Death Row

by Mark Pearson

  Stella looked at herself and smiled again. She was pretty much out of that life now and wouldn’t be going back, and the good thing about it all was that she didn’t feel guilty. She was Irish Catholic and didn’t feel guilty – which in the circumstances, she thought, was a bit of a miracle. But she knew it was just sex, that was all. Consensual sex. And she had done it for money, that was all. No one had been hurt except herself – if she had chosen to let it hurt her. She had chosen not to. Maybe she was the exception to the Catholic rule. The man who was due to visit her at any minute certainly felt guilt. He was a walking poster-boy for it, an ex-altar boy who had sinned indeed. A choirboy who didn’t make confession any more. At least, not to a priest.

  ‘It’s open,’ she said, smiling wider and turning to watch the door open and Jack Delaney walk in. God help us, he’s a good-looking man, she thought to herself. He had a bottle of wine in one hand and a small case in the other. She nodded at it and said, ‘You’re getting very serious about this, then, cowboy?’

  ‘I am,’ he replied.

  She smiled again. ‘And you brought wine?’

  ‘Not for us.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I needed an excuse to get out of the house. I’m cooking dinner.’

  Stella’s smile disappeared. ‘Lucky Kate.’

  ‘Don’t start, Stella.’

  And suddenly the smile was back and with it the mischief in her sparkling eyes. ‘Well, at least I get you for half an hour or so. There’d be plenty of women in this grand metropolis who would envy me that delight.’

  Delaney put the bottle of wine on the table and the case on the floor and looked at his watch.

  ‘Let’s get on with it, then,’ he said.

  And Stella laughed. ‘Jack Delaney, last of the great romantics.’

  *

  Jennifer Hickling was standing behind the eighteen-year-old youth in the alleyway just off Camden High Street where a man had been stabbed just days before. She could feel the knife that had stabbed him, a reassuring weight in her left-hand jacket pocket. Her right hand was wrapped around a weapon of a different nature, pumping it hard up and down. The youth was making groaning sounds, asking her to be a bit more gentle, but that just made Jennifer grip and pump harder as she leaned in to whisper insults into the youth’s hot ear. She knew from experience what made men excited. The boy had wanted full sex with her and she had refused. Telling him it was a hand job or a blow job and that was it. She was a virgin, she had said, and he had laughed.

  But it was true. She was a virgin. Anal sex didn’t count. She knew that. Especially when it wasn’t her choice.

  The thought made her yank even harder and she realised that the boy was crying out in pain now. He had spilled his seed moments before, staining the cobbled ground that was still marked with the young Iranian’s blood.

  Not many more to go now, Jennifer thought as the red-faced youth zipped himself up and hurried away, unable to look her in the face. Which suited her just fine. The next one who looked her in the face … she was going to use the knife!

  *

  Delaney felt the guilt. He should be out there looking for the missing boy, not spending time with Stella Trent and trying now to create a cosy picture of Sunday-evening domesticity. A chicken in the oven, wine chilling in the fridge, candles on the table.

  The trouble was that he had nothing to go on. With most crimes there was a clear motive. You followed the money, or you followed the sexual jealousy. You looked in the family. But Archie Wood’s family was in the clear. His mother was at a wedding, the father’s story had been checked out with border control and the French police and it all held true: he hadn’t even been in the country when the boy had been abducted. He picked up the bottle of whiskey and poured himself another slug. He took the glass with him to the window and looked out at the dark night. He felt the impotent rage building inside him as he pictured the boy alone out there somewhere, scared, cold, maybe hurt, maybe already dead. He took a swallow of his whiskey and tried to push the thought to the back of his mind. It was just the frustration of it all that he was finding hard to handle. He had made a promise that he should never have made, a rod for his own back that he couldn’t stop flogging himself with. He just wanted to get out there and do something. Anything.

  He just didn’t know what.

  He took a slower sip of whiskey as the last of the second movement of the Górecki symphony finished. He would have turned the music off but Kate walked into the room just then, fresh from the shower and dressed in a fluffy white bathrobe, and her smile chased away his guilt momentarily.

  ‘Are you going to pour me one of those?’ she said.

  ‘You drinking whiskey now, Kate?’

  ‘A tiny sip is all. I’m pregnant, remember.’

  Delaney poured a measure into a glass and as he reached for some ice Kate took the bottle from him and read the label, raising a questioning eyebrow. ‘Armorik, Whisky Breton?’

  Delaney shrugged. ‘It’s a single malt.’

  ‘It’s French!’

  Delaney laughed and handed her the glass, clinking his own against hers as she took it from him. ‘I’m Irish – we don’t have to hate the French.’

  Kate took a sip. The drink had surprisingly smoky notes but was mellow. She nodded approvingly. ‘It’s nice.’ She gave him back the glass.

  Delaney bent forward and kissed her on the lips. ‘So are you.’

  ‘Nice, you say?’ She ran her hand lightly up his inner thigh. ‘There’s still time to get on the naughty list before Christmas.’

  A timer sounded in the kitchen, its shrill bleeping somewhat ruining the moment.

  ‘Not before dinner, though,’ said Delaney, smiling and kissing her again.

  ‘Maybe pudding, then.’

  Delaney pulled Kate into a hug and kissed the top of her head. Her hair was still slightly damp and perfumed. ‘When we have that baby we’re never going to let it out of our sight.’

  Kate looked up at him. ‘We’ll be having the baby, will we?’

  ‘Well … I’ll be having the large cigar and pacing up and down outside – that’s the hard part, you know.’

  Kate laughed. ‘That a fact?’

  ‘I mean it, though, Kate. That kid is going to be the best-loved child in the world.’

  Kate looked up at him quizzically. ‘What’s brought all this on?’

  ‘Nothing. I just think when he or she is born we should sell up and move to Ireland. To Cork.’

  ‘You are joking?’

  Jack shook his head. ‘This city destroys people, Kate. It kills them.’

  ‘You can’t keep people safe for ever, Jack. Not even you.’

  ‘We have to do what we can, though. And we can do that.’

  Kate put out her hand and held it against his cheek. ‘You and me. We’re good enough for any of them.’

  ‘You are, maybe.’

  She patted his cheek. ‘I’m going to get dressed.’

  Jack took another pull on his drink as Kate headed up to his bedroom. He turned the music up louder.

  *

  Bennett turned the recording device off and watched as the uniformed officers led Matt Henson out of the interview room. The youth had clammed up, refusing to say another word until he had a lawyer present. Bennett had wished him a good night’s sleep in the cell. They’d interview him again in the morning.

  When the door closed Bennett took his mobile phone out of his pocket and looked at the display. A message-alert signal was bleeping on the screen.

  He clicked on the button and read the message as it appeared. He nodded, pleased with what he read, a ghost of a smile hovering on his lips.

  ‘Showtime!’ he said in a whisper.

  *

  Delaney crouched down spreading his mittened hands, and opened the oven door to bring out a tray with a free-range chicken sizzling in the middle of it. He took a large metal spoon and poured some of the fat back over the chicken to baste it, then added a slug of
wine in the bottom of the tray and tossed in some previously part-roasted potatoes. He was just about to put the tray back in the oven when there was a gentle knocking on his kitchen door.

  ‘Hello,’ he called, a little puzzled. The door opened and Siobhan bustled through, running up to hug his legs. She was followed by Wendy, who was dressed in a long dark overcoat and wearing large sunglasses.

  ‘Wendy, what’s up?’

  Wendy looked over at the table. It was covered with a linen tablecloth and set for two with lit candles, a single rose in a vase, crystal wine glasses and a bottle of Chablis chilling in a bucket.

  ‘Sorry, Jack, this is obviously a bad time.’

  Delaney could hear the catch in her voice. ‘It’s fine. Just doing Sunday dinner. Why don’t you have a glass of wine with us?’

  ‘No, it’s not a good time. Come on, Siobhan, we have to go.’

  She turned back to the door but Delaney quickly stepped over to her and pushed the door shut. He turned Wendy around to face him and took off her glasses. There was a red slap mark on her cheek and one of her eyes was swollen. Both eyes were puffy and red with recent tears. Wendy looked away, embarrassed.

  ‘This was Roger?’ asked Delaney, his voice flat.

  ‘We’ve been having some problems.’

  Delaney nodded and turned back to the oven, putting the tray back in. ‘Siobhan, tell Kate this will be ready in twenty minutes and to set one more place.’

  ‘Okay, Daddy,’ she said quietly, aware that something was up but not really understanding what.

  Siobhan smiled, confused, and Delaney ruffled her hair.

  ‘Jack—’

  Wendy started to speak but Delaney interrupted her. ‘No, it’s all right, Wendy. I’m only going to talk to him.’

  Kate walked into the kitchen. ‘I thought I heard voices. Hello, Wendy, this is a nice surprise. Hey, Siobhan.’

  ‘We’d better go,’ said Wendy.

  Delaney shook his head. ‘Dinner will be ready in twenty minutes, Kate. Siobhan and Wendy are staying the night. I’ll be back when I can.’

  ‘What’s going on?’

  Delaney kissed her on the lips. ‘Something I need to take care of. It won’t take long.’

  And he was gone.

  Kate looked across at Wendy, who sighed and took off her sunglasses. Kate took in the situation for a moment and then she nodded.

  ‘You’ll be wanting a glass of wine.’

  ‘Champagne for me,’ said Siobhan and the two women smiled. But they were sad smiles. Kate crossed to Wendy and put her arms around her.

  Wendy nodded gratefully and sniffed back tears. ‘Maybe something stronger if you have it?’

  *

  Arnold Fraser huddled up tighter against the wall of the doorway where he was sheltering from the rain. In a previous life he had been huddled in dugouts under the fierce heat of a Kuwaiti sun, with shells exploding around him and Iraqi soldiers mere hundreds of feet away who would have liked nothing better than to see his head blown apart by a bullet from one of their snipers’ rifles, and as he turned his head against a gust of rain he wasn’t sure now which was the better place to be. He pulled his overcoat tight around himself and shivered, taking a sip from the last of his tins of strong lager. It would be a long, cold night if he couldn’t get any more.

  He heard the sound of footsteps approaching and without looking up saw a pair of Doc Marten boots come into view. Maybe this was the time, Arnold thought, maybe this was his time. He didn’t die overseas serving queen and country, he’d made it through that, but maybe this was to be his end, this was what was written down for him. Kicked to death in a Camden back street and left to die in the rain by a skinhead thug who wouldn’t know duty or service or loyalty if it was tattooed on his Neanderthal forehead. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d got a kicking and at least it would be better than being set on fire like so many others had been. Arnold dashed the water from his eyes and looked up. It wasn’t a skinhead at all but a young woman with black hair and black make-up and a lacy black skirt under a black leather jacket. Ballerina by the Brothers Grimm and Vivienne Westwood, he thought. Then he held his hand out.

  ‘Spare some tin for a cup of tea?’ Arnold Fraser said.

  The young woman rustled in her pocket and pulled out some notes.

  ‘I haven’t got any change,’ she said apologetically.

  ‘That’s all right, love,’ the ex-soldier said. Then he coughed, his whole body shaking because he couldn’t control the convulsion. He felt a note being pressed into his hand.

  ‘Get yourself a six-pack.’

  Arnold’s coughing subsided and he looked up to say thank you. But Jennifer Hickling didn’t hear him – she had already hurried away, her fingers curling comfortably again around the handle of the knife that she had stashed in her jacket pocket. She didn’t notice that the man’s hacking coughing had started up again and was fading away in the distance as she strode up the road. Jennifer Hickling had business to attend to.

  *

  Roger Yates sat on the bottom of the staircase in his hall. His head propped in his hands. Lost in dark thoughts.

  He jumped as a pounding came on the door, his heart leaping in his chest like a speared salmon on a gaff. He looked up, his eyes wide. The pounding came again and, resigned, he stood up and crossed the hallway to open the door. His expression relaxed a little. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ he said.

  Delaney put one hand on Yates’s chest and pushed him backwards into the hall, so hard that he almost fell over.

  Delaney watched him stumble, picturing him sprawling to smash his head on the cold tiled marble floor. But Yates regained his balance, if not his composure. He was an attractive man, a successful businessman. Delaney knew that Yates was used to getting his way in a corporate world that was not famous for subtle niceties. But he also knew that Yates had no misunderstandings about the kind of violence that Delaney was capable of and that was why he was a little puzzled not to see more fear in the man’s eyes. Delaney knew one thing for certain: all bullies were cowards. And the men who beat up women were the worst kind of cowards of all. Yates stood up, an arrogant cockiness to him once more as he walked back towards Delaney.

  ‘I’m sure if we can just talk about this—’

  But Delaney interrupted him again. This time by grabbing him round the throat with his left hand and propelling him backwards to smash him up against the wall at the foot of his stairs. A portrait of himself hung beside him, smiling and holding up a gold trophy. His smile was in stark contrast to the genuinely scared face he now presented to the world.

  ‘I don’t know what she has told you but—’

  ‘Just shut it, Yates!’ Delaney cut him short. He could feel the blood roaring in his veins now, felt the heat of it suffusing his whole body. It was like a drug, pure adrenalin pumping round his system so that the world around him dissolved to a single point of focus.

  ‘I know you fucked her, Jack.’

  ‘What?’ Delaney was taken aback.

  ‘Wendy. You fucked her and I knew about it.’

  Delaney loosened his hand and Yates leaned back against the wall, his breathing ragged, his eyes wild. ‘And that gives you the right to hit her, does it?’

  ‘I slapped her once. It was an accident.’

  ‘Accident, right!’

  ‘You back on your white horse, Jack? Is that it? Riding to the rescue of the innocent maiden, carrying her back to your castle? Well, the thing of it is, cowboy’ – he almost spat the word – ‘you’re not the only one who’s been riding another man’s mount.’

  ‘What are you saying to me?’

  ‘Your wife Sinead, Jack. She of the blessed, sainted memory.’

  Delaney could feel his blood heating again, he could feel it behind his eyes, in his neck, it felt like a blaze consuming his own body and the roaring in his ears made it hard to hear what the man in front of him was saying. But he had heard enough. Roger Yates’s mouth continued to move but Delaney
had stopped listening – his fist had formed once more. Yates’s eyes stared back at him, challenging, like a man who didn’t care. And Delaney lashed out, oblivious to the pain in his hand, oblivious to the screaming from Yates. Oblivious to everything except the red mist that filled his head.

  *

  ‘And yet another bizarre twist has been revealed in the ongoing Death Row story in Harrow, West London, as the horrors continue to unfold. Police so far have been unable to trace the whereabouts of missing child Archie Woods, who was abducted yesterday morning from this very allotment below, which is two streets from Carlton Row.’

  Melanie Jones was standing on the road bridge above the allotments. She stood aside so that her cameraman could cover the police activity below. Then the picture swung back to Melanie Jones.

  ‘As we have reported earlier today the severed head of a bald woman was discovered on the altar of St Botolph’s Church, again a stone’s throw from this location, and this afternoon the grandfather of the missing boy made another gruesome discovery. The headless body of a woman – naked, cruciform and nailed to the ground. The police have still to make an official statement but unofficial sources confirm that they have little doubt the grizzly find is related to the gruesome discovery at the church round the corner. How this ties in with Peter Garnier, if indeed it does, they are at a loss to understand. A copycat abduction is the most likely scenario but the murder and mutilation of the woman’s body doesn’t fit into any pattern of Garnier’s activities. That the two incidents are not related is a very real possibility and, again, inside sources have confirmed that the killing of the woman as part of a ritualistic murder involving Satanism or some kind of devil worship is being very seriously considered. It wouldn’t be the first time that children have been used in gruesome rituals in this country.’

  The picture on the television changed to old footage of police processing a crime scene on the banks of the Thames, but the reporter’s voice went mute as Gloria Williams thumbed the button on the TV’s remote control. She watched the TV for a moment or two longer, the reflected light dancing in her immobile eyes. The she blinked, stood up and turned to face away from the screen.