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looked down the street at the taped-off police lines. ‘A big, big problem.’

twelve
    9 a.m.
     
    The shotgun rested firmly against Mac’s neck. The voice of the man holding it spoke in a flat monotone.
    ‘Now, what would an undercover cop be doing breaking into my office? Apart from anything else, that’s breaking the law, isn’t it?’
    ‘Calum, I need your help.’
    A sour laugh erupted behind him. The shotgun jammed deeper into his skin. ‘Help? If PC Mac thinks quipping is going to save him from a double barrel’s worth of shot, he’s lost his touch.’
    Mac said nothing. A lifetime of seconds passed before he heard a grunt behind him. The cold steel slowly lifted from his skin. Click. The hammers slotted back into place. Calum Burns emerged from behind him. He was taller than Mac’s five eleven, more toned than bulky muscle, with a face that could range from cheeky to marble cold in the beat of a second. He wore marble cold as he rested the shotgun upright against a wall. Without looking at Mac, he slowly walked towards the desk, his steps uneven, but careful. His movements surprised Mac because Calum was a man known to walk with a cocksure swagger. But Mac clamped down on asking about what was up with his leg, instead watched Calum settle in a chair.
    Calum leaned idly back and stared at Mac with sharp green eyes. And spoke. ‘The traditional way to ask someone for help is to call them, or press the entry phone to their office – not break in through their windows.’
    ‘And what would you have said if I’d given you a bell?’ Mac seated himself opposite.
    ‘Fuck. Off.’
    The charged atmosphere intensified. Sweat bubbled up from the pores on Mac’s forehead. He flipped his hood back and peeled off the strip of towelling. Fished around in his pocket. Found Elena’s phone and put it on the desk. Calum took no notice of the phone; instead he studied Mac’s wound.
    ‘Pistol shot?’ Calum broke the silence.
    Mac ignored the question and pushed the phone across the desk. ‘I can’t get into this phone and I need to know what was on it. Names, addresses, phone calls, texts – the lot.’
    Calum twisted his mouth, but picked up the phone. ‘And why would I do that? And please don’t say “for old times’ sake” or I really will blast you to kingdom come.’
    ‘You’re a security consultant-cum-fixer these days, aren’t you? One of the best in the business – or so I’ve heard.’
    Calum’s face turned hard. ‘You’re not getting me, are you? The question is not “Can I help you?” It’s “Why should I help you?”’
    This wasn’t going to be easy. Mac’s head flopped back, his line of vision coming into contact with a framed document on the wall opposite. It was an enlarged copy of Calum’s confidentiality agreement, which he’d signed, promising not to divulge any information about his ‘resignation’ from the police. It had formed part of his settlement when he’d left The Met for good. No one, not even Mac, had understood why Calum had been booted out of the Force. Of course there were rumours – a backhander, decked his superior, or been sharing whiskey shots with the wrong crowd. But no one really knew and Calum wasn’t telling. He wasn’t even telling why he wasn’t telling. A confidentiality agreement meant nothing to him. None of it had made any sense. Sure Calum had been a bit fly, occasionally massaged the rules, but he’d been a good cop. No, he’d been great. Outstanding. Upstanding.
    ‘This isn’t police business if that makes a difference . . .’ Mac started.
    ‘A difference?’ the other man slammed back, the muscles in his cheeks contorting madly. ‘Do you know how many of my former colleagues shook my hand before I left? Zero. Do you know how many of my former colleagues rang me up to wish me luck for the future? Zero. Fuck-all.’
    Calum didn’t need to point out that Mac had been part of the ‘fuck-all’ crowd. Mac wasn’t proud of not