Page 119 of Slack Tide Kill

"That's right, sir."

"And are you aware that Liam O'Connell, your own damn partner, gave his final debrief this morning? A debrief in which he left you alone holding the bag on your demolition-derby escapades yesterday?"

Sally felt a heavy, cold weight slam into the pit of her stomach. "I'm aware of that possibility, yes."

"Yes, sir," McMaster snapped. "Last of all, and this one I'm really struggling with, so you're going to have to help me. Am I really to believe that, en route to a great bloody boat explosion that left one poor girl dead and the rest of you near-hypothermic, you actually shoulder-charged your DCI Mayhew and knocked her into said freezing water? That she was actually forced to discharge her pepper spray into your face to protect herself?"

The cold weight thumped harder in Sally's belly, almost dropping her to her knees.

"Yes, sir."

"Is that it? Yes, sir, you physically assaulted a superior officer after being ordered explicitly to stay back?"

Sally wanted to let the wind take her; sweep her up like the forensics tent and carry her away. But the weight in her belly held her down.

"My actions saved the life of my partner." Her voice was a monotone, like she barely believed it herself.

"But not this other poor officer. It is damning, Rogers. Everything about your time down there, the way you've comported yourself, is wrong. Now an officer is dead, and I cannot overlook the sheer weight of impropriety any longer. Officer Rogers, you are–"

"Sir, please," Sally interrupted, feeling herself falling. "We're so close. Everybody will think it's Bledd now, but I believe, no I'm certain, it isn't him. He's been framed. This is all a setup. It's Heraclitean. Flux, the river, everything flows. And something worse is coming, I know it. More deaths, more–"

"You're babbling. Rogers, the cock has crowed three times now and then some. You are done. The second this call ends, you get yourself in a taxi and come back to London. It's over. I want you in my office within three hours. Failing that, I will have you arrested."

"But sir–"

"Three hours, Rogers. Now say, 'yes, sir'."

Sally felt the impact hit her. It really was over. Three times, the cock had crowed. Liam. Mayhew. Bledd. Too many failures, too many misjudgments. Done here. Maybe done in the UK. The river had reached its end.

"Yes, sir," she said in a strangled voice.

The call ended. Sally gazed out at the incoming tide. It was climbing high on the beach, now. Spurred by the wind, driving the sea into a froth.

Motion caught her eye to the side. The press were clamoring at the tape line, Tania Brown a bright pink amongst them, craning to see the wreckage. A press liaison officer met them. And beyond them, standing alone on the beach, was an old man. Haggard, bowed, eyes milky with cataracts.

Dean Whateley. The Seafoam Strangler. The man who'd watched his whole family die in the slack tide. Looking right at her with something like understanding.

She felt like vomiting. Her throat burned. She turned and started walking away. Past Prospect Cottage. Up to the road. Calling a taxi on her phone.

It was done. It was all done.

50 WAITING

He had thought it would be the noise that stayed with him, but it was the water.

The blast was nothing, over before it arrived, a flat clap that the wind took away almost apologetically. What stayed with him was afterward. The sea going up in a dirty white flower and coming down again in pieces, with burning things riding out on the swell in every direction.

Spreading. Thinning. Even the fire had gone into the water and become part of it too.

He had not known it would be so beautiful. He'd planned it as a lock turning, one more thing done properly and in sequence, and it had turned out to be beautiful, and he took that as a sign.

One of the officers had died. He'd counted seven going out through the shallows and six coming back, which was more than he needed but less than he'd hoped.

He examined that feeling and found it stronger than he'd expected. Killing police officers had never been his goal, but this was disappointing. And that disappointment had a face.

He'd watched her race into the water like it wasn't even there. Ramming through the whole procession of them, charging her own DCI, in then out again with the big one hanging off her shoulder, and he'd found himself leaning forward like a man at a race.

He'd had to admire it. There was no other word he'd accept for what he felt. It was probably why he'd pressed the button too slow to catch her. Maybe he'd missed his chance.