tyrone and decided it wasn’t fair to lumber him with anything—not until they knew for certain. So she hedged. “Maybe they were disturbed.”

“I’ll disturb ’em if I get hold of ’em.”

She put a hand on his arm, a gesture of comfort and solidarity. She felt him tense under her fingers then he shifted, leaning down to envelop her in a big hug. A warning note sounded in the back of Kelly’s mind. She disengaged herself gently and offered Tyrone a sympathetic smile. He wouldn’t meet her eyes.

Across the courtyard a door opened and a nurse stuck her head out. “Miss Jacks, is it? Can you come? Mr McCarron’s asking for you.”

Kelly lurched to her feet, aware of Tyrone edging closer as if he expected her to faint. She had never fainted in her life and wasn’t going to start now.

She put out a hand to stay him, asked instead, “Is he …?”

“Oh, sorry love it’s not like that,” the nurse said breezily. “He’s as comfortable as can be expected for what he’s been through. If you’d like to follow me?”

She disappeared leaving Kelly to hurry after her. Tyrone tagged along behind, shoulders hunched into his bike jacket.

Kelly caught up with the nurse halfway along the corridor. “I didn’t think he’d be allowed visitors,” she said. “Not yet anyway.”

“He shouldn’t by all accounts but he won’t settle—not ’til he’s had a word with you he says.” Her tone suggested she doubted the urgency of this request and was humouring the pair of them by going along with it.