Free The Night Ferry by Michael Robotham Page A

the chest.
    “The results of your medical have been reviewed, DC Barba, along with your psychological evaluation. I must say you have made a remarkable recovery from your injuries. Your request to return to active duty with the Diplomatic Protection Group has also been noted. Courageous is the word that comes to mind.” He tugs at his cuffs. Here it comes. “But under the circumstances, having reviewed the matter thoroughly, it has been decided to transfer you out of the DPG. You might be a little gun-shy, you see, which is hardly a good thing when protecting diplomats and foreign heads of state. Could be embarrassing.”
    “I’m not gun-shy, sir. Nobody fired a gun at me.”
    He raises his hand to stop me. “Be that as it may, we have a responsibility to look after our foreign guests and while I have every confidence in you, there is no way of testing your fitness when push comes to shove and Abdul the terrorist takes a potshot at the Israeli ambassador.” He taps the folder several times with his finger to stress the point.
    “The most important part of my job is shuffling people and priorities. It is a thankless task but I don’t ask for medals or commendations. I am simply a humble servant of the public.” His chest swel s. “We don’t want to lose you, DC Barba. We need more women like you in the Met, which is why I am pleased to offer you a position as a recruitment officer. We need to encourage more young women into the Met, particularly from minority communities. You can be a role model.”
    A mist seems to cloud my vision. He stands now, moving back to the window where he bends to peer through his telescope again.
    “Unbelievable! Moron!” he screams, shaking his head.
    He turns back to me, settling his haunch on the corner of the desk. A print behind his head is a famous depiction of the Bow Street Runners, London’s renowned early police force.
    “Great things are expected of you, DC Barba.”
    “With al due respect, sir, I am not gun-shy. I am fitter than ever. I can run a mile in four and a half minutes. I’m a better shot than anyone at the DPG. My high-speed defensive driving skil s are excel ent. I am the same officer as before—”
    “Yes, yes, you’re very capable I’m sure, but the decision has been made. It’s out of my hands. You’l report to the Police Recruitment Center at Hendon on Monday morning.” He opens his office door and waits for me to leave. “You’re stil a very important member of the team, Alisha. We’re glad to have you back.” Words have dried up. I know I should argue with him or slam my fist on his desk and demand a review. Instead, I meekly walk out the door. It closes behind me.
    Outside, I wander along Victoria Street. I wonder if the Chief Superintendent is watching me. I’m tempted to look up toward his window and flip him the bird. Isn’t that what the Americans cal it?
    Of course, I don’t. I’m too polite, you see. That’s my problem. I don’t intimidate. I don’t bul y. I don’t talk in sporting clichés or slap backs or have a wobbly bit between my legs.
    Unfortunately, it’s not as though I have outstanding feminine wiles to fal back on such as a kil er cleavage or a backside like J-Lo. The only qualities I bring to the table are my gender and ethnic credibility. The Metropolitan Police want nothing else from me.
    I am twenty-nine years old and I stil think I’m capable of something remarkable in my life. I am different, unique, beyond compare. I don’t have Cate’s luminous beauty or infinite sadness, or her musical laugh or the ability to make al men feel like warriors. I have wisdom, determination and steel.
    At sixteen I wanted to win Olympic gold. Now I want to make a difference. Maybe fal ing in love wil be my remarkable deed. I wil explore the heart of another human being. Surely that is chal enge enough. Cate always thought so.

    When I need to think I run. When I need to forget I run. It can clear my thoughts completely or