‘You need to go, Mr Pentecost,’ Beardmore said simply. ‘This is the Intensive Care Unit. The staff here have got important work to do.’

A brief silent tension followed, during which Lucy fancied it was possible to hear the wheels and gears of Bill Pentecost’s slow-grinding rage.

‘Well done, DC Clayburn,’ he finally said. It was barely a mumble, but they heard it. ‘You’ve certainly earned your pay tonight. You go off now and make sure you enjoy it.’

He turned towards the door, his cronies parting for him and then falling into line behind him. Before he left, the blond one hawked up a wad of phlegm and spat it on the floor.

Only when the door closed behind them, the electronic catch thudding into place, did the police relax. Breaths were exhaled, helmets removed from sweat-soaked heads. Lucy felt like a marionette with its strings cut; she was ready to collapse.

‘You okay?’ Beardmore asked her.

She nodded but couldn’t speak.

‘You can put that down now, if you want.’ He nodded at the scalpel, which she hadn’t realised she was still clutching in her right hand.

‘Sorry, Stan,’ she stammered. ‘I need to sit.’

‘I’m not surprised. You did well.’ He put an arm around her shoulders and squeezed. ‘You did very well indeed. Have a minute in there.’ He nodded into McCracken’s room, to one of the two armchairs alongside the bed. ‘I’ll try and find out what happened.’

‘There was a phoney security guard,’ she said. ‘He let them in, but he’s probably already gone.’

‘We need to make sure he’s not still here somewhere. You get yourself sorted. But only for a minute … we need to be way sharper than we have been. At least Firearms are en route. Should be here in the next five.’

‘What about the shooting in town?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine. They couldn’t find anything. In the meantime, we’ve got to lock this place down properly …’

While Beardmore strode off along the corridor, shouting orders, Lucy meandered into the room, threw the scalpel on the tray, and all but fell into one of the armchairs. Briefly, she was so physically enfeebled that she didn’t know if she could lift a hand in front of her face.

‘Well,’ a croaky voice said. ‘Standing up to the boss of bosses. Life doesn’t send many tougher challenges than that.’

Lucy glanced at the bed, where McCracken’s eyes were open, though they were dull and watery. He’d barely moved from his previous position and was still cadaverously pale.

‘You were awake?’ she asked him.

‘Only partially,’ he said. ‘Don’t think I’d have been much use to you. Besides, I was enjoying watching you look out for your old man.’

‘That wasn’t what it was.’