Macdonald stared up at the ceiling.

‘I should have shot you when I had the chance,’ said the cop. Macdonald ignored him. The cop kicked the trolley. ‘You hear me?’ Macdonald closed his eyes.

Before he could say anything else, the curtain was pulled back. ‘Okay, lad, we’ll take it from here,’ said a voice.

Macdonald opened his eyes. Two men in suits were standing at the end of the bed. The older one was wearing the cheaper outfit, an off-the-peg blue pinstripe that had obviously been acquired when he’d been a few pounds lighter. He was in his early fifties and had the world-weary look of a policeman who’d carried out more than his fair share of interviews in A and E departments. His hair was receding and swept back, giving him the look of a bird of prey. He smiled at Macdonald. ‘I gather you’re fit to talk.’

The armed cop glared at Macdonald and walked away, muttering.

‘I’ve nothing to say,’ said Macdonald.

‘That’s how I like it,’ said the detective. ‘Short and sweet. I’m Detective Inspector Robin Kelly, Crawley CID.’ He nodded at the younger man. ‘This is Detective Constable Brendan O’Connor. Don’t let the Irish name fool you, young Brendan here is as English as they come. Product of the graduate-entry scheme he is, and sharp as a knife. Isn’t that right, Detective Constable?’

O’Connor sighed, clearly used to Kelly’s teasing. ‘Yes, sir. Sharp as a knife.’ His accent was pure Oxbridge – obviously destined for greater things than riding shotgun to a detective approaching retirement.

‘How about getting us a couple of coffees?’ said Kelly. ‘Mine’s black with two sugars. What about you?’

Macdonald turned to look at the detective constable. He was in his mid-twenties with jet black hair and piercing blue eyes that suggested there was more to his Irish heritage than his name. ‘White, no sugar.’

‘Sweet enough, as my grandmother always used to say,’ said Kelly. He sat down and crossed his ankles as the detective constable left them. ‘I hope I retire before he gets promoted above me.’ He sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. ‘I’m missing my beauty sleep, I can tell you that much. Still, no point in brandishing shotguns in broad daylight, is there?’

‘No comment,’ said Macdonald.

‘And if I was in your situation that’s what I’d be saying. No comment until you’re lawyered up and then it’s “No comment on my solicitor’s advice.” But unless you take the initiative here, you’re going to go down with the rest of the scum.’

‘No comment,’ said Macdonald.

‘You see, the civilians are saying that you were the best of a bad bunch. You tried to stop the flaming-kebabs routine. You said it would be better to call it a night and go out with your hands up. And, bugger me, you only went and poleaxed Ted Verity, gangster of this parish. For which you have the thanks of Sussex Constabulary.’

‘How is he?’ asked Macdonald.