Death in the Sunshine (Retired Detectives Club, #1)(87)

He can’t say the same for Rick. He’s not looking good. One side of his shirt is soaked in blood. His jaw is clenched, and he looks pale beneath his tan. Moira’s full focus is on Rick, her hands pressing the makeshift pad made from a length of her top against his wound, keeping the pressure on. Blood has seeped through the material on to Moira’s hands, staining her fingers crimson.

Philip moves closer to them. ‘How’s he doing? Can I do something to help?’

Moira doesn’t turn to look at him. ‘He needs a medic. Any sign of the ambulance?’

‘Not yet,’ says Lizzie, peering down the alleyway to the main street. ‘I called as soon as I saw Rick was hurt. Said we needed one urgently.’

Philip had heard Lizzie on the call. She’d called 911 a second time to ask for an ambulance. ‘They must be on their way.’

‘We need them fast,’ says Moira.

There’s worry in Moira’s tone, fear even. It surprises Philip; Moira always seems so assured and in control, sometimes too in control – like she’s the one in charge. Until now that’s irritated him, but now he’s concerned. Rick’s a tough bloke – he keeps himself fit, and has all those muscles – he’ll be fine, won’t he? He has to be. He’s one of them – one of the good guys. As he thinks it, Philip knows that doesn’t make a jot of difference – bad things happen to good people; he knows that from bitter experience.

He looks down at Rick grimacing against the pain, and Moira still applying the pressure. Lizzie’s walked off, away towards the main street, presumably so she can direct the ambulance crew when they arrive. There’s nothing for him to do.

Philip looks away towards the cops. Usually in this situation he’d be in charge; getting things done. Instead, in amongst the uniforms, Detective Golding is directing the movement of Donald Ettwood from his current position sprawled on the ground to standing. Philip can hear Golding’s voice, shouting instructions as the uniforms haul Donald to his feet. Donald’s saying something Philip can’t hear, so he takes a few steps closer. He still can’t hear, but the next moment Golding gives Donald a shove and tells him to shut up, then reads him his rights.

Philip listens, interested in the differences between the UK and US wording, but before Golding is finished Philip’s distracted by Lizzie. Down at the end of the alleyway, she’s jumping up and down and waving towards the main street. Next moment an ambulance appears at the end of the alleyway, blue lights flashing. A couple of paramedics jump out and Philip sees Lizzie talking to them, and pointing towards Rick.

‘The ambulance is here,’ Philip says to Moira.

Moira glances round. Her cheeks are flushed. Her hair is stuck against her damp forehead. Moira turns back to Rick. ‘The medics are here. A couple more minutes and they’ll be with us.’

Philip watches the ambulance crew unload a gurney from the back and jog towards them. He starts waving. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll make sure they know we’re here.’

Moira doesn’t respond. She keeps pressing on Rick’s wound and talking to him, telling him he’ll be okay. Philip hopes it’s true. Rick’s face is looking more ashen than even just a few minutes ago and his skin has a strange waxy look. His eyes are closed now, and his breathing looks shallow and rapid. Philip waves harder at the ambulance crew, and wishes they’d hurry up.



They watch as the paramedics load the gurney carrying Rick into the ambulance. Moira turns to Philip. ‘Rick might need surgery. I’m going to the hospital.’ She glances over at the cops who are putting Donald Ettwood into a marked police car. ‘Tell them I’ll give a full statement later.’

‘Of course. Good idea,’ says Philip. ‘I’ll handle Golding.’

‘Thanks,’ says Moira.

Philip watches her climb into the back of the ambulance and take a seat on the jump seat beside Rick’s gurney. The ambulance crew slam the doors shut and run round to the cab. A few moments later, the lights and siren fire up and the ambulance speeds away.

He turns to Lizzie. ‘Let’s hope he’s okay.’

Lizzie says nothing.

‘Good work calling the ambulance,’ says Philip. ‘And the cops.’

‘Yes.’ Lizzie doesn’t look at him.

Philip’s not sure what to say to make it better. She’s obviously still cross with him and wants him to talk about what happened back when he retired. She doesn’t understand he can’t do that. He doesn’t want to relive what happened: doesn’t want to admit that he couldn’t face telling her that his health was failing and he wasn’t fit to do the job any more – that he’d been so scared that without his rank and status she’d think less of him. And that since he had the heart attack it feels like she does think less of him; that she feels he’s not the man he once was. That she doesn’t even want to share his bed.

He blows out hard. There’s no point raking it all up. The past is the past – you can’t change it – all you can do is move on and try not to repeat your mistakes. ‘Lizzie, look, I’m . . .’

She turns away from him, so now he’s looking at her back. He wants to reach out to her and tell her he’s sorry, but he doesn’t because he knows that’ll lead to more questions. So he says nothing. Not knowing what to do or say next.