The Walking Dead

He went into the alleyway. The rubbish bin stank of old refuse. He thought it as good a place to die as a forward trench where rats roamed. He looked down, through the shadow light, into the face. Yes, two good shots. Yes, the best a double tap could do. The holes, wide enough for a pencil to be inserted into — or a cheap ballpoint-pen tip — were an inch or so apart and their median point was the centre of the forehead, half-way between the top of the bridge of the nose and the lowest curls of the young man's hair. They oozed blood. He didn't need to, but Banks crouched, felt for a pulse and found none.

Should not have done, but he lifted carefully the hand from the pocket, found a fist round a lamp switch, and knew the last intention of his target. He unbuttoned the jacket — the training work was done, the double tap, and he was separated from it. He knelt. He revealed the waistcoat, the careful stitching, the line of the sticks, and the pouches where nails, screws and ball-bearings were…and he saw where the taped binding had come loose, and wondered how and by whom it had been torn free. There was more tape at the end of the flex wire, and he understood why the device had not fired, why the switch had not linked with the batteries and the detonators. Banks had no training for it, but it seemed as simple to him as when he was at home at his mother's and she requested some small repair to an electrical device. Methodically, he made it safe. He unwound more tape and broke the connection between the batteries and the explosives. He stood, and behind him the entrance to the alleyway was empty and he was not watched.

On his mobile, he dialled the number of his REMF, heard it ring, heard it answered.

He said quietly, but composed, 'This is Yankee 4971, Delta 12, two shots discharged and one X-ray down. One TED made safe…' He gave his location, heard the babble of questions thrown at him and answered none. Banks finished, 'Over, out,' and rang off. He was

/ 'Yankee', code for 'a good guy', and did not feel it. The face now hidden from his view was that of an 'X-ray', who was in Delta speak 'a bad guy'—but it had been his promise that he did not make judgements. He imagined the chaos pursuing the news he had laconically telephoned in, that a suicide-bomber was dead and an improvised explosive device had been disarmed.

He went back into the alleyway a last time, and dragged the body deeper into the shadows. Then he pushed the rubbish bin, moved it so that the entry was better blocked and the corpse better hidden.

Banks stood beside it, his feet close to the waistcoat. Soft words spoken, those of a psalm. He stepped back, was on the pavement again.

His Principal said, behind him, 'God, wondered where the hell you were. Pretty little bit of totty in there, makes a good start to the day. Then they had to go out the back and bring in more papers Then the cash machine jammed. Breakfast'll be screwed. Time to leg it.'

'Yes, let's get clear of this bloody place.'

They went fast. Had to go out into the road because paramedics, on the pavement, were lifting on to a stretcher the man he'd thought to be a drunk, and he saw the bright blood smear on the pavement dirt…and Banks reflected, hurrying, that nothing was what it seemed to be.

Afterwards, it was a time for tangles to be unravelled, and loose ends tied, and for the lives of the living to be regained and the dead to be forgotten.

* * *

'The chief constable up there is a very good man, sound — but he's short of a knighthood. I think such a deserved award is in order, if he's cooperative.'

The assistant director sat in the comfortable chair of his director general's wide office, sipped coffee, and nodded agreement.

'You see, Tris, there's no call to trumpet this affair. By the skin of our teeth, we've avoided a catastrophe that could have brought the roof down on us, on all of us in the Service, but that's past now. What concerns me most acutely is that delicate knife edge on which racial relations exist in these days. Take that town, Luton. Ethnic prejudices bubble barely beneath the surface on a daily basis. This is the sort of business, if shouted from the rooftops, that could fracture what little harmony exists, excite the bigots and therefore drive that Muslim minority — most of whose young people are utterly decent and totally law-abiding citizens — into the welcoming arms of the fanatics and the same goes for a score of other communities the length and breadth of the land. I'll work at full stretch, and demand the same of the whole Service, to keep matters quiet, as quiet as the grave.'

'Very wise, if I might say so…Dickie Naylor's at home, getting some sleep, but he'll be taking that American to the airport later. What he did fits well with your ideas.'

'I don't think it appropriate for me to speak personally with him…I think we can just leave him to get on with, and enjoy, the start of his retirement.'