Mark Pearson - Death Row

‘Who is he?’

‘Don’t know.’

Delaney handed her the photo and she looked at it, frowning. ‘He looks a little familiar to me.’

‘Doesn’t look the sort to play tennis at your club,’ said Delaney dryly.

‘Funny.’ Kate looked at the photo again and pulled out her mobile. ‘I think I know who he is.’

As she punched in some numbers Sally Cartwright approached, carrying a large brown paper sack. Delaney smiled. The aroma of a bacon sandwich, apparently, was the one smell most responsible for turning ex-meat eaters away from being vegetarians and back to being carnivores. Delaney could see why. Anyway, as far as he was concerned he was as likely to turn vegetarian as he was to turn teetotal.

‘They’re going to be a bit cold, sir. Got here as fast as I could.’

‘Good girl.’

Delaney unwrapped a sandwich and took a hefty bite. Bemused, Kate watched him, wondering how he got away with it. Anyone else who called Sally Cartwright good girl would, she imagined, get told pretty quickly what to do with their bacon sandwich — buttered or otherwise.

*

DI Tony Bennett’s eyes were fixed straight ahead. The voice filling the air was musical, a deep bass. The words rolling like treacle and echoing from the stone walls.

‘Your brother will rise again, he said. And Martha answered, “I know he will rise in the resurrection at the last day.” And Jesus said to her, I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in me will live, even though he dies; and whoever lives and believes in me will never die. Do you believe this? He asked.’

Bennett stared ahead, his eyes shining. He felt a trembling against his thigh, and he blinked, confused for a moment. Then he took out his mobile phone. It vibrated quietly in his hand and he looked at the number, swallowed dryly and used his thumb to click the phone off.

*

Delaney took a last swig of the tea that Sally had also brought.

‘Did you see the news this morning, sir?’ she asked him.

‘No.’

‘Your friend Melanie Jones has started calling this area Death Row.’

‘Great.’

‘After Carlton Row.’

‘Yeah, thank you — I got the connection, Sally!’

‘She said it’s what the locals are calling it.’

‘Well, they got that right, I suppose.’

‘She also said that the police were fairly sure it wasn’t an accidental death.’

Delaney grunted as Kate came over to join them. ‘If she knew what had really happened in there she would be shouting it out every fifteen minutes.’

‘The press will have to know soon enough, I guess,’ said Kate.

‘And the chief is stamping up and down, sir,’ added Sally. ‘Wants to be kept posted on any developments. He thinks there’s mileage in your profile on this.’

‘Great!’

‘He may be right.’

‘I’ve had my picture on the front page of the papers once, Sally. I’m not so keen to have it there again, thanks all the same.’

He looked across at the growing crowd of journalists behind the yellow tape, not at all surprised to see Melanie Jones had now joined their number.

‘Death Row,’ he muttered and shook his head disgustedly.

Kate was still holding her phone when it rang. Chopin’s piano sonata number two, sounding, given the circumstances, like the theme tune to a horror movie. She answered it quickly. ‘Kate Walker.’ She listened for a moment, tapping her foot. ‘Tony, I think I might know who the person in that photo is, the one you gave to Jack. No, I don’t know the name but I think I know someone who does.’ She listened again. ‘You’re cracking up, detective. I’ll meet you at the station in twenty minutes.’ She listened again but there was clearly no response. She closed her phone and turned to Delaney. ‘You going to be all right?’

‘I’ll be fine. I’m supposed to be working, remember? You’re supposed to be having the day off.’

‘That kid in hospital could still die, Jack. I think this is more important than sorting out the Sunday roast.’

‘Course it is — you get on. And don’t worry about dinner. I’m cooking tonight.’

Kate headed off towards her car, ignoring the barrage of questions shouted at her.

‘I didn’t know you could cook, sir,’ Sally said, and then held up her hand to interrupt him. ‘Yeah, yeah. I know. There’s a lot I don’t know about you.’

‘You’ll learn soon enough, Sally. Soon enough.’

She didn’t doubt it.

*

Kate flicked the lock shut on her car and walked towards the entrance to Whitefriars Hall. DI Tony Bennett was waiting for her in the archway that led to the square. He was very smartly dressed, she thought as she approached: dark suit, nice expensive-looking tie, shoes polished to a gleam, and hair neatly combed and set with some kind of gel.

‘You look like you’ve just been up in court, detective. I hope I’ve not interrupted an important date?’

Bennett held up his bare-fingered left hand. ‘You know me, doctor. I’m married to the job.’

‘What was the meeting, then?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Earlier you said you couldn’t take my call. You were in a meeting?’

‘I was. A church meeting.’

‘Yeah, right.’ Kate threw him a doubtful look but he wasn’t smiling. He nodded at the photo she was holding in her hand.

‘And you are pretty sure it was him?’

‘Hard to tell for sure, I only glimpsed him when we were here before, but I think so. Yes.’

They came out of the tunnelled archway and turned left to the Dean’s office just as the door to her office was thrown open and a young man dressed in black came out, shouting back into the office.

He said something in a language that Kate didn’t understand — presumably Arabic, she thought — and hurried off.

The Dean, Sheila Anderson, appeared in the open doorway and called after him in the same language.

But the youth was gone, flapping a dismissive hand angrily over his shoulder as he disappeared into one of the buildings at the bottom left-hand side of the quad.

‘Is there a problem?’ asked Bennett.

‘He wanted to go into his cousin’s room.’

‘Jamil Azeez, you mean?’

‘Yes.’

‘What was he after?’

The Dean shrugged. ‘He said something about a book he’d lent him. I said I would have to wait for Jamil to give permission, but Malik became angry. Claiming it was his property and he had a right to it.’

‘You speak Arabic?’ Kate asked.

‘No, Iranian. Not fluently. But I spent some years in Iran as a child.’

‘Really?’

‘My father was in the diplomatic corps. We were stationed there for a while.’

‘When it was still Persia?’ said Kate.

‘Indeed,’ replied the Dean, pleased. ‘A lot of people forget that. Persia had become Iran long before Jamil and Malik were even born.’

‘What was the book he was after?’

The Dean shrugged apologetically. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know. What of Jamil — is there any improvement in his condition?’

‘I’m sorry, no,’ said Kate.

‘But you have a suspect. You think you may know who attacked him?’

Bennett held out the photograph of the man arguing with Jamil on Camden High Street. ‘Not yet. Not as such, but we wondered if you might be able to identify this man.’

The Dean took the photo, her forehead creasing as she recognised the man in it. ‘Matt Henson. You think he attacked Jamil?’

‘He’s your gardener?’ prompted Kate.

‘No, dear,’ said the Dean.

‘I saw him here yesterday, raking the leaves.’

‘He comes for a few hours each weekend to do odd jobs about the place. He’s on community service. My husband is a magistrate. I like to help out where I can.’