by Mark Pearson
‘We did everything we could,’ she said.
From inside the room, the sound of wailing could be heard. A Chinese man came out. He was in his late twenties, dark-haired, about five foot nine and thin. His hair was slicked back and he had a black jacket over a white T-shirt and black jeans. He looked like an Asian Fonz, Delaney thought.
‘You are the police detective?’ he asked.
‘Detective Inspector Jack Delaney, yes. And you are?’
‘My name is David Chang. Dongmei Chang was my aunt.’
‘I’m sorry for your loss.’
‘I don’t need your pity.’ The man practically spat the words out. ‘What are you going to do about it?’
‘Trust me, there will be a thorough investigation into how she came to be injured.’
‘She wasn’t injured, Detective. She was murdered!’
36.
DELANEY ZIPPED UP his coat, his shoes crunching in the snow as he and Sally Cartwright walked back towards his car. Pulling out his mobile phone, he saw that he had a number of missed calls.
He punched in some numbers and tossed his car keys to Sally, who pushed the button to open the doors.
‘You drive,’ he said as he waited for the phone call to be answered.
‘That will make a nice change,’ said Sally wryly.
‘Hi, Bowlalong. It’s Jack Delaney. What have you got for me?’ He listened for a while. ‘Okay, Derek, thanks for that. Let me know if Ballistics can get anything off of that shell. Will do.’ He clicked his phone shut. ‘Bowman sends his love,’ he said to Sally, who was pulling on her seatbelt.
‘What did he have for us?’
‘Our body in the churchyard this morning …’
‘Yeah?’
‘He and Lorraine fitted all the pieces together like an osteopathic jigsaw.’
‘And?’
‘And … there was a piece missing.’
‘Left behind in the grave?’
‘No. It was a piece missing,’ he put a finger to his temple, right in the middle of his temple. ‘Bullet-sized.’
‘He was shot.’
‘Yes,’ said Delaney as he hit the speed-dial on his phone.
Sally turned the key in the ignition and kicked the engine into life. ‘Back to the office?’
Delaney nodded. ‘Hi, Tony,’ he said as his call was answered. ‘It’s Jack Delaney.’
Sally reversed Delaney’s old Saab out of its parking spot and headed for the car-park entrance as he listened to Tony Hamilton on the phone.
‘Where are you now?’ He nodded again. ‘Okay, we’ll meet you in The Castle in about fifty minutes. Change of plan, Sally.’
‘Where to now then?’
‘Harrow-on-the-Hill. The Castle pub. Do you know it?’
Sally shook her head.
‘Don’t worry, the Saab knows the way.’
Sally changed gears, the crunching audible. ‘This car should know its way to the knacker’s yard, if you ask me.’
‘Well, no one is asking you! So step on it. Your boyfriend’s waiting for us.’
Sally grimaced. ‘Bloody men!’
Delaney smiled, but not for long, as what DI Tony Hamilton had told him ticked over in his brain.
Sally looked over at him as a thought struck her. ‘It’s not going to take fifty minutes to get to Harrow-on-the Hill, sir,’ she said.
‘I know, Sally, got to make a little visit first,’ he replied, all humour having vanished now from his blue eyes.
Laura was sitting on a chair by the base of Bible Steve’s bed. A uniformed constable stood outside. Next door, CID officers from Paddington Green were interviewing Dongmei Chang’s relatives.
She sipped on a clear plastic cup of water, her eyes unfocused, lost in thought.
She remembered taking the girl to a play area of the club. She remembered dark lights, throbbing music. Velvet Underground. Lou Reed, the song playing in her mind continuously – she couldn’t seem to stop it. An earworm. Lyrics about leather and boots. Tasting a whip. She remembered the whip in her hand. She remembered lashing down with it hard. Again and again. But the memories blurred. She couldn’t see who or what she was hitting. Just the song and a red mist. Flashes of images came back. Outside, in the snow, blood on her hands. Putting her hands in the snow to ease the pain.
She held her hands to her ears, trying to stop the song. Trying to remember.
‘Dr Chilvers! Are you all right?’
Her eyes flew open, startled. Dave Matthews was standing in the doorway, practically filling it with his massive shoulders and looking at her, concerned.
It took her a moment to find her voice. ‘Yeah, I’m fine, thank you, Sergeant.’ She finished her cup of water and held it out to him. ‘Just a touch of migraine; it will pass in a minute, but could you get me some more water?’
Dave Matthews left and Laura closed her eyes again. Steadying her breathing. Willing her heart to slow down. For Christ’s sake, Laura! Get a grip on yourself, she said to herself.
And then screamed as a strong hand seized her arm.
Sally Cartwright brought Delaney’s Saab to a stop in a suburban street in Harrow. Warrington Road, just a few streets away from Carlton Row, where the children had been kidnapped all those years ago and made Jack Delaney a household name for a while. His face plastered over the front covers of most of the papers. Not once, but twice.
There was a huddle of press outside a house about fifty yards up the road.
‘Do you think this is wise, sir?’ asked Sally as they stepped out of the car and shut the doors.
‘I don’t know, Sally,’ said Delaney as they walked up the road towards them. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think, sir, in the words of Chief Inspector Diane Campbell, that George Napier will want your balls dipped in chocolate and served up at the ambassador’s ball.’
‘That’s Superintendent Napier to you!’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And George-fecking-Napier can kiss my black Irish arse.’
‘Glad to hear it, sir.’
‘Detective Inspector Delaney!’
Delaney didn’t know who had called out to him from the gaggle of press outside Michael Robinson’s front door. Because they were all shouting the same thing.
Delaney held a hand up to silence them. ‘I have no comment to make at this time,’ he said and pushed through them, Sally Cartwright trailing in his wake.
Delaney let the noise wash over him. Aware of the photo flashes bursting behind him, but not much caring.
A short while later and the door opened. Michael Robinson blinked at the barrage of white light that ensued, then smiled.
‘Detective Inspector Delaney. What a pleasant surprise!’
‘Good. May we come in?’
‘I’m not sure that would be appropriate under the circumstances.’
Delaney stepped forward so that Robinson had to take a step backwards. ‘Come on, Detective Constable,’ he said to Sally. ‘The nice man is going to put the kettle on.’
He took hold of Robinson’s arm and steered him further inside. Sally followed closely behind and shut the door.
‘What do you want, Delaney?’ Robinson asked, all veneer of politeness stripped away as they stood in his hall.
‘You sent me some mail, Robinson. I’m sending it back.’ He took out the summons that he had been served in the Viaduct Tavern and tossed it against the man’s chest.
Robinson let the envelope fall to the floor. ‘It makes no difference. You’ve been served, Detective Inspector. I’ll see you in court.’
‘I’ll see you in hell first.’
Robinson grinned. It made Sally Cartwright’s skin creep as he looked at her. ‘I hope you’re making notes of all this, Detective Constable? Sounds like your boss was threatening me.’
‘See, that’s where matters of opinion vary,’ Sally replied with a sweet smile of her own. ‘What I heard the detective inspector say to you is that he won’t need to see you in cour
t on a trumped-up civil case. Because the CPS will have you banged up long before that.’
‘The case was thrown out of court.’
‘For now. But you know that you are cowardly rapist scum. I know you are, and what is more important … is that Detective Inspector Delaney does too. And he really doesn’t like people like you.’
Robinson kept the grin on his face. ‘I couldn’t really give a shit what you or DI Bogtrotter of the Yard here thinks. You have nothing on me, and you know it.’
Delaney stepped forward and grabbed the man in the groin.
‘You’re hurting me,’ Robinson said through clenched teeth.
‘Ah that’s a shame.’ Delaney looked over his shoulder at Sally Cartwright. ‘See, that’s the thing about bullies, rapists and paedophiles – they’re all cowards at heart.’
‘I’m no paedophile!’ said Robinson, his eyes watering.
‘You mentioned my partner and child, on the phone this morning. I just came here to tell you. You go near either one of them and you, my friend, are a dead man!’ Delaney squeezed his hand and Robinson stood up on his toes. ‘We have a congruence of understanding on this matter?’
Michael Robinson nodded his head and Delaney released him.
‘You’re crazy,’ said Robinson, his breath ragged.
‘Certifiable,’ Sally Cartwright agreed.
‘I’m a stone-cold killer. You’d do well to remember it.’
Robinson cowered back against the wall, unable to meet Delaney’s gaze.
Delaney gestured to Sally Cartwright and they left. Robinson took a moment to collect himself. ‘Motherfucker,’ he said in a low whisper, then ‘Motherfucker!’ more loudly. Calming his breathing, he snatched up the phone stabbing in some numbers. ‘We have to meet,’ he said when the call was answered.
37.
OUTSIDE IN DELANEY’S car, Sally put the key into the ignition and looked across at her boss. ‘Did you mean what you said in there, sir?’ she asked.
‘Every fucking word.’
Sally thought about it for a moment and turned the engine over. She guessed he had his reasons.
Bible Steve was sitting up looking at his bruised knuckles. Sergeant Dave Matthews stood beside him at the head of his bed. Dr Chilvers waited by the door.
‘Just tell us what you remember?’ said the sergeant.
The man blinked his haunted eyes for a moment or two. ‘I can’t remember anything!’ he said finally.
Dr Lily Crabbe came into the room, followed by a nurse. ‘I am not sure this is the right time to be interrogating him, Sergeant,’ she said, with the kind of voice a teacher might reserve for an unruly child throwing litter in the playground.
‘I’m simply asking some questions, Doctor. A woman did die, you know.’
‘Yes, thank you, Sergeant, I am well aware of that!’
‘It was nothing to do with me,’ said Bible Steve, shaking his head.
‘Nobody is saying it was, Steve.’
‘I want to leave,’ said the homeless man, pulling at the tubes still attached to him.
Dr Crabbe rushed over. ‘Try not to get excited, please. You will hurt yourself.’
‘But I want to leave, I don’t belong here.’
‘You are still a far-from-well man. You need to stay here, so that we can take care of you.’
‘Listen to the doctor, Steve. She’s trying to help,’ said Dave Matthews.
Bible Steve looked up at him angrily. ‘Stop calling me that. Why are you calling me that?’
‘It’s what everybody calls you, Steve. Bible Steve, that’s your name.’
‘Isn’t that your name?’ asked the registrar as Steve’s eyes darted wildly.
‘No,’ he said.
‘What should we call you then?’
Steve screwed his eyes shut. When he opened them there were tears on his cheeks. ‘I don’t know,’ he said.
The registrar held out her hand. ‘It’s okay. Really, it’s okay. You have had a blow to the head.’
‘I know he is your patient,’ said Laura Chilvers to Dr Crabbe, speaking for the first time, ‘but he is clearly still in shock. Maybe a mild sedative?’
Dave Matthews turned to the registrar. ‘I’d like to talk to him a little first, if that is okay?’
‘He’s had a head injury. We need to check his consciousness levels before we can sedate him.’
Bible Steve was swivelling his head like an audience member at Wimbledon.
‘Of course,’ said Laura, feeling the colour rise into her cheeks a little. ‘I meant a painkiller.’
‘Who are you? Who are you all?’ Bible Steve cried.
‘I’m Sergeant Dave Matthews,’ said the policeman. ‘Don’t you remember me, Bible?’
‘Don’t call me that! And no I don’t remember you.’ His gaze flicked from person to person, coming to stop as he stared at Laura.
‘Who are you?’ he asked. Laura looked away. ‘Who am I?’ he said in a hoarse whisper.
Geoffrey Hunt sat in the snug that lay just off the kitchen. They called it a snug, a small affectation, but one that amused them. A smallish lounge, but cosy, with an open log fire opposite a comfortable sofa and a wide arched opening to the kitchen beyond. On the left was a pair of leaded-light windows that looked out to the front garden.
There were logs burning in the firedog and the crackle and spit of the flames seemed to add to the festive decorations that bedecked the walls and beams overhead. There were more than a hundred Christmas cards displayed. In the corner stood a small tree: a six-foot-high Norwegian Blue. Patricia always insisted on a Norwegian Blue, as it didn’t shed needles into every nook and cranny, and take a month to clean up after Twelfth Night when it was carried into the garden. Geoffrey usually laughed and made a joke about the old Monty Python sketch featuring a Norwegian Blue parrot, but this year he hadn’t laughed when he made the joke, and neither had his wife. They were saying things to each other but half the time they weren’t really listening. He supposed a lot of old couples got like that. They didn’t really need language to communicate their thoughts, their feelings. In the background the radio was playing some classical Christmas carol. Geoffrey always had the radio on. Hated the television. Always had. Patricia occasionally insisted they watch some programme or other, but it never held his attention. He’d rather listen to his record collection or read a good book. Not that he had done that recently either.
He took out his handkerchief and coughed into it, then coughed again uncontrollably.
Patricia came through from the kitchen where she had been making a hot-drink remedy and waited for him to stop. After a moment or two Geoffrey wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt and smiled gratefully to her as she handed him the steaming mug.
‘Thanks, darling.’
‘Your cold does seem to be getting worse, Geoffrey.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘I’m worried about you, that’s all. What with your asthma.’
‘Like I say, I’m fine. I’ve got my sprays and my inhalers.’
The classical music finished on the radio and the presenter announced that the news would be following the adverts.
Patricia crossed over to the small, occasional table where the radio stood and turned it off.
‘I was listening to that, darling,’ Geoffrey said.
‘I know you were, but we need to talk.’
‘I wanted to catch the news!’
‘Later, Geoffrey, this is important.’
‘What is it?’
Patricia sat down next to him. ‘You know we were always talking about moving away. To Spain. To Barcelona.’
‘A pipe-dream. We’re too old now.’
‘Rubbish! But we are getting older. There is no denying that, and this climate here does nothing for your lungs.’
‘What’s put this in your mind all of a sudden?’
‘It’s your chest, and this damned cold. And now there’s this snow and goodness knows when it will end.’
/> ‘If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind.’
‘That’s all very well for Shelley, darling, but he didn’t live in Queen’s Park.’
‘Well we can certainly think about it. Turn the radio back on.’
‘But that’s all we ever do, Geoffrey. Think about it, let’s seize the horn right now, today!’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ve been on the computer …’
‘Again!’
‘Yes, and I’ve found some really cheap flights to Barcelona.’
‘For when?’
‘For tomorrow, Geoffrey. Why don’t we go and spend Christmas in Spain and see what we think?’
Geoffrey coughed into his handkerchief again. ‘I know what I think?’
‘What’s that?’
‘I think you’ve finally lost your marbles,’ he said. ‘And we’ve no chance of making a quick sale, what with the housing market as it is. Let’s wait till the market picks up and then we’ll talk about it.’
‘It might be too late by then.’
‘There’s nothing to connect us, Patricia. Nobody will know who he is now, even if he does turn up.’
Patricia nodded, close to tears. ‘I just worry about what’s to become of us.’
Geoffrey took her hand and patted it. ‘I promised you I’d take care of everything, didn’t I?’
She nodded, blinking back the tears. ‘Yes.’
‘And I will, darling,’ he said, his eyes suddenly clear and focused. ‘I will!’
38.
JACK DELANEY PARKED his car at the Harrow School theatre. Built in 1994, the Ryan Theatre had cost more than four million pounds, and was worth more than many professional theatres. Then again, the school charged pupils thirty grand a year to attend. Getting on for a quarter of a million pounds for their time at school, and with approximately 850 pupils in attendance, they could pretty much afford it. Pretty much afford anything! Most of the land and the buildings on the Hill were owned by the school. They had invented the game of squash and Harrow’s old-boy honours list contained eight former prime ministers, amongst many other luminaries.
Delaney was not surprised, therefore, as he slammed shut the passenger door of his battered old Saab, to see an outraged figure with curly hair strolling from the theatre towards him.