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disappeared.’

Four
    T wenty minutes later, back at ground level and out on the street, Troy watched as the ambulance with McIver inside left for Royal Prince Alfred. The sarge was still unconscious. One of the paramedics had told Troy the bullet that ripped open his arm had probably shocked him into tripping over, and he’d hit his head when he fell. This could sometimes lead to recurrent blackouts.
    Don Vella had turned up with two more detectives, and they were up on level thirty-one. The head of the police media unit was around somewhere, and had told Troy not to speak to anyone. Not that he would: it was standard procedure to refuse to talk to the media unless you had the go-ahead from a senior officer. Sometimes police leaked information, but it was not something Troy had ever done.
    Homicide Commander Helen Kelly had arrived at City Central and was talking to Ron Siegert. Other detectives would be going to the hospital to be with McIver. Having any officer down was a major event and Troy couldn’t remember the last time a homicide detective had been shot. Kelly had said the same when they’d spoken briefly on the phone a few minutes earlier. Then, ‘But if it had to be anyone, it was going to be Jon.’ For a second Troy wondered who she was talking about, then realised Jon was McIver’s first name. He hoped he wasn’t going into shock himself. Of course he was upset by what had happened, but the emotion seemed to be restricted to one part of his mind, a small part, and the rest of him seemed to be functioning normally.
    Upstairs, after the medics had taken over from him, he’d searched the clothes of the man he’d shot. Probably he shouldn’t have done this; physical evidence would need to swab him for gunshot residue. Kelly had said something about this on the phone. But with the shortage of officers and the speed things were going, he needed to do what he could, see if there was anything that might identify the man.
    He couldn’t look at the face. It was strange—him being a homicide cop it shouldn’t bother him—but he hadn’t wanted to see the man’s face. The guy had no wallet, no ID, nothing at all. He’d explained this to Harmer when she arrived. She’d told him to go down to ground level and leave the investigation to other officers.
    Now that he had nothing to do but wait, he was feeling odd. Not traumatised, nothing like that, but as though he were floating. He wondered if this was how it would be, or if it would all come down on him at some point.
    His mind drifted back to his conversation with Kelly, who’d said, ‘We’re going to have to be very careful about all of this, you two being where you shouldn’t, and then the shooting. Siegert’s very unhappy. I suppose you went up to help McIver. I mean, Harmer told you not to, but I suppose you felt you had to help a fellow officer?’
    â€˜That’s right,’ he said, wondering where this was going; wondering if he should tell her what state McIver had been in, but knowing he wouldn’t. He had felt the stirring of something. A different kind of danger.
    Kelly said, ‘Just be careful. I’d hate to see your career affected because of the sergeant.’
    â€˜What do you mean?’ he said.
    Until tonight he’d had few dealings with Kelly, and didn’t know how to read her.
    â€˜I’m not saying there are any problems, Nick. I don’t know enough about it yet. But when you make your statement, just think about what you’re saying. All right?’
    â€˜Sure I will.’
    â€˜No, I mean really think.’
    He knew he had to work this out for himself, but at the moment nothing much was coming. She had told him to wait at the scene until Internal Affairs arrived to interview him.
    â€˜Does this mean I’m off the investigation?’ he said.
    â€˜Of course you are. Just keep an eye on things until I get there. You