Page 122 of Slack Tide Kill

The taxi came and Sally got in, her thoughts blank. The driver didn't speak and neither did she. They just drove.

Back past the old lighthouse and the houses, the reactors and the new lighthouse. Umberside Farm, the RSPB preserve, Lydd. North through the marsh, past New Romney, Brenzett then over the Royal Military Canal. With every mile it all felt more distant, like another world.

She was never coming back. That realization settled over her slow and cold. Every mile made the burden lighter. She was not responsible for the Cockle-Eye Killer anymore. Jason Harrow. Nancy Cagen. Now Emily Chakrati. In the place of all that came a lightness that was unbearable.

Air whistled in her ears. It felt like she was coming apart; a slow-motion explosion that made no sound but tore her life to shreds. Everything was cold, and all she could do was sit and try to hold herself together.

Out of the NCA. Back to the US, most likely. Anton Mylovich's death would never find justice. The innocents of Lincolnshire. Her sisters from Louisiana. A search for a spree killer that had been coming due her whole adult life, that had shaped everything, now dead.

Breathing was difficult. The air didn't have enough oxygen. She rolled the window down and filled the car with frigid cold, until the driver wound it back up.

On the M20. Past Ashford and Maidstone. Past the M25 orbital until the London suburbs were streaming by in a blur of gray-walled junctions, underpasses and graffiti-slung bridges. The words '10 FOOT' were sprayed everywhere. A tag, written with no care and no craft. Just a name, barely a message, just a fragile stab at ownership.

The flow. The river. You never stepped in the same place twice.

The speed limit lowered to 50, then 40, then 20. They passed through the grassy heaths of Greenwich, the concrete choke of Walworth and deep into Lambeth. Along Vauxhall Row they passed the long, low row of mid-century towers that looked like apartment blocks, comprising the bulk of NCA headquarters.

Citadel Place.

The sight of it made Sally dizzy. McMaster's voice rang in her ears as they pulled up to the gate.

The driver was gone in seconds.

A guard with an automatic Heckler & Koch G36 rifle checked her ID. The gates opened. Almost like her regular commute. She tried to still her crashing heart but failed.

Inside the ground floor, she hit the elevator call button and waited. On the fourth floor, a secretary sent her straight in.

NCA Deputy Director McMaster stood behind his desk; a powerful man with broad shoulders, well over six foot and 200 pounds, with slicked-back black hair, nicotine-stained fingernails and a long silvery beard. Intelligence sparkled in his gray eyes.

"I'm sorry it's come to this," he said.

"I want to stay on the case."

"I know you do, lass." The anger of before was gone, replaced by something worse. Resignation. Even sympathy. "Doesn't matter much now though, does it?" He sighed and pointed at the chair before the desk. "Sit."

"I'd rather stand."

"So stand." He sat. He looked at her, and long seconds passed. "I thought if I waited long enough, you'd get steadier. Some of the heat from Dark Peak would fade. But neither of those happened, did they?" He managed a small smile. "You're still wound up like a can of Coke in a washing machine, fit to burst."

"I can still solve this, sir."

"Oh, I believe that. But politics trumps all. No one's going to give you that chance now, are they?" He leaned over his desk. "Here's the reality, Rogers. Even if everything you did can be explained, even if it all was done on the best possible present knowledge, and a hearing might clear you six months from now, none of that helps you today. Does it?"

She said nothing. This was clearly a one-man performance; her contribution was not required.

"We both know you're going to get crucified in the press for this. Far worse than last time, because an officer's dead. And when you're crucified, I'm crucified too. DCI Mayhew. Your partner. The whole of Kent police, and the NCA too. Damage done that'll last generations." He leaned back. "You saw Mayhew. Saw how she's still repairing the damage done last time around."

Sally's eyes flared. "You could have warned me, sir. What she'd been through."

"She's a DCI, Rogers. Her past's her past. I respect you. I respect her. So stow it."

Sally said nothing.

"But, aye. Maybe I should've? None of us are perfect, and we're all going to pay for this. But you? You're the ballast that'll sink us all. Lots of good coppers destroyed. Or…"

He stopped there. Sally felt her mind fracturing. Her body was already in the wind, parts spreading and flowing and now her thoughts had to follow.

"You want me to resign," she croaked.