Thin blue line

When PC Philomena McCarthy finds a young child wandering the streets in the middle of the night as a major incident unfolds across town, her two worlds – one on the right side of the law, the other firmly on the opposite - collide.

- WORDS by MICHAEL ROBOTHAM

Some children have to live up to parental expectations. Ihave to escape mine. My father is Edward McCarthy and my uncles are the McCarthy brothers, whom the tabloids refer to as “colourful local identities” or “ex-cons” but never “gangsters” because my father has a barrister on speed-dial.

Ihave never understood why people use the term “organised crime”. They never talk about “organised nursing” or “organised teaching” or “organised accountancy”. Why do criminals get this added descriptor? Maybe because most crimes are chaotic and impulsive and stupid, which is why the perpetrators get caught. Not Edward McCarthy. Accusations and insinuations slide off him like he’s John Gotti, the Teflon Don. Nothing ever sticks.

“With extra mustard,” says Coop, relaying the last of the order. “We'll be there in 15.”

Satisfied, he puts his phone away and drums his hands on the dashboard. Eating is like a competitive sport for Coop, a reality that’s beginning to show around his midriff, although he keeps telling me he’s training for the London Marathon.

At this hour, the roads are mostly deserted, except for garbage trucks and street-sweeping vehicles and the occasional black cab, which come in all colours these days. The rain has stopped and misty yellow halos glow around the streetlights that reflect from puddles on the road.

We're on Haverstock Hill, not far from Belsize Park station, when a cyclist hurtles out of a side street, running a red light. I see a flash of yellow and hit the brakes. Wheels lock. Rubber squeals. The cyclist swerves and turns his head at the last moment, his eyes full of fear. The car nudges his back wheel. The bike wobbles, but the cyclist stays upright and carries on riding down Haverstock Hill, pumping on the pedals, his Lycra-covered arse swaying.

“Fuck!” says Coop, bracing his hands against the dashboard. His notebook and phone have fallen into the footwell.

“Maniac,” I say, sucking in a breath.