A horn beeped, McDonald. She grabbed the notes, useless as they were, took a longing look at the Danish, headed out. A battered Volvo was at the kerb, McDonald behind the wheel. If she’d expected civility, she’d be waiting. She got in, said:

‘Morning.’

Tried to put some warmth behind it. He gave her a look of withering contempt, muttered: ‘Yeah, whatever.’

And hit the ignition, burned rubber, blasted into traffic. Falls studied him as he drove. A shot cop is a gone cop, so police lore said. Had to agree when you saw the compressed lips of McDonald. A native of Edinburgh, he’d been a hot-looking guy, women referring to him as ‘that hunk.’

Not no more.

He’d aged overnight, strands of grey in his once luxurious hair. Deep lines along his cheeks, and a habit of grinding his teeth. Add to this a simmering rage, and he was almost a Brant clone.

Without the smarts.

Falls wondered why he didn’t jack. The humiliation of being partnered with her was like neon in his eyes, writ mean. She asked as they pulled up outside the school:

‘You want to run through this?’

‘What?’

‘For the kids, maybe lay down a plan of action.’

He turned off the engine, snapped at the keys, said:

‘Here’s a plan, fuck ‘em.’

Falls, in her previous case, had had a one-night fling with a lethal female bomber. She tried to blot out the memory. As they approached the school, he suddenly stopped, asked:

‘Is it true you slept with that cunt?’

If he’d pulled a knife, stuck it in her guts, he couldn’t have wounded her more. Inside, kids were roaring and running along the halls. The scene looked like Bedlam unleashed. Falls wished she was armed. And the first person she’d shoot was McDonald. A middle-aged black woman, weariness leaking from every pore, approached, asked: