Six weeks later
A heavy drizzle fell from an iron-grey sky as Tina Boyd opened the creaking wooden gate and entered the peaceful silence of the graveyard. She was off the crutches now and able to drive, but it still hurt to put too much pressure on the foot, and she still walked with a limp. The physio had told her that this would fade in time, though, and she was planning on being back at work by the new year.
A lot had happened in the world in the six weeks since she'd been shot. The autumn of 2008 would always be remembered for the financial meltdown that had occurred, with high-street banks on the verge of failing and commentators openly talking about the end of capitalism. The huge irony, of course, was that if Sir Henry Portman and his co-conspirators had simply been patient and let the events of the business world take their natural course, they would have seen the HPP fund make a fortune on the plunge in the value of the many blue-chip UK stocks it had been selling short, a process that had begun only days after the failed gas attack with the collapse of Lehman Brothers.
Instead, Sir Henry was dead, having been killed almost instantly by the bullet that struck him outside the Landmark Hotel. However, because there was no real proof of wrongdoing against either him personally or HPP (although there was plenty of conjecture), the fund's assets were no longer frozen and it was in the process of being sold to a much larger US fund. HPP's investors were therefore among the fortunate few in the financial world who were going to see a decent return on their money in 2008. And those few included Paul Wise. Although there was a huge and ongoing investigation into his role in the attacks, with Sir Henry dead there was no obvious way of connecting him to it, so he remained wealthy and free.
Tina doubted if he was losing much sleep in his Mediterranean mansion at the prospect of the authorities catching up with him. She felt a burning sense of rage whenever she thought about how Wise had not only escaped justice but was still profiting from his crimes, although she could at least console herself with the fact that the man who'd kidnapped and tried to break her – Michael Killen, aka Hook – was dead.
She felt no guilt that she'd killed him. He'd got what he deserved, and sometimes when she awoke alone at night and pictured in slow motion those last few moments, as he experienced (she hoped) a fleeting realization that finally he was going to have to atone for his sins, she felt a brutish satisfaction. He would have killed her eventually, there was no doubt about that, but she'd got him first.
There had been an automatic IPCC investigation into her conduct but it had quickly absolved her of all blame, accepting her story that she hadn't meant to hit him without much argument. There'd been a good reason for this. The tabloids had turned Hook into a walking demon, and had focused much of their attention on the fact that he'd callously shot a young mother in front of her child. The mother had survived and was expected to make a full recovery since the bullet had missed all her vital organs, but the fact that Hook had pulled the trigger and used the child as a human shield meant there would have been an outcry had the person responsible for his death been accused of any wrongdoing.
Indeed, Tina had become something of a minor celebrity, albeit a reluctant one. She'd refused to give any interviews, retreating behind the door of her flat as they dug up her past: the time she'd been shot before; the murder of one of her colleagues; the mysterious death of the man who'd been both her boss and her lover, DI John Gallan; the fact that some of her colleagues had called her the Black Widow.
It had been a hard, lonely time during which only the drink had provided any real company. Mike Bolt had called her a number of times, and had been round to see her on several occasions in the immediate aftermath of the kidnapping. She knew he liked her. And she liked him too. A lot. And it wasn't just because he'd saved her life. Deep down, there'd always been an attraction there, right from the very beginning.
But there'd also been a big and ultimately insurmountable problem. The booze. Tina hadn't kicked it, nor could she see a time when she would. It was too much a part of her right now, and Mike didn't deserve a woman like that. So, once again, she'd pushed him away, even though a part of her needed him more than ever.
Today was the first day she'd been out properly since it had all happened, and it felt strange, yet liberating, to be out in the late October rain. She'd thought the graveyard would be empty at this time in the afternoon, but a couple with a young child were standing with their backs to her by one of the headstones. Tina could see that there were a number of fresh bouquets resting against it, and she instinctively knew that this was Rob Fallon's grave.
She hadn't thought about Fallon much these past few weeks, having found the time only to obsess about her own problems. She hadn't even made his funeral the previous month, although she'd been invited to attend. But then, the previous night, she'd dreamt about him. It was one of those surreal dreams where nothing makes sense. They'd been backpacking together somewhere – it might have been Indonesia, a country she'd travelled around extensively many years ago, she wasn't entirely sure. But when she woke up that morning with another numbing hangover she'd experienced a sudden urge to pay her respects to a man who'd died because he'd been brave enough to become involved in someone else's problem. In the end, he hadn't saved Jenny Brakspear. In the end, he hadn't even saved himself. But Tina knew that Rob Fallon deserved her recognition, which was why she found out where he was buried and made the fifty-mile journey out here.
She stood in the shadow of the church, waiting for the couple and their child to finish at the graveside, not wishing to intrude upon their grief. Or rather, if she was honest with herself, not wanting to get involved in a conversation.
They weren't there long. Two minutes at most. There is, after all, only so long you can stand over a grave in the rain when you have a child with you.
They turned and filed back along the path towards the gate. But as they came past, Tina caught the woman's eye, and the woman stopped. The hood on her raincoat was up, but Tina could see she was in her early thirties and pretty, although her face was red, and the eyes puffed up from earlier tears. Her daughter – a miniature version, no more than four years old, and wearing the same bright red raincoat – held her mother's hand tightly. She looked sad and confused. The man stood further back.
'Excuse me,' said the woman uncertainly. 'Are you Tina Boyd?'
Tina's photo had appeared enough times recently in the papers and on the news to make a denial pointless. 'Yes,' she answered, forcing a polite smile. 'I just came here to, er…' She trailed off, waving the cheap bouquet of petrol station flowers she was holding.
'I'm Yvonne,' said the woman. 'I was Rob's wife. This is my daughter, Chloe.'
Chloe looked down at the ground.
'And this is my, er, partner, Nigel.'
Nigel, who was tall and well built with the air of a public school rugby player, nodded, looking slightly embarrassed.
'I'm pleased to meet you,' said Tina.
There was an awkward silence. Neither of them, it seemed, knew how to continue the conversation.
Finally, Tina realized that it was she who should break the silence. 'I only knew Rob for a short while,' she said, 'but I'm glad I did. He was a good man. He could have done nothing, but he chose to do the right thing.' She looked down at Chloe who was still staring at the ground. 'Your daddy was very brave,' she continued. 'You should be proud of him.' She turned away, feeling herself choking up.
'Thank you,' said Yvonne. She started to say something else but stopped herself.
Nigel put a protective arm round her shoulder, and the three of them continued down the path together.
Tina watched them through the rain until they were out of the gate, then she turned and limped slowly up to the gravestone. As she laid her flowers down with the others, she sobbed silently in the growing gloom.
But even as the tears ran down her face, she knew they weren't for Rob Fallon.
They were for herself.