The Walking Dead

There was one page remaining. He closed the notebook, slid it back into his pocket.

Stunned and quiet, not moving, David Banks was not aware that the outer door of the block had opened. He did not see the wash of light on the step and the pavement.

The window was rapped. He was jolted. His hand, instinct, dropped to the pistol's butt and he had half drawn it.

'Steady, you silly bugger, don't bloody shoot me.'

He loosed his grip.

'You hardly need that damn thing here. Where were you — Never-never Land?'

He shrugged.

'Put it down to my lady. She says it's ridiculous having you sat out here in the bollocks-numbing cold. She says you're to eat with us.'

'My thanks to her and to you, Mr Wright, but I'm fine.'

'She won't have any of that. And I'm to tell you that there's enough cooked for an extra plate.'

'I get an allowance for food, and I buy it.'

'God, Mr Banks, you make a virtue out of awkwardness. She also says that I'm not permitted back in her bed if you're stuck outside in a bloody car. Come on, shift yourself.'

'I suppose that tilts the argument. Just remember what I've said. I'm not a friend.'

'Made a good imitation of one this evening. I'm grateful.'

He checked his pockets, then the holster. Thought of the yob gangs of the News/Gazette. Climbed out and went to the boot, lifted out the holdall with the kit in it — magazines, the thunderclap grenades, the ballistic blanket and the first aid…Not making it easy for the yob kids to get a bonus from a stolen joy-ride vehicle. He crossed the pavement, went up the steps and inside, heard soft music and felt the warmth.

Said, side of mouth, 'What does she know?'

Had the whisper back: 'There's been a jury scare. All of us have a Protection Officer, nothing particular about me.'

'Are you always so economical with the truth?'

'Offer it up when there's no alternative, only then. Story of my life, and it's worked so far.'

She'd had careful makeup on her face when he'd first seen her, her hair had been neat and brushed, and her blouse had been pristine.

In the living area, from the kitchenette alcove, she smiled with warmth and held out her hand. 'Good to meet you. I'm Hannah.'

The cosmetics at her eyes, the lipstick on her mouth, were smudged, the hair less neat. The white blouse was creased, and fewer buttons were fastened.

'My name's Banks. Detective Constable Banks.'

Wright grinned. 'Or, love, you can call him Mr Banks. In these matters we retain formality and he is not a friend, better believe it.'

'I've done a lasagne, there's plenty. A drink?'

'No, thank you.'

'He's on duty. Mr Banks is working.'

Her laughter trilled. 'I doubt organized crime — desperadoes — reaches this dump. Are you going to take your jacket off?'

He did, and gave it her. She hung it on a hook. She was staring at his waist, at the pancake holster and the butt of the Clock. 'But not that, you don't take that off?'

'No.'

She frowned, and mischief twinkled. 'I suppose you get asked it often — have you ever fired it, gone serious?'

'I get asked it very often. I haven't.'

A place was laid for him. They ate. The lasagne was excellent, and Banks told her so, felt a shyness. There was white wine on the table, Tuscan, and Wright drank but she drank more. Banks sipped a glass of tap water. They talked among themselves, the weather and the politics at her office, some more about the weather, heating problems in the block. He had no place there. Maybe he should have stayed in the cold of the car. Black coffee was brought him.

She leaned forward. Because of the undone buttons, he could see the shape and fall of her breasts. 'Jools said you'd told him your colleagues in a unit thought you were useless, that they'd bumped you.'

Banks wondered whether he'd been discussed before, during or after sex.

Wright flapped a hand. 'A bit below the belt, love. Christ, I was only—'

Banks said, 'Shouldn't have told him. But it's about right.'

'Why did they say it?'

Wright drained the last of his glass. 'You can't ask him that — God…'

'Why?'

When would he speak of it again? Never. When would he meet with this woman again? Never. He struggled to articulate the words that jumbled in his mind. He said quietly, 'I don't think it's anything covered by the Official Secrets Act. The team I was with guarded the elite, the principal figures of the state. They're not important in themselves, but as symbols…It's a sitting-on-your-backside job, not one when you can judge whether you've done well or badly — nothing happens…So, we talk. We talk about the threat on the streets, talk about it every day since Seven-Seven. We talk about suicide-bombers, have done every day since Twenty-two-Seven and the tube killing. We talk about what we would do if confronted with the reality, a bomber, face to face — or a supposed bomber.