Siege

Forty-six

TINA BOYD HAD NEVER been a conventional police officer. In a career of sailing close to the wind she’d been shot twice, kidnapped once, involved in cases that had led to the murders of both a colleague and a lover, and even killed violent murderers herself on two occasions (one case had officially been deemed an accident; the other, nobody but her knew about – although both men had deserved what they got in her opinion). She’d also knowingly planted evidence on suspects, had assaulted quite a few, been suspended twice, and had finally been unceremoniously fired earlier in the year after an unofficial case she was working on in the Philippines had ended with a lot of dead bodies, and even more unanswered questions. In short, Tina Boyd was trouble to anyone mad enough to get involved with her.

But she had one unique selling point, which was the reason she’d lasted as long as she had in the Met: she got results. Not necessarily by the book. Often not even within the boundaries of the law. But the statistics didn’t lie. Of the thirty-nine major investigations she’d been a part of, or had led, including several involving multiple counts of murder, her clear-up rate was one hundred per cent. Even the most cock-eyed commentator couldn’t argue with that.

Ultimately, though, nothing had been able to stand in the way of her own volatility and lack of discipline, and now, nine months on from parting acrimoniously with the Met, she was scraping by doing unofficial private detective work, and the occasional bit of consultancy for film companies looking for her ‘unique’ take on life as a police officer. But ask her if she regretted anything and her answer would always be the same.

Everything I did, I did for the right reasons.

Although, as she sat in her living room watching events unfold at the Stanhope Hotel on the TV, Tina realized how much she missed her old life.

She’d been planning on making dinner, but found it impossible to drag herself away from the rolling coverage of the siege and bomb attacks. The speed with which things were happening was addictive. Tina had taken part in a few sieges in her time, and for the most part it was simply a matter of waiting until the hostage-takers got bored, hungry, or too depressed to carry on. But this was different. These people really knew what they were doing, taking advantage of the lax security in the capital to launch a series of spectacular attacks. So far no one seemed to know very much about them, although, as usual, there was no shortage of talking heads popping up to offer theories. The consensus seemed to be that they were foreign extremists taking revenge on the innocent in retaliation for British involvement in foreign wars.

Tina’s mobile rang just as the PM appeared on the screen for a news conference, adopting a suitably Churchillian pose for the cameras but not quite managing to hide the strain on his face.

She picked it up and frowned at the screen.

Arley Dale.

They’d been friends once – or perhaps acquaintances was a better word for it. Tina didn’t have many friends. In fact, she was actually surprised she still had Arley’s number stored. They hadn’t spoken in months.

She was just about to click on the answer button when the call ended, leaving Tina wondering whether Arley had called her by mistake. They’d met a few years earlier at a function honouring special achievements by women and had spent much of the evening standing outside smoking, hitting it off straight away. Tina liked Arley’s bluntness and confidence, and the fact that she didn’t take crap from anyone. They’d kept in touch, gone out for the occasional drink, including one night when they both got so hammered neither of them could remember how they’d got home.

When she’d been suspended eighteen months earlier, Arley had stood up and supported her, saying that the Met needed more strong women like Tina Boyd. But she’d been noticeable by her absence back in February when Tina had finally got the push, which was fair enough. You can only stick your neck out so far when the other person insists on hanging one-handed from the parapet. Especially when you’re a high-flying DAC in the Met, with the job of being the force’s first female commissioner in your sights.

And now here was Arley calling her, out of the blue, and just as suddenly hanging up. Tina was surprised she wasn’t involved in dealing with today’s attacks. She was the kind of high-profile copper who was always in the midst of the action.

Like Tina had once been.

The phone rang again, and Arley’s name flashed across the screen for a second time.

Tina picked up. ‘Arley? How are you?’

There was a pause. Three seconds. The sound of breathing down the other end of the line. Then five words, laced with quiet desperation.

‘You’ve got to help me.’