by Mark Pearson
‘I know.’
‘Stopped doing it when my husband died. Didn’t have the heart for it any more.’ She looked at the picture that Delaney was holding. ‘Is that the photo?’
Delaney nodded and held the photo out to her. She took it and looked at it without saying anything for a moment or two. And then she nodded. ‘Yes, that’s the sick pervert. To think he had been drinking in my pub all those years.’
‘He moved away after the children disappeared?’ asked Sergeant Halliday.
‘That’s right. To Ruislip. Where they got him eventually.’
‘And that’s your brother with him?’
The woman nodded sadly. ‘Yeah, that’s Graham.’
Delaney picked up on the bitterness in her voice. ‘I understand you had a falling-out, hadn’t spoken to him in years.’
‘That’s right. And, quite frankly, when I heard he’d topped himself I didn’t even shed a tear.’
‘What was the argument about?’
The woman shook her head. ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘Who are the other people in the picture, Mrs Blaylock?’ asked Sally. ‘Your son doesn’t remember them.’
Mrs Blaylock threw her son a dismissive look. ‘Yeah, well, it was before his time, wasn’t it? When the pub was a successful ongoing business.’
‘I didn’t ban smoking, Mum. I didn’t bring on the recession.’
‘No, you didn’t do anything, did you? Just like your uncle!’ she snapped back at him.
Delaney gestured towards the picture. ‘Mrs Blaylock?’ he prompted.
Sergeant Halliday’s phone trilled. She glanced quickly at the caller ID and switched the phone off.
‘They called themselves The Rockabillies.’
Delaney reacted. ‘A musical group?’
Mrs Blaylock snorted and shook her head. ‘No. They were a pub-quiz team, that’s all. They dressed up like that for the final. They thought it was funny.’
‘Why The Rockabillies?’ asked Sally.
‘Garnier’s second name was Bill – well, William, anyway. And the guy standing next to my brother was called Bill too. He was always singing some rock-and-roll tune or other. So that’s what they called themselves.’
‘Bill who?’ said Delaney.
‘I’m sorry. I can’t remember his surname. He was a fisherman. Down on the coast. He inherited a house somewhere in the area. He supplied us for a little while. My husband dealt with him.’
‘And who are the others?’
Mrs Blaylock held up the photo: five men all wearing Elvis-style quiffs, some of them wigs. One of the men, wearing a black suit, had his back to the camera. Mrs Blaylock pointed to the fourth man in the group, a young man somewhere in his twenties, considerably younger than the others. ‘I know him because he used to work for me as a commis chef. Just sorting out the vegetables, that kind of thing. He was never going to be a cook.’
‘What’s his name?’ Delaney pulled out his notebook.
‘Tim Radnor,’ the woman replied. ‘He left when my husband died.’
‘Where did he go? Do you know?’
‘He went to work at Harrow School. Up on the hill, you know?’
Delaney nodded. ‘Yeah, we know it. And who is the man with his back to the camera?’
Mrs Blaylock looked down at the picture and shook her head. ‘I don’t know, I’m sorry. ‘
‘You absolutely sure?’
‘Yes. Sorry.’ She handed the photo back to Delaney. ‘What does it all mean?’
‘We don’t know, Mrs Blaylock.’
‘But you think it might be one of those men who have taken my brother’s grandson?’
‘Maybe,’ said Sergeant Halliday.
‘Well, it can’t be Peter Garnier or my brother.’
‘You sure you can’t remember the fisherman’s name?’
‘Sorry, no. It’s so long ago now. I just knew him as Bill, I never really spoke to him. I was never front of house much – that was Gerald’s area.’
‘Gerald?’ asked Delaney.
‘My dad,’ said Terry Blaylock.
Mrs Blaylock threw him another critical look. ‘A proper publican!’
Delaney looked over at the tall sergeant. ‘Fancy a trip out to Harrow School, Inspector?’ he said.
She was about to say, ‘Sir,’ but caught herself and grinned instead. ‘Can I borrow your DC?’ she asked.
Delaney nodded. ‘I want her back, mind.’
*
An hour later and Delaney was standing with Kate at the burger stand around the corner from the station. Kate pulled the zipper of her jacket up to her neck and threw Delaney what he thought of as an old-fashioned look.
‘Couldn’t we have gone to a proper restaurant for a change? A pub at least? Somewhere inside. You know, a place with four walls … and heat.’
‘I needed to think, Kate.’ Delaney shrugged apologetically. ‘And sometimes only Roy’s bacon sarnies can help.’
‘Right,’ said Kate, resigned.
Roy flipped some rashers of bacon on the griddle. Then he put on a pair of catering gloves and started buttering some bread. Delaney smiled to himself: he was pretty sure he had never seen the man wearing catering gloves before and he was also pretty sure that the reason Roy was wearing them now was all to do with Kate Walker. Roy was one of the most irritating men he knew at times, with absolutely no respect for authority, but he seemed to scamper around Kate like a puppy dog wagging its tail.
Delaney winked at her. ‘If you play nicely, I’ll get Roy to fry you an egg to go with your sandwich.’
‘And you can do one of those for me too while you’re at it,’ said Sergeant Halliday as she walked up with Sally Cartwright to join them.
Roy lifted his eyebrows as his gaze rose from Emma’s flat-soled shoes to the top of her head, all six foot two of her. He pursed his lips as if to whistle but Delaney gave him a shake of his head.
‘Don’t even think about it,’ he said.
‘Another bacon sarnie it is, then.’
‘Good call,’ said the sergeant, smiling.
‘Any sign of Bennett yet?’ Kate asked Sally.
‘No. And he’s not answering his calls.’
Delaney turned to Sally Cartwright. ‘How did it go at the school?’
Sally shook her head. ‘Not good, sir. Apparently.’
‘What happened?’
‘Somebody got there before us. A long time before us,’ Emma Halliday said.
‘He’s dead?’
Sally grimaced. ‘You could say that.’
‘Someone tied him kneeling to his bed, stuck a single-barrelled shotgun up his arse and pulled the trigger,’ Emma Halliday said bluntly.
Delaney frowned. ‘And nobody noticed? Nobody heard anything?’
The tall sergeant shook her head. ‘His body acted like a silencer, I guess.’
Roy handed a sandwich to Delaney, who took a big bite of it. He realised that Kate was staring unbelievingly at him. ‘What?’ he asked.
‘I can’t believe you’re eating that,’ she said.
‘I told you. I need to think.’
He looked over at Roy as the burger man flipped the bacon again and cracked an egg on the griddle plate. Delaney turned to Sally again. ‘You know those pictures of the staircases going up and down? You look at them one way and they are going up, you look again and it seems they are going down, or outside and inside. And you follow a straight path but at the end they’ve dropped several levels. Like optical illusions. Can’t remember the artist.’
‘M.C. Escher, sir. Dutch,’ Sally said.
Delaney waved his hand dismissively. ‘Whatever. The point is, we’ve been looking at this all the wrong way, whether the stairs are going up and down.’
‘And what should we have been doing?’ asked the sergeant.
A motorbike turned the corner at the top of the street and headed towards the van. ‘We should have been taking the fricking elevator,’ Delaney said and turned back to the counter. ‘
Roy, give us one of those catering gloves, will you?’
‘What for?’
‘Just give us the fecking glove.’
Roy handed him one of the plastic gloves. Delaney took it and looked across, puzzled, at the motorbike that had stopped on the other side of the road, leaving its engine running. He realised that the rider, who was wearing a dark outfit and a black helmet with a black visor, was swinging something in his hands and pointing it at Kate, who was standing in front of Delaney. Something long and metallic. Delaney processed the information in a split second, shouting for everyone to get down as he grabbed Kate, swinging her round and pulling her to the ground at the side of the van.
The shotgun blast ripped the air apart, the pellets blasting into the trees and the cars and the fencing opposite the van. Delaney scrambled round the side of the van but the motorcyclist was already gunning his engine and racing away back in the direction he had come. There was no number plate on the back of the bike.
Kate stood up, breathing heavily. ‘What the hell was all that about?’ she said, her face as pale as Delaney had ever seen it.
‘I don’t know, darling. Is everyone okay?’
Emma Halliday and Sally Cartwright had both dived for cover as soon as Delaney had shouted and they’d seen what was happening. They stood up, dusting their clothes.
‘What the hell was that, sir?’ asked Sally. ‘A warning? Or was he trying to kill you?’
‘God knows. Maybe it wasn’t me he was after.’
‘We thought someone might have been taking a shot at you in Mad Bess Woods on Saturday morning, didn’t we?’
‘You did. I didn’t.’
‘There’s not a lot of doubt about this one, Jack,’ said Emma Halliday. ‘Who’s got a grudge against you?’
Behind the counter Roy snorted, continuing to cook as though nothing had happened.
Delaney shrugged ruefully. ‘How long have you got?’
But Emma wasn’t listening. She was looking at Kate, a concerned look on her face. Delaney turned round to look at Kate, who was still deathly pale and holding a hand to her stomach. ‘Are you okay? What’s wrong?’
Kate smiled and took her hand away. ‘I’m fine, just a little bit winded.’ She took a couple of deep breaths, the colour returning to her cheeks.
‘There’s nothing wrong with the baby?’
Kate smiled again and shook her head. ‘I’m fine, really. It was just a bit of a shock. Not every day a girl gets shot at.’
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’
Kate smiled again and rubbed his arm reassuringly. ‘Of course I’m sure. I’m a doctor, Jack. I’d know if something was wrong.’
Delaney looked across at the fence that had been peppered with shot. ‘Maybe it was me. Everybody connected with Peter Garnier. They’re all being targeted – they’re all being killed or someone’s trying to kill them. Graham Harper. Tim Radnor. Me.’
Sally nodded. ‘You could be right, sir.’
‘What about the church cleaner, then – Maureen Gallagher? How does she fit into all this?’ asked Emma Halliday, brushing some more dirt from her knees.
‘I don’t know,’ said Delaney. ‘But she was the only person ever to visit him in prison, so there is a definite connection with the man.’
He took out a copy of the photo of Peter Garnier and the others from his pocket. The child killer, almost unrecognisable in his moustache, beard and ridiculously quiffed hair. ‘The men here, I think they’re connected with those other photos. One of these two men, the fisherman or the man in the black suit … they’re cleaning up the evidence and it’s Peter Garnier calling the shots.’ Delaney stared at the picture, trying to make sense of it all. ‘Damn!’ he said suddenly. He pulled out his mobile phone and started punching in some numbers.
‘What is it, Jack?’ asked Kate.
‘There’s someone else connected too, isn’t there? One of his victims.’ Delaney listened as the phone rang. ‘Come on, Gloria,’ he said. ‘Answer the damn phone.’
But Gloria didn’t.
*
Sally pulled her car to a screeching stop and turned off the flashing lights and siren. ‘Wait here,’ said Delaney to her as he got out of the car, slamming the door shut behind him and sprinting across the road, weaving through the slowly moving traffic and racing up the steps that led to the first-floor flats. He ran along the balcony that overlooked the road below until he reached the last door on the right. The lights were off in the flat. He rang the doorbell for a few seconds and then rang it again. There was no answer. He pulled out his phone again and punched in the numbers. Again it went straight to Gloria’s answerphone. He clicked the phone shut and pressed his finger against the doorbell again, keeping it there for five seconds this time. He waited a while longer and then headed back to the stairwell.
He was just about to descend the steps when the door opened behind him and he turned around to see Gloria standing in the doorway, dressed in a bathrobe with a towel curled around her head.
‘Jack, what on earth do you want?’
Delaney turned round, the breath exploding from his body with relief. ‘Gloria, for God’s sake – you’re all right! You had me worried half to death.’
‘What are you on about?’
‘You weren’t answering the door and the phone I bought you has been going straight to answerphone!’
‘I was in the shower, the phone was on charge and I don’t get a good signal in the flat anyway.’
‘Can I come in?’
‘No. Like I said, I was in the shower.’
‘It won’t take long.’ Delaney stepped forward
But Gloria held her hand against the door jamb. ‘I mean it. I’m busy.’
‘Yeah, with a shower,’ said Delaney, annoyed. ‘This is important, Gloria!’
Gloria sighed, spelling it out for him. ‘I wasn’t alone in the shower.’
‘Oh.’
‘For a detective, Jack, sometimes you’re not very bright.’
‘I didn’t know you were even seeing anyone.’
‘Well, I am.’
‘Have you known him long?’
‘What is this? An interrogation?’
‘No. I just wanted to know.’
‘Is it important?’
Delaney nodded, serious. ‘It could be, yes.’
Gloria shook her head, amused. ‘Well then, for your information I’ve known her for over two years. Lizzie was always a good friend at university. Recently we have become close.’
Delaney shuffled awkwardly. ‘Right. Mary never mentioned …’
‘That I’m gay?’
‘Well … yes.’
‘To be honest with you, Jack, I’m not sure what I am. But I am with Lizzie at the moment,’ she smiled again, ‘and she makes me happy.’
‘Good. I’m pleased for you,’ said Delaney. ‘Really I am.’
‘So, then, if you don’t mind …?’ Gloria arched her eyebrows and moved to close the door.
‘It’s Peter Garnier,’ said Delaney, slipping the name bluntly into the conversation.
‘What about him?’ Gloria froze, all amusement in her eyes dying. ‘What about him, Jack?’
‘People who were close to him or connected to him in some way are being killed. We think he had an accomplice. We think that person is taking out anybody who had a link to him.’
‘What’s that got to do with me? I was his victim, not an accomplice.’
‘I know, Gloria. Somebody shot at me earlier today. We don’t know why or how it all ties in to Garnier.’
Gloria slumped against the door frame. ‘Okay. What should I do?’
‘Have you got somewhere you could go? Somewhere you’d be safe for a few days?’
‘He doesn’t know where I live, does he? This accomplice?’
‘We don’t know what he knows or who he is. So do you have anywhere you can go?’
‘Yes.’
‘Just for a few days, Gloria. We’ll get him, I promise
you.’
‘Just like you promised you’d find that little boy.’
Delaney put his hand on her shoulder. ‘I don’t break my promises. Not any more.’
‘Okay, then.’
‘And don’t answer the door to any strange men.’
‘Yeah! Thanks, Dad.’ Gloria was trying to smile but was not quite making it.
*
Sally Cartwright was leaning against the car when Delaney returned.
‘She’s all right, then?’
‘Yeah, her phone was on charge, is all. Not a good signal in the flat.’
‘I told you that you had nothing to worry about. Nobody knows where she is. Nobody knows who she is, Jack! Least of all Peter Garnier.’
‘Come on then, constable. Get in the car and let’s go.’
*
Gloria stood by the window, looking through a small gap in the curtains as Sally nosed her car out into the traffic and moved off. She continued to lean against the cool glass, feeling it on her forehead. Then she stood back and took the towel off her head, running her delicate fingers through the smooth dry hair.
She tossed the towel aside and walked over to the opposite wall. Looking at her montage of photos and articles. The yellow light from the street lamp outside spilled through the gap in the curtain to throw a slash of sulphur-yellow light across the wall, catching the picture of Peter Garnier and giving his eyes a feral, alien look. She looked at the photo of Jack Delaney holding her when she’d been rescued as a seven-year-old girl. Then she pulled her robe tight around herself and dropped her right hand, letting it come rest on a motorcycle helmet on the side table beneath the picture.
‘Turns out you couldn’t save them all,’ she said as she stared at the man in uniform holding her in his arms. ‘Could you, Jack?’
‘Has he gone?’
Gloria turned round and nodded. ‘Yes, George. He’s gone.’
‘Good. Get dressed, then.’
*
Sally Cartwright pulled the car to a stop in the White City police station car park and turned off the engine. Delaney snapped his seat belt off and reached for the door handle. Then he looked back at Sally who seemed a bit lost in thought. ‘Something on your mind, detective constable?’
‘Just wondering how Garnier is getting messages out, sir. He doesn’t have access to the internet, he’s never alone with a guard. None of them are. He’s had no mail, no visitors apart from Maureen Gallagher. Who’s now dead. So we know she’s not involved.’