The Fourth Friend (DI Jackman & DS Evans #3)(5)
‘And that of four young men. And Carter believes it is entirely his fault. He organised the stag do in Amsterdam. He chartered the plane. Ergo, he is to blame. If it had been down to the other lads, they’d have had too many beers in a club in town, ripped Ray’s pants off and tied him to a lamp post. Everyone goes home and has a monster hangover. End of story.’
‘But instead, they all died, except Carter.’
‘Exactly. With the exception of Carter.’
‘So how on earth does he cope so well with work?’
‘As I said, he’s in an environment he understands. He’s in command of what happens. Luckily his friends weren’t coppers, so there’s no connection there either. He’s not immediately reminded of a dead friend every time he sees a uniform.’
‘How come they were such a close group? From what the papers said about them it seemed that they were all as different as chalk and cheese.’
‘Carter knew Tom Holland from school. Apparently they teamed up with the others doing voluntary work with disabled and disadvantaged kids. Some kind of outward bound holiday thing? They just gelled. Then they found an old lifeboat rotting away in a boatyard down on the estuary. They’d spent the last five years restoring it, using Carter’s money, their joint expertise and hard work. I understand it was almost finished.’
‘The best laid plans, and all that. Let’s just hope McLean gets rid of the damn thing. He’d never be able to set foot on board without thinking of his mates.’
Laura smiled. ‘I don’t think that’s quite how Carter sees it. It’s very precious to him, but for now, he’s rather sensibly making no decisions about it.’
‘Well, in conclusion, I’m very happy with his progress, and as we still have two more cases to discuss, perhaps we should move on . . . ?’
Laura pressed the plunger on the cafetiere down hard. So that was that. Carter was fine. End of story. We can all move on.
She poured her coffee and stirred it, slopping some onto the table. Carter McLean was far from fine. She knew it. Maybe she was closer to him than most — well, she should be, it was her job to be. She would hate to see the force put pressure on him simply through sheer ignorance. He needed stability and order in his life, not the stress of a new position — the responsibility, the administrative garbage, and the interminable senior management team sessions it would involve. It seemed the only thing that the powers that be had listened to was her suggestion that he take a step back from the drugs squad. It would have had him racing all over the place on dawn raids and the like. She gave a small laugh. Like so many other specialist units, the drugs squad had been disbanded, so her suggestion had amounted to nothing in the end.
For some reason she felt unusually protective of Carter McLean. She was no fool. She knew what disasters befell therapists who became personally involved with their clients. It was just that she liked Carter. Nothing more. Some people you just liked, and he was one of them.
She took the coffee back to her office and opened up her paper again. Sadly, she thought, this was the problem. Carter McLean was interwoven with her thesis as tightly as an Axminster carpet. A sudden, serious accident, like his, was one of the most stressful of life changes, and one of the most dangerous to mental health. And that was what her paper dealt with — life events, their impact and finding appropriate coping mechanisms.
For the fifth time she re-read what she had written, and wondered if it would be prudent to shelve it for a while. Every time she began working on it, those niggling worries about Carter crept back into her head, and her concentration flew out the window. Better to leave it for a while, until Carter McLean no longer occupied such a large part of her thoughts.
With a sigh, Laura closed the document and checked her diary. She looked through her games, selected Mah-jong and began to play.
CHAPTER TWO
Carter threw himself across the finish line, pushed the timer button on his watch, and collapsed onto the tarmac. His lungs felt as though they were full of hot coals and his legs were like jelly.
The atmosphere, the camaraderie that came from running with thousands of others had not been the thing that spurred him on. He had run the twenty-six miles and three hundred and eighty-five yards alone, in a big private bubble of pain.
He accepted the thermal blanket that a steward wrapped around him, and as he tried to thank the man, he found he had no voice. Tears were streaming down his face.
He’d done it! He’d actually done it. But not for himself. No, he’d done it for Matt. Well, for Matt’s dad to be precise.
After his dad had died, Matt had felt the need to do something in his father’s name, something special. Tom had suggested the East Coast Marathon and Matt was well up for it. But no matter how hard he tried, he never quite built up the fitness level or the stamina for the long, gruelling race. Now that Matt was gone, Carter was running it for him. It was the least he could do.
On the back of his vest there was a picture of Matt Blake Senior, and the legend, “I’m running for Matt and supporting the Macmillan Fund.”
Carter staggered to his feet, and saw two of his fellow police officers jogging over the line. He must have overtaken them somewhere, but he hadn’t even seen them.
‘Blimey! Talk about focus!’ gasped DC Max Cohen. ‘I was sure we’d beat you by a mile at least.’ The two young coppers sank to the ground beside him.