‘What the hell’s going on?’ asked Macdonald, groggily.

‘Your mate shot one of ours,’ said the cop. ‘You’re all going down for attempted murder on top of armed robbery.’

‘He’s okay?’

‘Your mate? Took one in the arm. He’ll live.’

‘Screw him, he almost got us killed. The cop who was shot, is he okay?’

‘Now you’re worried, aren’t you?’ The cop slapped his Kevlar vest. ‘Vest took most of the shot, bit of damage to his lower jaw. But the intent was there and you’re all in it together.’

Macdonald lay back and stared up at the roof of the ambulance. They were moving at speed, the siren still wailing, but he could tell he wasn’t badly hurt. He’d been hit before, by experts, and the butt of the Heckler hadn’t done any serious damage. What worried Macdonald was why the job had gone so wrong.

Macdonald was wheeled into a cubicle where an Indian doctor examined the head wound, shone another light in his eyes, tested his hearing and tapped the soles of his feet before pronouncing him in no need of a brain scan. ‘Frankly,’ he said to Macdonald, ‘the queue for the MRI is so long that if there was a problem you’d be dead long before we got you checked out.’

Macdonald wasn’t sure if he was joking or not. The doctor put antiseptic on the wound and told Macdonald he didn’t think it required stitching. ‘Any chance of me being kept in for a day or two?’ Macdonald asked. The longer he stayed out of a police station the better.

‘Even if you were at death’s door we’d have trouble finding you a bed,’ said the doctor, scribbling on a clipboard. He glanced at the paramedic. ‘You did the right thing bringing him in, but he’s fine.’

‘Told you I should have hit you harder,’ said the armed policeman, who was standing at the end of the trolley cradling his Heckler.

The paramedic looked across at the cop. ‘What do we do with him?’

‘I’ve been told to keep him here until the forensic boys give him the once-over.’

The doctor pointed at a curtained-off area on the opposite side of the emergency room. ‘You can put him in there unless we get busy,’ he said, and walked over to where an old man with shoulder-length grey hair and a stained raincoat was haranguing a young nurse.

The paramedic wheeled Macdonald across the room and pulled the pale green curtain round him. The armed cop dragged a chair over to the side of the bed and sat down, facing him.

‘Haven’t you got anything better to do?’ asked Macdonald.

‘I’m not to let you out of my sight,’ said the cop. ‘Not until CID get here.’

‘How about a coffee, then?’

‘Fuck you,’ said the cop.

‘Hey, I didn’t shoot anyone,’ said Macdonald.

‘You were carrying, and the intent was there. The fact that you didn’t pull the trigger doesn’t mean shit.’