Mark Pearson - The Killing Season

‘That’s Superintendent Dean to you. And my day was going fine until a certain pain in the arse of an Irishman got in the woodpile.’

‘Something amiss?’ I asked innocently.

‘I just had a man in my police station accusing one of my officers of endangering his life and assaulting his mentally challenged colleague.’

I shrugged. ‘What’s that got to do with me?’

‘That’s a bloody good question, Delaney!’

She didn’t pronounce my name with any particular relish.

‘I am certain that if one of your men acted in a forceful way,’ I said, ‘he was perfectly justified. I know you run a very tidy ship up here, Susan. A very tidy ship.’

‘Don’t get funny, Delaney. Your brogue and your supposed Irish diddly bloody charm might have had the ladies in Paddington Green dropping their knickers, but you fuck around with me and I will come down on you like a ton of proverbial bricks. A veritable shitstorm!’

‘Do you kiss your mother with those lips?’ I asked, pretending to be shocked at her language. ‘And you’re mixing your metaphors there.’

‘Shut it, Delaney. And tell me what the hell you were doing assaulting a couple of law-abiding members of my community? And don’t try bullshitting me. Bill Collier gave me a perfectly good description of you. What makes you think you can get away with flashing a warrant card and pretending to be on the force?’

‘Technically, Susan, I am still on the force.’

‘Not my bloody force you’re not! And you’re on sabbatical, last I heard. From the Met. You want to take up policing again, rather than poncing about interfering with matters that don’t concern you, why don’t you sod off back to the big city and do it there?’

‘I only went to have a quiet chat with the man. It was his colleague who started it.’

‘Who started it! What are you? Twelve years old, for God’s sake?’

‘They defrauded an old lady out of a lot of money. They are not law-abiding citizens, they are a pair of shifty, sleazy, cowboy conmen.’

‘Then that is a civil matter. It is not a police matter and certainly not one where you can go round flashing a warrant card pretending to be part of my team.’

‘I never said I was part of your team.’

‘You implied it and that is as good in my eyes. Do it again I will have you in the nick so fast your head will spin. I don’t care if you’re a Met officer taking a gap year or not. This is my patch. Trust me,’ she said, with a cold smile. ‘Don’t be looking for any preferential treatment from me.’

I flashed her a smile of my own. ‘You come all the way out here in person to tell me this, superintendent?’

‘Don’t flatter yourself. I have a meeting scheduled with the vicar up the road on parish-council business. Just consider yourself told.’

She turned on her high heels and opened the door.

‘Yes, ma’am!’ I said with military crispness.

She turned back to glare at me but settled for slamming the door behind her as a parting comment.

I picked up my bottle of beer and finished what was left. ‘Still got it, Cowboy,’ I said to myself. ‘Still got it.’

I looked around the trailer and then at the telephone on the desk. I thought about recording a new message saying, ‘This is Jack Delaney. At the tone leave your name and message. I’ll get back to you.’

Instead, I looked at my watch, then out at the sky that was dark now. I placed my empty beer bottle into the waste-paper basket by my desk as a crack of lightning rang out like a rifle shot. A few seconds later and an angry rumble of thunder swept in from the coast, and a few seconds after that the heavens opened up and the rain hammering on the metal roof of the caravan became almost deafening once again. I shrugged into my overcoat, pulled on a baseball cap and braved the weather. I had to be brave, after all — it was in my job description.

Night-time in the city.

Warm hazy air. Smells of petrol and industrial output mingling with the aromatic smoke of barbecues wafting from back gardens here and there. Yellow light pooling on the ground from sulphurous street lamps. Neon signs flashing. The distant wail of a police siren and an ambulance siren in cacophonous disharmony. Cars flashing past in both directions. Another city that rarely sleeps. Cigarette smoke drifting out of the open car window. Minutes later I pulled the car hard left and parked. Switching off the engine but keeping the radio on.

I stood for a while, my eyes half-closed. The Cowboy Junkies were playing ‘Blue Moon’ now. Soulful. The hot night like a moist, warm blanket. Airless. I could feel beads of sweat forming on my forehead.

I holstered the petrol-pump nozzle back in its cradle and turned round to see Eddie Bonner standing there. He had a smart suit on, his shirt was buttoned up and neatly ironed, and he was wearing a silk tie in dark colours. But he looked haunted. His troubled brown eyes flicked nervously as he watched me, then they steadied with purpose. A cold purpose, as if he had come to a decision. He held a shotgun in his right hand. He lifted it up and held the barrel with his left hand as he pointed it at me. I felt the beads of sweat trickle down from my forehead onto the bridge of my nose and into my eyes. I blinked to keep the moisture away.

I held a hand up in a placating gesture. But the younger man shook his head, almost apologetically.

‘Whatever it is, Eddie, we can work it out.’

‘It’s too late for that, Jack. Far too late.’

‘It’s never too late.’

‘We’re all born with a use-by date, sir. It’s part of the deal.’

‘You don’t have to call me “sir”. We’re friends, aren’t we, Eddie?’

‘We were never friends. But I guess you never did understand that, did you? You being the hotshot detective and all, I would have thought you would have worked that out long ago. Maybe your gut instincts aren’t all they are cracked up to be.’

‘And maybe they are. You don’t want this, Eddie. I can see it in your eyes.’

‘Like I say, Jack, it’s too late. Far too late for any of us.’

I held my hand forward again. ‘I don’t understand this.’

‘It’s all about checks and balances. You crossed a line, Cowboy. You messed up big time and somebody has to pay. You think running away from London changes any of that? At the end of the day someone has to pay. Someone always does.’

‘I did what I had to do.’

Bonner raised the shotgun and levelled it at my stomach. ‘You better say your goodbyes.’

Before I could reply he had pulled the trigger. The blast was like a burning iron fist in my gut. I cried out in pain, spun round and dropped to my knees. The shot had passed straight through me. My wife, with an extremely swollen pregnant belly, was standing holding her hands to her shattered stomach. Blood was running through her fingers in rivulets. She had taken the full force of both barrels. She too fell to her knees and smiled sadly at me. Her eyes were peaceful and she seemed to be in no pain, but large tears welled after a second.

‘It’s all right, Jack,’ she said. ‘Take care of Siobhan for me.’ And then her eyes closed and the alarm rang out, blanking out the sounds of my screams. So that all I could hear was the roar of blood in my ears and the knelling of bells.

I started awake, my eyes wet with tears.

My hand fumbled in the dark for the mobile phone on the cabinet beside the bed. Kate switched on her bedside lamp as I picked up the phone and then dropped it again. My hands were shaking so much.

‘What is it, Jack?’ she asked.

‘I’ll be OK. Let me get this.’ I pushed the button on the phone. ‘Delaney. This had better be good!’ I said.