Death Row

by Mark Pearson

  Bennett stood up, wincing a little again, and walked across to his wardrobe. He took out a smart black jacket to match his black trousers and put it on. He looked at himself in the mirror set into the back of the wardrobe door and adjusted his tie, which was blue with red diagonal stripes. He looked at himself for a moment or two longer, his brown eyes serious and thoughtful, and then slid his reflection away as he closed the door.

  He stepped through to the living room. Like his bedroom there was little personality in the room: no posters or pictures on the walls, no photographs on display. It was rectangular, a modern design with a sofa acting as a partition from the kitchen area behind it. The sofa faced a television and DVD set up on a chrome stand. At right angles to the pale yellow sofa a matching armchair had been placed, and opposite that was a sideboard with a bookcase above. No books had yet been placed on the shelves but a number of magazines were arranged neatly in a pile at the base of it. Bennett crossed over to the sideboard and picked up the remote control for the television that rested on top of the uppermost magazine, Fieldsports Quarterly. He turned on the television.

  He muted the sound as a barrage of noise burst from the television and animated creatures danced around the screen. Still holding the remote, he walked over to his kitchen area, which had a beech table that could seat four people, modern matching beech units with a built-in oven, a four-ring gas hob and a shiny metal sink set in a faux-marble work surface. He picked up a mug of coffee that he had made some minutes earlier, took a swig and using the remote he flicked through his pre-set favourite channels to Sky News.

  Melanie Jones, wrapped in a bright red thick woollen duffel coat, with a white scarf arranged perfectly around her pretty neck, was addressing the camera. Behind her a few people had gathered at the yellow tape that was cordoning off the street, and further still behind her Bennett could see the numerous flashing blue lights of the police cars parked by the church of Saint Botolph’s. Saint Botolph, he thought to himself: another Irishman come to England to preach. Nobody knew much about him, either.

  He pressed the mute button again and the presenter’s warm honey-toned voice filled the room.

  ‘I am sad to be bringing you yet another bizarre twist to the Peter Garnier story. Not a hundred yards from Carlton Row, which local people are now calling Death Row, where an eight-year-old boy called Archie Woods was abducted yesterday. A woman’s body has been discovered this morning in Saint Botolph’s church, which you can see behind me. Although the police have yet to release a full statement, they have informed Sky News that they are treating the death as highly suspicious. The discovery was made by Father Carson Brown, priest of the church, and we hope to be speaking to him later.’

  Bennett muted the sound again. Turning to the sink, he poured the rest of his coffee away, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the handle of the mug as if to snap it off. His dark eyes were unfocused. Then he blinked, put the mug in the sink, snatched up his overcoat from the back of one of his kitchen chairs and headed to his front door.

  *

  An hour or so later Kate and Delaney came out of the entrance of the church as a suited team of SOCO went in. Kate nodded to the forensic pathologist, Dr Derek ‘Bowlalong’ Bowman, a cheerful portly man in his early fifties with a mass of badly managed curly hair atop a large smiling face. He was hurrying up to them at the usual busy pace that had given rise to his nickname.

  ‘Doctor Walker. What a delight,’ he said, his smile widening.

  ‘Bowlalong.’

  ‘Thanks for filling in – sorry I got held up. Some teenager turned over his car on the North Circular. Three mates on board. All seventeen.’ His smile disappeared momentarily. ‘So, Inspector Delaney, I see you couldn’t keep the lovely doctor away from the business end of the job.’

  ‘Didn’t want to wait. Not with the boy still missing.’

  ‘Quite so.’ Bowman turned to Kate. ‘Well, what have you found?’

  ‘I haven’t processed the scene at all. Just took some shots – I’ll email them over to your office later this morning,’ she said.

  ‘I’m led to believe the victim’s head was frozen?’

  ‘Or extremely chilled.’

  ‘Could you tell how it had managed to become separated from her body?’

  Kate shrugged. ‘Cut rather than sawn. I’m guessing a large heavy-bladed implement.’

  ‘Like an axe?’ prompted Delaney.

  Kate nodded. ‘Or a machete – a sabre, possibly.’

  ‘A military sabre?’

  ‘Maybe. We’ll know more when Dr Bowman finishes a proper post. I’m just speculating here.’

  ‘But to cut off a human head … that’s going to take a lot of strength, isn’t it?’

  ‘I would say so,’ said Doctor Bowman, with an emphatic nod.

  ‘Especially if the flesh was frozen,’ added Kate.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Delaney. ‘If it was partly chilled it would be easier in some ways. Cleaner cuts, less blood spillage. Butchers chill their meat before butchering it, don’t they?’

  ‘They do, Jack. They do. Food for thought, I’d say.’ The forensic pathologist held his bag up and grinned bleakly again. ‘I’d best get to it. I’ll be back to you as soon as I can, Jack.’

  ‘DI Robert Duncton is in charge of this one, I’m afraid, Derek.’

  ‘Copy me in, though,’ said Kate.

  ‘You got it.’

  Bowman bustled purposefully inside and Delaney and Kate walked across the small front yard, through the gate and up to the parked police cars.

  Delaney leaned against the bonnet of one of the squad cars and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. As he did so a folded piece of paper fell to the floor and Kate had to bend down quickly and pick it up before it got soaked in the puddle it had landed by.

  She handed it back to Delaney who opened it out.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Kate.

  ‘Somebody the new boy Bennett is looking for. He thinks he might have something to do with the stabbed Iranian who you found off Camden High Street.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  Delaney handed her the photo and she looked at it, frowning. ‘He looks a little familiar to me.’

  ‘Doesn’t look the sort to play tennis at your club,’ said Delaney dryly.

  ‘Funny.’ Kate looked at the photo again and pulled out her mobile. ‘I think I know who he is.’

  As she punched in some numbers Sally Cartwright approached, carrying a large brown paper sack. Delaney smiled. The aroma of a bacon sandwich, apparently, was the one smell most responsible for turning ex-meat eaters away from being vegetarians and back to being carnivores. Delaney could see why. Anyway, as far as he was concerned he was as likely to turn vegetarian as he was to turn teetotal.

  ‘They’re going to be a bit cold, sir. Got here as fast as I could.’

  ‘Good girl.’

  Delaney unwrapped a sandwich and took a hefty bite. Bemused, Kate watched him, wondering how he got away with it. Anyone else who called Sally Cartwright good girl would, she imagined, get told pretty quickly what to do with their bacon sandwich – buttered or otherwise.

  *

  DI Tony Bennett’s eyes were fixed straight ahead. The voice filling the air was musical, a deep bass. The words rolling like treacle and echoing from the stone walls.

  ‘Your brother will rise again, he said. And Martha answered, “I know he will rise in the resurrection at the last day.” And Jesus said to her, I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in me will live, even though he dies; and whoever lives and believes in me will never die. Do you believe this? He asked.’

  Bennett stared ahead, his eyes shining. He felt a trembling against his thigh, and he blinked, confused for a moment. Then he took out his mobile phone. It vibrated quietly in his hand and he looked at the number, swallowed dryly and used his thumb to click the phone off.

  *

  Delaney took a last swig of the tea
that Sally had also brought.

  ‘Did you see the news this morning, sir?’ she asked him.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Your friend Melanie Jones has started calling this area Death Row.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘After Carlton Row.’

  ‘Yeah, thank you – I got the connection, Sally!’

  ‘She said it’s what the locals are calling it.’

  ‘Well, they got that right, I suppose.’

  ‘She also said that the police were fairly sure it wasn’t an accidental death.’

  Delaney grunted as Kate came over to join them. ‘If she knew what had really happened in there she would be shouting it out every fifteen minutes.’

  ‘The press will have to know soon enough, I guess,’ said Kate.

  ‘And the chief is stamping up and down, sir,’ added Sally. ‘Wants to be kept posted on any developments. He thinks there’s mileage in your profile on this.’

  ‘Great!’

  ‘He may be right.’

  ‘I’ve had my picture on the front page of the papers once, Sally. I’m not so keen to have it there again, thanks all the same.’

  He looked across at the growing crowd of journalists behind the yellow tape, not at all surprised to see Melanie Jones had now joined their number.

  ‘Death Row,’ he muttered and shook his head disgustedly.

  Kate was still holding her phone when it rang. Chopin’s piano sonata number two, sounding, given the circumstances, like the theme tune to a horror movie. She answered it quickly. ‘Kate Walker.’ She listened for a moment, tapping her foot. ‘Tony, I think I might know who the person in that photo is, the one you gave to Jack. No, I don’t know the name but I think I know someone who does.’ She listened again. ‘You’re cracking up, detective. I’ll meet you at the station in twenty minutes.’ She listened again but there was clearly no response. She closed her phone and turned to Delaney. ‘You going to be all right?’

  ‘I’ll be fine. I’m supposed to be working, remember? You’re supposed to be having the day off.’

  ‘That kid in hospital could still die, Jack. I think this is more important than sorting out the Sunday roast.’

  ‘Course it is – you get on. And don’t worry about dinner. I’m cooking tonight.’

  Kate headed off towards her car, ignoring the barrage of questions shouted at her.

  ‘I didn’t know you could cook, sir,’ Sally said, and then held up her hand to interrupt him. ‘Yeah, yeah. I know. There’s a lot I don’t know about you.’

  ‘You’ll learn soon enough, Sally. Soon enough.’

  She didn’t doubt it.

  *

  Kate flicked the lock shut on her car and walked towards the entrance to Whitefriars Hall. DI Tony Bennett was waiting for her in the archway that led to the square. He was very smartly dressed, she thought as she approached: dark suit, nice expensive-looking tie, shoes polished to a gleam, and hair neatly combed and set with some kind of gel.

  ‘You look like you’ve just been up in court, detective. I hope I’ve not interrupted an important date?’

  Bennett held up his bare-fingered left hand. ‘You know me, doctor. I’m married to the job.’

  ‘What was the meeting, then?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Earlier you said you couldn’t take my call. You were in a meeting?’

  ‘I was. A church meeting.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’ Kate threw him a doubtful look but he wasn’t smiling. He nodded at the photo she was holding in her hand.

  ‘And you are pretty sure it was him?’

  ‘Hard to tell for sure, I only glimpsed him when we were here before, but I think so. Yes.’

  They came out of the tunnelled archway and turned left to the Dean’s office just as the door to her office was thrown open and a young man dressed in black came out, shouting back into the office.

  He said something in a language that Kate didn’t understand – presumably Arabic, she thought – and hurried off.

  The Dean, Sheila Anderson, appeared in the open doorway and called after him in the same language.

  But the youth was gone, flapping a dismissive hand angrily over his shoulder as he disappeared into one of the buildings at the bottom left-hand side of the quad.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ asked Bennett.

  ‘He wanted to go into his cousin’s room.’

  ‘Jamil Azeez, you mean?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What was he after?’

  The Dean shrugged. ‘He said something about a book he’d lent him. I said I would have to wait for Jamil to give permission, but Malik became angry. Claiming it was his property and he had a right to it.’

  ‘You speak Arabic?’ Kate asked.

  ‘No, Iranian. Not fluently. But I spent some years in Iran as a child.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘My father was in the diplomatic corps. We were stationed there for a while.’

  ‘When it was still Persia?’ said Kate.

  ‘Indeed,’ replied the Dean, pleased. ‘A lot of people forget that. Persia had become Iran long before Jamil and Malik were even born.’

  ‘What was the book he was after?’

  The Dean shrugged apologetically. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know. What of Jamil – is there any improvement in his condition?’

  ‘I’m sorry, no,’ said Kate.

  ‘But you have a suspect. You think you may know who attacked him?’

  Bennett held out the photograph of the man arguing with Jamil on Camden High Street. ‘Not yet. Not as such, but we wondered if you might be able to identify this man.’

  The Dean took the photo, her forehead creasing as she recognised the man in it. ‘Matt Henson. You think he attacked Jamil?’

  ‘He’s your gardener?’ prompted Kate.

  ‘No, dear,’ said the Dean.

  ‘I saw him here yesterday, raking the leaves.’

  ‘He comes for a few hours each weekend to do odd jobs about the place. He’s on community service. My husband is a magistrate. I like to help out where I can.’

  ‘What is your husband’s name?’ asked Bennett, taking out his notebook.

  The Dean became agitated. ‘Surely you don’t need to speak to him?’

  ‘We just need to know where Matt Henson lives, what his offence was.’

  ‘I can give you those details. Come in.’

  Kate and DI Bennett followed the woman as she led them into her office. It was a spacious room: a large desk cluttered with books and papers to one side, a large multicoloured rug on the floor – genuine and expensive, Kate thought as she looked around the space. Book-filled shelves lined the walls; it could have been a teaching professor’s room rather than an administrator’s. Kate looked at some of the books as the Dean rummaged in her desk drawers. There were a lot of directories, academic reference journals and a whole section of American literature.

  The Dean looked up to see what she was looking at. ‘I did my Master’s in contemporary American fiction,’ she said and turned to Bennett. ‘A large part of it on the detective fiction genre, in fact, inspector.’

  Bennett picked up a copy of The Big Sleep from the Dean’s desk and held it up. ‘Wasn’t Raymond Chandler educated in England?’ he asked her.

  ‘He was indeed.’ Sheila Anderson pulled out a sheet of paper from her desk and held it out to the detective. ‘Here are Matt’s address details. But, like I said, I am absolutely sure he had nothing to do with the attack on Jamil. He’s a lovely boy.’

  Another lovely boy, Kate thought to herself and reappraised the woman. She was in her fifties but carried herself with a sensual grace. Her make-up was elegant but noticeable, American style, and her hair was immaculately groomed, the cut running to a lot more than the twenty pounds that Kate herself paid for a trim every couple of months or so.

  ‘What was he given community service for?’ she asked.

  The Dean coloured slightly. ‘It really isn’t relevant.’r />
  Bennett pulled out his mobile phone. ‘It will take me two minutes to find out, Mrs Anderson.’

  ‘Sheila, please. Okay. Okay,’ she sighed and ran her fingers through her immaculate hair. ‘He was arrested for affray, together with his older brother and his brother’s friends.’

  ‘Affray? What happened, exactly?’ said Bennett, suspicions already forming in his mind.

  ‘They got into a fight with another group of youths outside a pub.’

  Kate could tell there was something else that she wasn’t telling them. ‘This other group of youths …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘What nationality were they?’ Bennett finished Kate’s question for her.

  The Dean sighed again. ‘They were Indian.’

  Bennett nodded, somehow managing to make the movement look sceptical.

  Sheila Anderson gestured angrily. ‘See? I knew you’d jump to conclusions. He wasn’t involved in the fight and from what I gather it was half a dozen of one and six of the other. That’s why he only got community service. His brother was given a custodial sentence.’

  ‘How old is Matt?’

  ‘He’s eighteen. But I can assure you he would not have stabbed Jamil Azeez. He’s not that kind of boy.’

  ‘He’s eighteen – that makes him an adult, not a boy, and you seem to know him quite well for someone who only comes a few hours a week to push a broom around your yard.’

  ‘I have been in education all my life, detective inspector. I know young men.’