Page 2 of The Unlikely Spare
I don’t wait for him to finish. “Move!” I shout to the officers who are already lunging for Donny, but the slippery bastard is quicker than he looks.
He bolts, knocking over our table and sending beer glasses shattering across the floor.
I chase after him. Five months of graft aren’t going down the toilet because Donny Walsh fancies himself an Olympic sprinter.
Donny crashes through the back door into the alley behind the pub. The door slams into my shoulder as I follow, but adrenaline makes the pain irrelevant.
“Stop! Police!” I roar, but of course, he doesn’t stop. Because no one in the history of crime has ever thought,Oh, they said stop, better turn myself in and save everyone the cardio.
The alley is narrow, slick with decades of grime and God knows what else. Donny stumbles on a pile of rubbish, and I see my chance. I dig deep, legs burning, and launch myself at him.
We go down in a tangle of limbs, skidding across wet pavement.
The impact knocks the wind from my lungs, but training takes over. I grab his right arm and twist it behind his back, using my weight to pin him down.
“Get the fuck off me!” he screams.
I lean close to his ear. “Eoin O’Connell, Metropolitan Police.” I slap my badge down in front of his face. “You’re nicked, you stupid bastard.”
“You’re dead!” He spits, struggling harder. “You hear me? Fucking dead! I’m going to fucking kill you.”
I twist his arm higher, making him yelp. “There’s a queue of people wanting to kill me. But feel free to join the line.”
The two uniformed officers appear at the end of the alley, running toward us. Donny keeps struggling, managing to get a hand free. He claws at my face, fingernails digging into my cheek.
“Ah, for feck’s sake,” I growl as I grab his arm again. “Quit yer wrigglin’, Donny. It’s over.”
The officers reach us, and together, we haul Donny to his feet.
There’s murder in his eyes when he looks at me.
“How the fuck are you a cop?”
“Scotland Yard has a thug quota to fill, and I was the only applicant who could spell detective correctly,” I reply. “Though, between you and me, I had to sound it out.”
Donny spits a mixture of blood and saliva that lands just shy of my boot. The uniformed constable to my right tightens his grip, making Donny wince.
“The Fletcher diamonds,” I tell one of the officers, producing the velvet pouch from my jacket. “Evidence.”
“Nice work, O’Connell,” says a familiar voice from the end of the alley. Detective Inspector Patel approaches, her dark eyes taking in my disheveled state with a hint of amusement.
She nods to the officers to take Donny away.
As they drag him off, still cursing my name, my ancestors, and any future children I might have, Patel examines the pouch of diamonds.
“The Fletchers will be relieved. Lady Fletcher was particularly attached to these.”
“Glad to bring joy to the aristocracy,” I deadpan as I wipe blood from my cheek from where Donny scratched me. “I’m going to write up my report, then try to wash this stink off me.”
“No, you’re not.” Patel’s expression shifts, becoming serious. “You’re wanted at headquarters. Immediately.”
I frown. “Can’t it wait? I need to get Donny booked?—”
“Orders from Detective Chief Superintendent Thornton himself. And he said to come as soon as you were finished here.”
A cold finger of unease traces down my spine.
“Did he say what it’s about?”
