With a shake of his head, PJ dragged himself back to the present.
"What can we do – "
"You can get yourself out there and find the bastard, that's what you can do!" Christophe demanded, this time showering himself with spittle. Wiping his face with the back of his hand, he sat up a little straighter. 'He's out there, the little bastard, and you're going to go get him and throw away the key. And if you don't, I will."
"And exactly who might this 'little bastard' be, and why would we want him?" Tom asked when PJ continued to silently stare at the photograph in front of him.
"Are you listening? Hasham, are you listening to me at all?"
"I'm listening" PJ said, picking up a pen and straightening the notepad in front of him. "I'm listening. What's the problem?"
'Now he listens!! I don't suppose it would interest you to know that you've got a gunman on the loose? That some maniac is taking potshots at my Milly here?" Christophe announced, his tone condescending and derogotary. "You think a little thing like that might interest the great Detective Hasham?"
PJ tensed at the tone and the implication, but let it wash over him. It wasn't worth getting riled up, nothing was worth anything any more. Get the job done, go home, get up, get the job done – that's all that mattered now.
"He's not bloody listening again, Croydon, what is it, am I not important enough? Am I not blonde enough?" Christophe glanced at the picture that held the detective's attention. "Someone took a shot at Milly, for god's sake!! What if it was her?" Christophe reached over and snatched the photo from the desk. 'What if it was blondie here that was shot? What if someone put a bullet in her?"