Free My Bloody Valentine (Alastair Gunn) by Alastair Gunn Page A

radio presenter asked.
    ‘I think the police should be out on the streets; taking control.’
    ‘You mean martial law?’
    ‘No, no, Peter, I’m talking about community policing, like we had in the sixties.’
    ‘You think that would help?’
    ‘It certainly wouldn’t hurt. Otherwise, things are only going to get worse, you mark my words. We’ll be under curfew by spring if they don’t sort this out.’
    ‘Okay, Maggie, thanks for your call, but we need to move on. There are plenty of people waiting to tell us how the recent spate of murders in London has affected them. Let’s move on to Shaun. Hi, Shaun …’
    Hawkins turned the radio down, tensing as another shockwave shot through her torso, just about managing to keep the signs of agony from registering on her face. She didn’t want to show Maguire that, despite havingbeen back at work only a few hours, her still-recovering body had already given up for the day.
    ‘Sorry.’ Mike steered the Volvo around the next pothole. ‘I know you Brits like a challenge, but I’ve seen smoother ranch tracks. You okay?’
    ‘Fine,’ she lied. ‘But if you keep it out of the deeper gorges, my internal stitches might hold till dinner time.’
    Mike smiled thinly, reinforcing Hawkins’ suspicion that he’d been upset by her not even mentioning Valentine’s Day. They’d only been back together for a few weeks, and so far their peak amorous encounter had been the previous evening, a five-minute fumble when her father had gone for a walk, which Hawkins had curtailed when Mike’s hand brushed one of her scars. She hadn’t told him that, of course, replacing honesty with a lame excuse about not wanting to be interrupted by her dad, tangling like a couple of teenage amateurs. For the rest of the evening, she’d gently avoided opportunities for affection, despite Maguire’s best efforts to engage. So perhaps he’d been hoping for some kind of amorous gesture, to reassure him she hadn’t lost interest for good.
    Whether that was the case or not, Hawkins had spent most of Valentine’s Day planning her return to work, utterly blinkered to the date’s significance, and to Mike’s potential need for her to show commitment to their relationship by marking it.
    She spooled back in her mind. Had he been quieter than normal, maybe waiting for some small sign she’dremembered before he would reveal his undoubtedly thoughtful gift? It was difficult to say. American society had always placed greater emphasis on seasonal celebration, although even school proms and baby showers were invading British culture these days. But he also knew Hawkins tended to draw the line at birthday and Christmas presents, so it was just as likely he’d disregarded the event, too.
    In fact, now she thought about it, he seemed more concerned about her health.
    So far, the journey from Becke House had been dominated by a quick-fire round of delving questions about her capabilities, followed by a lecture on recognizing and respecting her constraints.
    As if to emphasize the point, they crashed through another pothole.
    Mike glanced across. ‘Oops, that one leapt out on me.’
    Hawkins renewed her contented face, keen not to blow her fragile credibility on day one. Clearly, Mike knew she was uncomfortable; they’d chosen their Volvo S60 from the car pool simply because it offered the most cosseting ride, but for now at least he was happy to have her along. The fact she knew Deal or No Deal was just starting on Channel Four meant Hawkins really needed to be at work today. And she was determined not to regret her decision to resume duties because of a few divots in the local tarmac.
    But she was still glad when they emerged from a rowof seedy bookmakers and charity shops to see the park, surrounded by police incident screens, opposite one of the most tragic-looking housing projects she’d seen in a while.
    Maguire pulled up next to the perimeter. Immediately, Hawkins released her seat belt and reached