White gazed out across the car park. The service road around it was a constant stream of vehicles trying to get in or out, multicoloured schools of tuna punctuated by ambulance barracuda and single-decker bus sharks. “The car. Our car.” He could have kicked himself. Beryl couldn't drive and they'd brought him here by ambulance. “It's still at home.”
“Of course it is. We'll get the bus back. It's only twenty minutes on the number seventeen then change to the two-A at the station. How else did you think I'd got here?”
“I don't know. It didn't occur to me, really. I'm so used to driving everywhere.” He pulled out his mobile and checked the charge. It was on five per-cent, the little battery indicator red. “Let me try Peters.”
“There's no need, love, honestly. Look at the traffic. We could be home with a cup of tea before he even gets here.”
“A taxi, then.” He felt in his pocket but hadn't any money at all. Not even his warrant card with which to flash authorisation.
“Waste of money.” Beryl rattled the wheelchair. “Come on. Up you get. That's the seventeen pulling in now and I've got to give this wheelchair back.”
“A bus? Honestly?” He rose to his feet, fear growing in his stomach like flailing tapeworms. How many people on a bus at any one moments? How many people in Laverstone? How many of them had he arrested over the years? Say forty people on a bus, fifty thousand population, two thousand arrests. That made...He squeezed his eyes shut to concentrate over the clanging of metal as Beryl slotted his chair into a rack of similar ones. There was a good chance at least one of the other passengers would have cause to hate him. This was why the police never used public transport.
“Come on, Cameron.” Beryl gripped his arm. “We'll miss it.”