The Walking Dead

He hesitated at the door, listened for a moment to the rumble of voices inside. The rest of Delta, and the guys from Golf and Kilo, would be preening themselves as they made concentric circles of protection round the best and the brightest on the high ladders of achievement. Each last one would be imagining the plaudits — coming in wheelbarrow loads — if they managed a double tap on a suicide-bomber, a foreign suicide-bomber, a foreign fighter. His career was on the floor. Banks was assigned to a sodding jury out in the back end of nowhere. He opened the door and went inside. The talk stopped. Eyes were on him. He saw that a coffee mug, lifted towards a mouth, was held in mid-air. The hush closed on him.

Then, a voice boomed cheerily, 'Is that David Banks? Yes? Brilliant. You're the last bit of our jigsaw. You're very welcome.'

A hand was thrust towards his. He took it and his fingers were crushed with enthusiasm. 'Thank you,' he said limply.

'Hey, let's have a smile. I'm DO Brian Walton, Wally to you. The way I run a ship we don't stand on ceremony. I'm the case officer, but also the threat-assessment bloke. I tell you, we've all fallen on our feet. This is a real fridge-freezer job, and could get even better — could get to be a conservatory job, know what I mean?'

He did, and a smile slipped on to his face. It was an overtime payer: unsocial hours at time and a half, and extra days at double time. Big overtime paid for fridges, freezers and cookers in the kitchen, new carpets in the living room and hall, concert-standard sound on home-cinema systems — and the biggest overtime dollops could mean funding for a conservatory at the back of the house. He hadn't expected to be welcomed, greeted as a new friend.

Almost shyly, 'Good to meet you all. I'm Banksy.'

The voice progressed, boom to bellow: 'You treat this man with respect, hear me, guys? He's the proper thing, not one of you yokels rounded up in the backwoods of Thames Valley, Essex and Norfolk. He does the Prime Minister, royalty, all the toffs, but he's been given to us, and he'll show us how to do the job. When Banksy speaks, you lot listen — me too.'

Banks had to grin, then grimace, and probably he blushed, but he felt the warmth of those around him. Perhaps his jacket, weighted by the notebook, the pebbles and coins, had ridden back, but all eyes were now on his waist, his belt. He looked down and saw the smear of gun oil on his shirt, the edge of the dark leather holster. He understood. It was a team, perhaps twenty in all, put together in a spasm of panic. Not specialists, not high-flyers, but the men and women whose absence from their normal day-in and day-out duties would go unnoticed. They were what was available. He moved fast among them, took each hand and shook it, then cursed himself for not initially giving them what they offered him, warmth.