The policeman who first spoke to him was a pudgy lad with large blue eyes. Staring eyes, like he’d had a surprise and never got over it. He took Mike’s name and address, date of birth, and asked him what he was doing in the area.
Mike explained and gestured to his van.
‘And can you tell me what you saw?’
‘I saw the shooting,’ Mike said.
The police officer glanced swiftly at him, as if to check he was serious. Then nodded and wrote something in his notebook. ‘Can you come over here, sir? We’d like to take some details now.’
It was another hour and a half before they were done. There was a lot of waiting about. Mike tried ringing Vicky but there was no answer on either her mobile or the landline. Then he sat in a car with a woman who took a detailed account from him, and she seemed to deliberately take it slowly. First interrupting him and wanting him to elaborate on things, then asking him to repeat what he’d just told her. He was thirsty and asked if he could get his Coke but she wouldn’t let him. She drummed up a bottle of water, warm but wet. Mike drank it all. Someone removed his shoes and returned them after taking an impression of the soles.
A lot of the questions were about the man with the gun. His height and size, which arm he raised, his stance, his clothes, his hairstyle. Mike could see the guy in his mind’s eye but when she repeated her questions uncertainty corroded the picture. He was black, yes, like the boy he shot. Tall, solid build. Baggy yellow and blue clothes, like the basketball players wear. But Mike was too far away to be sure about his hair, or his features.
‘Could you identify him?’ she asked. It was warm in the car, even with the windows open, and tiny beads of sweat framed her forehead. Mike could smell his own sweat. Rank. He wanted to apologize for it. It couldn’t be pleasant. You must get used to it, he thought, people in a state. He recalled the nurse standing up once the ambulance arrived, her hands and knees crimson and blood daubed on her uniform, a smear on one cheek. Looking dazed and lost.
‘I was too far away,’ he admitted.
Finally the woman told Mike he could go. They’d be in touch.
‘Is there any news,’ he asked ‘from the hospital?’
She pulled her mouth down, took off her specs, there were deep red grooves either side of the bridge of her nose. ‘They couldn’t revive him,’ she said.
Mike nodded once, his hands balled into fists.
He’d missed nine deliveries. He was one of the few drivers who covered Sundays – same rate, Ian never paid double time. Most of the trade was home shopping, people ordering from catalogues and, more often nowadays, online.