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  Shepherd stood up. One of the black teenagers stared at him menacingly. The woman BTP officer also got to her feet, waiting to see what Shepherd would do.

  The mother released her bag and Snow White tossed it to one of the gang.

  The rest of the passengers were frozen now with horror.

  Shepherd took a step towards the group. Three of them moved to block his way.

  Shepherd took out his warrant card and held it up. ‘Police!’ he shouted. ‘Put down those knives!’

  The teenager with the Stanley knife pulled the little girl to her feet and held it to her throat. ‘I’ll cut her!’ he yelled.

  The mother screamed and Snow White punched her in the mouth.

  ‘No, you won’t,’ said Shepherd. The little girl struggled but the teenager held her tight.

  Wright was trying to open the connecting door but two of the gang members were pushing against it.

  The train roared out of the tunnel and into Leicester Square station. Faces flashed by but Shepherd concentrated on the teenager. The blade of the Stanley knife had pierced the little girl’s neck and a dribble of blood ran down her shirt.

  The doors opened and the passengers scattered. Shepherd moved to allow an overweight businessman to waddle by, clutching his briefcase to his chest, but kept his eyes on the boy with the knife. ‘Just drop the knife on the floor and this will all work out just fine,’ he said.

  The boy pulled back the little girl’s hair. ‘I’ll cut her!’ he yelled again.

  ‘No, you won’t,’ said Shepherd. Passengers started to get on to the train but stopped when they saw what was happening. The teenager stabbed the knife into the child’s throat and blood spurted.

  The mother screamed, her hands over her face.

  Snow White ran out on to the platform, cursing at passengers to get out of her way. The two black teenagers ran after her. The boy with the knife spat at Shepherd, then pushed the child down the carriage and bolted on to the platform. The little girl staggered against Shepherd. Her shirt was soaked with blood but she was still conscious, eyes wide with fear. She tried to speak but all that came out was a gurgle. Her mother ran towards Shepherd, arms outstretched. She fell to the floor and grabbed her daughter.

  Shepherd looked at the teenagers running full pelt down the platform, then at the child. It was no contest. ‘Put her down gently,’ he said to the mother. He examined the cut. It was about two inches long and deep, but blood wasn’t pumping out, which meant that a major artery hadn’t been severed. The mother was sobbing.

  Wright burst through the connecting door. ‘I’ll radio for a paramedic.’

  ‘Go!’ said Shepherd. Wright hurried on to the platform.

  The female officer was preventing passengers getting on to the train.

  The child coughed and blood splattered out of her mouth. Shepherd needed something to stem the bleeding. She coughed again and more blood spurted over her chest. Shepherd’s medical training was basic, and mostly concerned with broken limbs and bullet wounds. The way her mouth kept filling with blood suggested he should get her head up. He propped her against a seat, then took off his leather jacket and the holstered Glock.

  Wright appeared at the carriage door. ‘Paramedics on their way,’ he said.

  ‘Okay.’ Shepherd tore off his shirt and pressed it to the little girl’s throat. He smiled at her. ‘The paramedics will be here in a minute. It’s going to be okay.’ Blood seeped into the shirt and he increased the pressure on the wound.

  The child stared wide-eyed at him. Her mother stroked her hair. ‘Hang on, honey, you’re going to be all right,’ she said. She turned to Shepherd, eyes brimming with tears. ‘What can we do? We’ve got to stop her bleeding.’

  ‘What’s your daughter’s name?’ he asked.

  ‘Emily. Emily McKenna.’

  Emily coughed and more blood gushed from her lips. Her chest heaved and Shepherd could see she was having trouble breathing. Blood was flowing down her windpipe and Shepherd knew he had to do something quickly.

  ‘Where are the paramedics?’ he asked Wright.

  Wright shrugged helplessly. ‘They know the situation,’ he said. ‘They said they’ll be right here.’

  ‘We need them now.’

  ‘The chief inspector said they’re on the way.’

  Emily’s chest was heaving as she fought for breath. She was choking to death. ‘Have you got a Biro?’ Shepherd asked.

  Wright fumbled in his pocket and pulled one out. ‘Are you sure about this?’

  ‘The blood’s running into her lungs,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ said Mrs McKenna.

  ‘We have to help your daughter breathe,’ said Shepherd. He put his hands on Emily’s shoulders. He could see the panic in her eyes.‘Listen,Emily. You have to lie down again, okay?’ She nodded. ‘Then I want you to close your eyes and imagine you’re somewhere else.’

  Emily made a gurgling sound as her mouth tried to form words. ‘Don’t talk,’ said Shepherd, and lowered her to the floor.

  ‘What are you doing?’ said Mrs McKenna.

  ‘Close your eyes, Emily,’ said Shepherd. He reached into his pocket and took out his Swiss Army knife, flicked out a blade and wiped it on his shirt. There was no time to worry about infection – they could pump antibiotics into her later. If he didn’t fix her breathing Emily would be dead within minutes.

  ‘Oh, God, no,’ whispered Mrs McKenna.

  ‘It has to be done,’ said Shepherd. ‘It won’t hurt, I promise, and it will save her life.’

  Emily coughed and more blood gushed from her lips.

  ‘Hold her hands, Mrs McKenna. Keep talking to her – keep her calm.’ He pulled the ink cartridge out of the Biro and tossed it on to the seat behind him.

  Mrs McKenna looked wildly at Wright as if he might have an alternative suggestion.

  ‘Do it now!’ said Shepherd.

  Mrs McKenna knelt down beside her daughter and took her hands. ‘It’s okay, sweetheart, I’m here.’

  Shepherd took the child’s throat in his left hand and gently squeezed the windpipe.

  ‘I’ll check where they are,’ said Wright. He ran on to the platform, talking into his radio.

  ‘You can’t stick that in her throat!’ said Mrs McKenna.

  ‘She won’t feel it,’ said Shepherd, ‘and if we don’t let her get air into her lungs . . .’ He pressed the tip of the blade between the cartilage ridges of her windpipe until it popped through, pulled it out, then pressed with his fingers. The hole opened wide. He put the knife on to the seat and pushed the plastic tube into the hole. Air sucked in through the tube and Emily’s chest stopped juddering.

  ‘It’s okay, darling,’ said Mrs McKenna.

  Emily’s mouth moved soundlessly. Her chest was moving up and down, and air was whistling through the tube.

  Shepherd sat back on his heels and wiped his forehead on the back of his arm.

  Wright appeared at the carriage door. ‘They’re here,’ he said. ‘One minute.’

  ‘Do you have a clean handkerchief, Mrs McKenna?’ asked Shepherd.

  Mrs McKenna didn’t take her eyes off her daughter but fumbled in her pocket and pulled out a white handkerchief.

  Shepherd took it and wrapped it round the base of the Biro tube.

  ‘Hang on, precious,’ said Mrs McKenna.

  Emily’s breathing had settled down. Blood was still trickling out of her mouth but she wasn’t choking now.

  Shepherd heard rapid footsteps. Two men in green and yellow fluorescent jackets dashed into the carriage. He stood up to give them room to work.‘Throat wound, no major arterial damage. Her mouth was filling with blood so I did a tracheotomy,’ he said.

  One of the paramedics checked the tube. ‘Good work.’

  The second paramedic felt for a pulse while the first went to work on Emily’s neck.

  Shepherd helped Mrs McKenna to her feet. There was blood on her hands and smeared across the front of her
coat. ‘She’ll be okay,’ he said.

  Tears were running down the woman’s face. ‘How could they do that to my little girl?’ she asked.

  Shepherd said nothing. It was a question he couldn’t answer.

  The hatch in the cell door clanged open and a face appeared in the gap. It was the WPC who’d taken her to see Gary Payne. ‘Are you okay, Mrs Kerr?’ she asked. She had a sweet face, thought Angie. Her eyes were a blue so pale that they were almost grey and she had used mascara on her lashes.

  ‘I’m fine,’ said Angie, in a monotone.

  ‘I’m off my shift in a few minutes. Do you want me to get you some food before I go?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ repeated Angie.

  ‘It’ll be your last chance before morning. And the night custody officer is a bit of a grouch.’

  Angie forced a smile. ‘Really, I’m fine.’

  ‘What about some tea?’

  Angie nodded at the polystyrene cup on the floor. ‘I’ve still got the one you gave me before.’

  ‘That was hours ago,’ said the WPC. ‘It’ll be stone cold.’

  Angie shrugged. ‘It’ll do.’

  The WPC smiled and closed the hatch. Angie opened her right hand and counted the barbiturate capsules. Twenty-four. She put them on the grey blanket, then picked up the polystyrene cup. A brown scum had formed on the tea. She took a sip and grimaced. She didn’t take sugar.

  She sat down on the bed, popped one of the tablets on to her tongue, took another sip of tea, flicked her head back and swallowed. One down, twenty-three to go. She sipped the cold tea. It wasn’t so bad.

  Ken Swift tossed the T-shirt to Shepherd. It was grey with NYPD on the front. ‘Got this on an exchange visit with the New York SWAT guys,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t mind having it back.’

  ‘Thanks, sir,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Shift’s over,’ said Swift. ‘It’s Ken.’

  Shepherd pulled on the T-shirt. The paramedics had taken his shirt when they wheeled away the little girl. They’d stabilised her and put her on a saline drip.

  ‘Where did you learn to do that throat thing?’ asked Swift.

  Shepherd shrugged. ‘Army, first-aid training. I’m just glad I was paying attention that day.’

  ‘Saved her life,’ said Swift.

  ‘The way the world is, the mother will probably sue me,’ said Shepherd. ‘I still don’t know if I did the right thing by not pulling my gun.’

  ‘They only had knives – you couldn’t have shot them. Not without a shit-load of trouble from the civil-liberty groups, and the press would have had a field day.’

  ‘They were kids, but the way they behaved . . .’

  ‘Animals,’ said Swift.

  ‘The one who stabbed the little girl wasn’t more than thirteen. What was he doing with a knife? Why aren’t his parents asking where he is?’

  ‘They probably don’t care,’ said Swift. ‘Father’s probably run off. Mother’s got no money. Schools are too busy maintaining order to get involved.’

  ‘Have you got kids?’

  ‘Three – and no matter what happened to the marriages I was always a father to them. Saw them whenever I could, went to school events, took them on holiday. When there were problems, I nipped them in the bud. I was a good dad, Stu. A shit husband, I’ll put my hands up to that, but I was always there for my kids.’

  ‘I can’t believe they got away,’ said Shepherd. ‘We were there on the bloody train. I was six feet away. If they hadn’t stabbed the little girl . . .’

  ‘That’s why they stabbed her. They knew you’d have to stop and help.’

  The chief inspector was right: they’d made a calculated decision to knife a child because anyone with humanity would help her rather than give chase. It was the sort of behaviour Shepherd would expect from a professional criminal or a soldier, not from teenagers.

  ‘By the time we got to Leicester Square they were well gone,’ said Swift. ‘CCTV footage shows them getting the Northern Line to Charing Cross. They left the station, probably walked back to their stamping ground.’

  ‘So what next?’

  ‘BTP want to try again in a couple of days. Thursday evening, maybe, or Friday. All we have to do now is find them. With you and the BTP detectives as witnesses, we have a case.’

  ‘I’m up for it,’ said Shepherd. ‘I want another crack at them.’

  Swift slapped him on the back. ‘Job’s yours,’ he said. ‘Now, let’s go get a pint. We’ve earned it.’

  Shepherd set his alarm for seven thirty so that he could have breakfast with Liam before he went to school, but he was awake before the alarm went off. He heard Katra get up and go down to the kitchen, and later he heard her getting Liam ready. He grabbed his dressing-gown and went downstairs. Liam was sitting at the kitchen table, eating toast and drinking orange juice.

  Katra had a mug of coffee ready for him.

  ‘What time did you get home, Dad?’ asked Liam.

  ‘About eleven,’ said Shepherd. ‘I came in to say goodnight but you were asleep. Did you do your homework?’

  ‘Katra helped me,’ said Liam.

  ‘It was maths,’ said Katra. ‘I was always good at that.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’m working late all this week, but I’ll be able to do my bit at the weekend.’

  ‘What was work like yesterday?’ asked Liam.

  Shepherd shrugged. ‘Boring office stuff,’ he lied.

  ‘Why do you have to work at night, then?’

  ‘There’s office stuff to do all day,’ said Shepherd. He didn’t like lying to his son, but he certainly didn’t want to tell him he’d stuck a knife into a little girl’s windpipe. ‘Did you manage the drive all right?’ he asked Katra.

  ‘She’s great, Dad,’ said Liam. ‘Better than you.’

  ‘Thanks, kid.’

  ‘Come on, Liam, it’s time to go,’ said Katra. She helped Liam on with his blazer and handed him his bag. ‘I’ll cook breakfast for you when I get back,’ she said to Shepherd.

  ‘That’s okay, I’m fine with coffee,’ said Shepherd, raising his mug.

  ‘It’s the most important meal of the day,’ said Liam, and grinned.

  Katra giggled and they left.

  Shepherd went through to the sitting room and waved as they drove off. Then he went upstairs, shaved, climbed into the shower and turned it on cold, gasping as the icy water washed over him.

  The doorbell rang as he was rinsing shampoo from his hair. Shepherd swore, grabbed a towel and wrapped it round his waist as he rushed downstairs. It was Kathy Gift. He’d forgotten she’d said she’d be round on Wednesday morning. He wanted to ask her to reschedule but he knew that if he avoided her she’d tell Hargrove. All he had to do was sit down and talk to her. He could do that. And he could show her he was on an even keel, that all was well with the world. He spent half of his undercover life pretending to be something he wasn’t.

  ‘I seem to be making a habit of getting you out of the shower,’ she said.

  ‘It isn’t even eight yet,’ he said.

  ‘The early bird,’ she said. ‘Is someone with you? Is this a bad time?’

  Shepherd smiled ruefully. ‘No. I’m alone.’

  ‘Liam’s still with his grandparents?’

  ‘He moved back in at the weekend but he’s just gone to school.’

  ‘So you solved your au pair problem?’

  ‘Looks that way,’ he said. He held the door open for her. ‘I’ve just had coffee, but if you want one, you know where everything is.’

  He hurried upstairs, dried himself and put on a grey pullover and black jeans. When he got back downstairs she was studying the framed photographs in the bookcase. There were two mugs of coffee on the table by the sofa.

  ‘He’s a good-looking boy,’ she said, peering at a snap of Liam in his school uniform.

  ‘Takes after his mum,’ said Shepherd.

  Gift smiled at a silver-framed photograph of Shepherd and Sue standing in
the garden, their backs to the house. Liam had taken it the previous year on Sue’s birthday and he’d kept them smiling at the camera for almost two minutes before he eventually pressed the shutter. Sue had burst out laughing just as Liam took the picture and her eyes were full of life, full of joy. It felt like a lifetime ago.

  Gift sat down in an armchair and opened her briefcase. She took out a clipboard with a ballpoint pen.

  ‘No tape-recorder?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s my impressions I want to record, rather than what you say.’

  ‘The opposite of a police interrogation,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘That’s one way of looking at it.’ She crossed her legs and rested the clipboard on her knee. ‘But I’m not trying to trap you or get you to admit anything that you don’t want to.’

  ‘Just a chat between friends?’

  The psychologist chuckled.‘I’m here to help,Dan,’ she said. ‘I just want to get a feeling for how you’re handling the job. I talk to everyone on the unit at least once a year.’

  But Shepherd knew her visit wasn’t just an annual service. Hargrove had asked her to talk to him, which meant the superintendent was concerned.

  ‘I couldn’t help noticing the scar on your shoulder when you answered the door.’

  ‘I stopped a bullet a while back. It was nothing.’

  ‘Before you joined the police?’

  ‘In my previous life.’

  ‘Do you mind talking about it?’

  ‘Being shot, or being in the SAS?’

  Gift looked at him with a slight smile on her face. ‘Which do you feel most comfortable talking about?’

  Shepherd folded his arms, then realised she might think his body language defensive. He put his hands on his knees but that felt too posed so he moved them to his lap. ‘That’s such a psychologist’s question,’ he said.

  ‘I didn’t mean it to be. I’m just interested.’

  ‘In what specifically?’

  ‘What it was like to be shot, I guess.’

  Shepherd rubbed his chin. ‘It doesn’t hurt, if that’s what you mean. Not at first, anyway. It’s like been punched really hard. The endorphins kick in and you’re aware that you’re losing blood and you just go weak.’

  ‘Who shot you?’