Death Row

by Mark Pearson

  Her lounge was carpeted in a rich red and green pattern. It was cluttered with small tables and bookcases, green plants on every available surface that wasn’t covered with magazines, books, sketch pads. Behind her was a long wall running from the left-hand side of the room where a window overlooked the West Hampstead Pizza Express. It was entirely covered with photos, newspaper cuttings – some yellow with age, some extremely recent – with a map blown up and marked with pins and string, and at the centre of it all a photo of a man in police uniform who was holding a small dark-haired girl in his arms. A girl with scared brown eyes.

  Gloria put the fingertips of her right hand to the young girl’s mouth and lights danced in her eyes once more.

  Angry lights.

  *

  Tim Radnor had never been a strong man. Neither mentally, physically nor emotionally.

  He was thirty-nine years old now, five foot eight tall, weighed just over ten stone and had thin mousey-coloured hair. He was single, with no partner, and had been in the same job for over fifteen years: kitchen assistant in a large public school. A simple enough job that required simple routines. He had never been ambitious and enjoyed the repetitiveness and security of his job. He was neither well liked nor disliked at his place of work – he minded his own business and people pretty much left to him to it. Once a month he would visit an ageing German prostitute called Olga in Shepherd Market. She had cracked skin like an old handbag and the face of an antique doll painted over her features. The crudely drawn lipstick and thick mascaraed lashes were almost a caricature in their clumsy representation of a sexuality long since faded. Miss Haversam as Miss Whiplash. But Tim liked her that way and had been visiting her for over twenty years. He would pay her one hundred pounds in cash for a specialised service that would leave him feeling demeaned but released from the inner demons that consumed him. Released at least for a while. At other times he used the internet to satisfy those desires that tormented him in his dreams and during every waking day. Desires that he kept under control but could not stop. He didn’t act on them as others did. He never had. Except once. And even then he hadn’t taken part.

  He was not to blame.

  He had never been to blame.

  Tim was a victim. He knew that himself best of all. He knew that what was happening to him now was just as unfair as what had happened to him all those years ago. Just as unfair … and he was just as powerless to stop it happening now as he had been then.

  As a child he had been one of the first children in the class to get measles, or mumps, or flu. Or whatever sickness was going. At nine years old on his first trip away from home at Scout camp he had not excelled at, nor taken great joy in, the kind of physical exertions that the other kids had revelled in. On the long rope slide, for example, he had fallen off two-thirds of the way down. It hadn’t been a long fall but he had landed in muddy ground and twisted his ankle slightly. In truth, he’d exaggerated the nature of the injury, as he was wont to do, and limped his way tearfully to the others, their taunts and laughter in no way unusual for one of Tim’s mishaps. He exaggerated his limp as an excuse not to have to go down the rope slide again and to provide a good reason not to go on the hill walk that was planned for later on that afternoon. If he had had his choice in the matter he would never have gone on the weekend in the first place. But his mother had insisted and pleas to his father, as ever, had fallen on deaf ears. In all things his mother had the final word and so Tim had gone to Scout camp like every nine-year-old boy should have been delighted to do. ‘And stop your moaning,’ his mother had said.

  So he had stayed at the campsite while the other members of his troop had gone trekking in the woods and up the nearby hill.

  A responsible adult had had to stay behind, of course, and keep an eye on him.

  Except that the adult that stayed behind hadn’t been responsible. Hadn’t been responsible at all.

  All these years later Tim still blamed him. And it wasn’t just the humiliation and degradation he had felt. It had hurt. Hurt more than anything he had ever experienced before. And now it was almost as if he had been training for this moment all his adult life.

  And had failed.

  Tears pricked in his eyes as he felt the cold metal entering him; he felt his flesh tearing and gasped with the relentless thrust of the weapon. His face was suffused with blood now, his eyes wide with the pain of it, with the fear of what was to come. With the injustice of it all. His hands were tied to the bedstead in front of his kneeling form. His mouth sealed with duct tape so the scream that was boiling in his lungs was contained. The tears running down his cheeks now every bit as useless as they’d been all those years ago.

  Tears at the injustice of it all. He had never taken part after all. He had just watched and taken photos.

  There was a raspy metallic sound, a loud click, and Tim’s heart hung in stasis. And then there was just a rainbow of colour for him. He didn’t see, or feel, or hear, or make excuses any more.

  His neck and lower jaw made a pattern on the wall above his bedstead like a Rorschach ink blot painted by Hieronymus Bosch.

  And then there was silence.

  *

  Light slanting on the mirror, golds, greens, fractured white light dancing on the glasses, on the glass shelves, on the leaded-light window that looked through to the doorway leading into the bar. And sound surrounding him like a warm fog. Like a coat. Heat from the log fire burning under a copper hood. Irish voices raised in song, and it’s no nay never, hands slapping on tables. Money spent on whiskey and beer. Delaney knew how that was. He’d been the wild rover, sure enough. It was all supposed to have changed. Maybe deep down you never can change, not at the heart of you. You had to want it, wasn’t that what they said? He looked at the bruised knuckles on his right hand and rubbed some of the dried blood off with his left. He picked up his glass of whiskey, swirled it for a second or two, watching the liquid within tilting and spiralling, then held it to his lips and shot it down, holding the glass forward. The barman picked up the bottle of Bushmills behind the bar, about a third remaining, and splashed a large portion into the outstretched glass. No need to measure it – Delaney had already paid for the bottle. He took another sip, looked up into the mirror that ran the length of the bar behind the optics and sighed. It was like déjà vu. He turned to the two men who were approaching him.

  ‘Let me guess,’ he said. ‘Another brass been rubbed and you need Jack of the Yard to come and make sense of it all for you?’

  ‘Not quite,’ said Sergeant Dave ‘Slimline’ Matthews. He turned to Jimmy Skinner expectantly.

  Jimmy shook his head. ‘I’m not going to do it.’

  The sergeant nodded, understanding. He turned back to Delaney. ‘Detective Inspector Jack Delaney, I am arresting you on suspicion of attempted murder. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’

  Delaney nodded and turned back to the barman. ‘Get us another couple of shot glasses here, Sean.’ He winked at Jimmy Skinner. ‘Might as well finish the bottle, eh, Jimmy? It’s paid for.’

  ‘You have to come in, Jack,’ said the sergeant, with an apologetic shrug.

  ‘You think I can’t take you, Dave?’ said Delaney, his voice slurring badly. ‘Is that what you think?’

  Slimline held his hands up. ‘I’m sure you could, cowboy. But we don’t want any trouble here.’

  ‘Well, that’s where you’re wrong,’ said Delaney as he stood unsteadily to his feet. ‘That’s where you’re wrong, Slimmio me lad!’ he said. Then he threw a punch at the sergeant.

  Slimline didn’t even move aside. He just watched as Delaney’s punch missed by a mile and the Irishman tottered on his feet unbalanced by it before crashing to the floor, where he lay without moving.

  Jimmy Skinner picked the bottle up from the bar and put it into his overcoat pocket. ‘I think he might need a
shot of this in his coffee in the morning,’ he said as they bent down to lift up the unconscious Delaney, one to each arm.

  ‘I think we all might,’ said Dave Matthews as they drag-walked him through the noisy crowd, who paid them no attention at all, up to the door and out into the cold, wet night.

  A few moments later Stella Trent came out of the Ladies and up to the bar. She looked around, puzzled.

  ‘He’s left,’ said the barman economically.

  ‘Damn you, Delaney!’ she muttered under her breath. ‘A girl can’t turn her back for five minutes.’ She picked up her half-finished glass of wine and downed it, then held her glass forward as the barman turned away. ‘Oi, barkeep!’ she said, her Irish accent getting stronger. ‘There’s a lady here in need of refreshment.’

  ‘Why don’t you let me get you that?’

  Stella turned round to the dark-haired stranger who had sat himself on the bar stool beside her. ‘And why should I be letting you do that?’

  ‘Because I can’t bear to see a damsel in distress,’ he said and smiled widely as he held his hand out. ‘My name’s Tony.’

  *

  Kate Walker’s lips narrowed as she listened to the voice on the other end of the telephone.

  ‘Thanks for letting me know, Jimmy.’

  She hung up the phone and looked across at the bruised face of Jack’s sister-in-law.

  ‘Your husband has just been admitted to the Royal Hampstead, Wendy,’ she said.

  Wendy’s hand flew involuntarily to her mouth. ‘Dear God, no.’

  Kate nodded sympathetically. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘And Jack?’

  ‘He’s been arrested. They’ve just taken him down to Paddington Green.’

  The colour had drained from Wendy’s face. ‘What has he done, Kate?’

  ‘I don’t know, I’m sorry. But Roger has been very badly beaten up.’

  Wendy ran her fingers through her hair. ‘I’d better go to him.’

  ‘I’ll stay here with Siobhan.’

  ‘What about Jack?’

  Suddenly there was an arctic frost in Kate’s voice. ‘He can wait,’ she said.

  MONDAY

  DI Tony Bennett was looking down at Roger Yates as he lay wheezing painfully on his hospital bed. A thick bandage ran across his nose, above which two bloodshot eyes blinked painfully from a panda-like face. His lips were cut and scabbed. To Bennett’s mind he looked like he’d walked into a threshing machine. Maybe he had.

  The man mumbled something again, a wet bubbling sound that could have been words. Bennett nodded and put his hand inside his jacket. Then he froze and looked across the small ward as DI Jimmy Skinner and Sergeant Bob Wilkinson came in and walked towards them. Bennett turned away from the battered man on the bed and walked towards the door.

  ‘What are you doing here, Tony?’ asked Skinner, affably enough.

  ‘Checking up on my own squeal across the way – thought I’d look in on Delaney’s brother-in-law while I was here. Seems like our Jack’s not a man to cross.’

  Skinner gave him a considered look. ‘No,’ he said. ‘He definitely isn’t that. But fellow-me-lad on the bed over there is none of Jack Delaney’s doing.’

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Trust me, Tony. If the Irishman wanted to kill a man … he’d have got the job done.’

  Bennett’s smile was devoid of humour. ‘To protect and serve, isn’t that what they say?’

  ‘They do in America.’

  ‘Yeah, well, whatever starts off in America … it gets to England eventually, doesn’t it?’

  Bob Wilkinson pointed over to Roger Yates. ‘Like Detective Skinner said, Delaney’s not in the frame for this.’

  Bennett smiled almost imperceptibly. ‘Is that right?’

  ‘That’s exactly right. We have a witness seeing Delaney leave and then another man entering the house, with Roger Yates very much alive if not kicking.’

  ‘Well, this is your case, not mine. I’m sure you’re on top of things.’ Bennett nodded and walked out of the room.

  Bob Wilkinson turned to Skinner. ‘What’s that all about, you reckon? Things starting in America.’

  ‘I don’t know, but I reckon he wasn’t talking about McDonald’s.’

  ‘Something is not quite right about him, you ask me.’

  ‘In what way?’

  Wilkinson shrugged. ‘I don’t know. He says he’s from Doncaster, for a start.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I’ve got a friend from Doncaster makes glass – for the military, stuff like that …’

  Skinner raised an eyebrow as they looked down at Roger Yates, whose eyes were now closed but who was still making a faint bubbling sound with his battered lips. ‘And your point would be?’

  ‘Bennett doesn’t sound like him. That doesn’t sound like a Doncaster accent.’

  ‘People move about, Bob. Look at our own Jack Delaney – he ain’t exactly North London born and bred, is he?’

  ‘And that’s another thing.’

  Skinner simply looked at Wilkinson this time and waited.

  ‘The other day he said he was off for some lunch.’

  ‘Yeah, not exactly the crime of the century, you know, Bob.’

  ‘Yeah, but in Doncaster – that’s South Yorkshire, that is – they don’t go for lunch, see?’

  Jimmy Skinner nodded. ‘That’s right, it’s part of their religion,’ he said sarcastically. ‘That’s why they are the slimmest people in the country. The whippet people of England.’

  ‘You’re missing my point. They go for lunch all right, but they call it dinner. Do you see what I’m saying?’

  ‘Not really, Bob. Let’s see if we can get some more sense out of Roger Yates here, shall we?’

  Jimmy Skinner listened to the burbling sound coming from the assaulted accountants lip’s and very much doubted that they would.

  *

  Delaney winced and squeezed his eyes shut.

  ‘Open your eyes, Jack,’ said Kate Walker, not quietly.

  ‘Do you want to dial that down a little?’ Delaney said, his voice a hoarse croak. ‘I’m just here you know, not halfway across the street.’

  ‘You get no sympathy from me. Just open your eyes.’

  Delaney opened his eyes a crack and winced again as Kate shone a small but bright torch at them.

  ‘Is this strictly necessary?’

  Kate shrugged. ‘Not at all. I just like watching you squirm.’

  Delaney closed his eyes again.

  ‘I mean, what the hell were you thinking of?’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking, was I?’

  ‘No, Jack. You weren’t.’ Kate slammed the torch down on her desk.

  Delaney winced and held both hands to his ears. ‘Okay. I’m sorry, all right?’

  ‘I’ve been awake all night long worrying about you. Why didn’t you just tell the custody sergeant last night that it wasn’t you?’

  ‘I don’t think I actually got to talk to anybody. I kind of remember the guys arriving.’ Delaney shrugged a little sheepishly. ‘I seem to remember taking a swing – it might have been in slow motion. The next thing I remember is you shaking me awake with all the tenderness of a Waterford washerwoman shaking out her laundry.’

  Kate wasn’t amused. ‘I’ll give you tender. And why didn’t you come home after you went round there? Why go to King’s Cross, of all places?’

  Jack held his head again, covering it. ‘I just needed a drink.’

  ‘We’ve got drink, Jack. Plenty of it.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘So why, then?’

  Delaney sighed. ‘It very nearly could have been me, you know.’

  ‘Could have been you that what?’

  ‘That smashed that man’s smug face in. Good Lord, I’ve wanted to do it often enough before now but last night he gave me the perfect temptation.’

  ‘I know. He hit Wendy. You’re an unreconstructed male, we all know that about you, Jack. But the poi
nt is that you didn’t do it.’

  ‘It’s not just that. Not just because he slapped her.’

  ‘What, then?’

  ‘It could have been, though.’ Delaney found his hand forming involuntarily into a fist again. ‘I swear to God, darling, last night I was this close to smashing my fist into his face and keeping on doing it.’

  ‘I know.’

  Delaney looked up at her. ‘No, you don’t,’ he said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He slept with her.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘With my wife, Kate. He told me he’d slept with Sinead.’

  ‘Oh my God.’ Kate sat back, thoughts suddenly swirling though her mind as she remembered guiltily.

  She shouldn’t do it, but, as she sat at her friend’s computer terminal she couldn’t help herself. She typed in the access code that Jane Harrington had, under duress, given her, and typed in DELANEY to pull up his hospital records. She knew enough not to trust anything the staff at the hospital had told her. She wasn’t a relative. In truth, she didn’t even know what she was. Girlfriend didn’t sound at all right. Partner was a bit formal for what they had. Mother of his child, she decided, that was what she was, and that gave her rights.

  The first hit came up with Siobhan Delaney.

  Not the right to look at confidential medical records, maybe, but the man she loved was recovering from an operation and she wanted to know how bad the damage was. She justified it to herself: she had every right.

  Not the right to read his ex-wife’s records, mind, she said to herself again, arguing against what she knew she was going to do. Kate found herself unable to click the screen away and carried on reading it instead. That night had defined Delaney, after all, for the last four years. It had certainly defined their relationship, if such it was. And so, moral qualms delayed if not avoided, Kate read the report.

  Everything was much as she knew it to be. His pregnant wife, suffering heavy blood loss, was rushed into theatre. They had performed an emergency C-section. The baby, and subsequently the mother, had both died. The procedures seemed in order, everything apart from the outcome was in order.