Mark Pearson - Death Row

‘Must be.’

‘And someone else who looks just like you also has a tattoo with the B-negative blood-group sign tattooed on the back of his head as well, I suppose?’

Henson shrugged.

Bennett opened the file next to him and made a show of flicking through some papers. ‘Only I see from your records that B-negative isn’t your blood group, is it?’

Henson shrugged again.

‘When did you get the tattoo done?’

‘It was a birthday present from my dad.’

‘Nice.’

Henson didn’t reply.

‘You sure you don’t want a lawyer here?

‘You charging me with anything?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Don’t need a lawyer, then, do I?’

Bennett smiled patiently. ‘Do you know what the significance of the tattoo on the back of your head is?’

Henson shrugged again.

‘The SS used to have them. B-negative was thought to be the best blood group for the Aryan super-race. Only they got it wrong. The Saxons, the Nordics, type A — that’s the Holy Grail when it comes to blood types. Himmler got that wrong, apparently. Type A — just like you, Matt.’

‘What the fuck are you talking about?’

‘Your dad reckons you have Scandinavian heritage.’

Henson shook his head, puzzled. ‘Are you going to make a point here or what?’

‘The little armoury in the shrine to Hitler you’ve got back in your house.’

‘What about it?’

‘That sword looks like it could do a bit of damage. Oh, I know it’s a dress sword, but it works, doesn’t it?’

‘I have no idea.’

‘And there’s a little depression where a knife used to sit. Isn’t there? Where’s the knife, Matt?’

‘I have no idea. Dad bought that case off another collector. That’s how it was when he bought it and it has nothing to do with me.’

‘He was just a filthy immigrant, wasn’t he, Matt — no loss to anyone?’

Henson shrugged again. Folding his arms tighter and leaning back in his chair.

‘I mean, he comes over here, ponces around the university. Maybe shagging the Dean while he’s at it. While you get to clear up leaves and pick up litter after him. Is that what it was, Matt? Did you see him with the Dean? Did you get jealous? I mean, she’s got a soft spot for you, hasn’t she?’

Matt uncrossed his arms and put his hands flat on the table. He was angry now.

‘You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about!’

‘That’s it, isn’t it? The filthy Paki immigrant comes over here and cops onto a woman you’ve got your eye on, the filthy bastard. Is that what you called him?’

Henson smiled contemptuously. ‘I thought you said he was an Iranian.’

‘I didn’t say that at all, did I, constable?’ Bennett turned with a small smile himself to the uniform, who shook her head.

‘Yeah, well, Jamil is an Arab name, smartarse, I know that much.’

Bennett leaned in. ‘I didn’t tell you his name, either.’

Henson’s surly smile disappeared. He sat back and folded his arms again. ‘I want a lawyer, he said.

*

Stella Trent sat at the small table in the corner of her lounge. She ran slender fingers through her gloriously copper-coloured hair and smiled. It wasn’t so long ago that her hair had been lank, her skin pale, not the porcelain-cream it was today but sallow, waxy. Her green eyes had been lifeless, those same eyes that now sparkled with mischief and delight. It had been three months since she had taken the cocaine that had wasted her life. Three months since she had been released. Since she had been rescued.

She picked up a gloss lipstick and touched up her lips. They were the colour of coral. If she had been a member of the Pre-Raphaelite brotherhood she would have painted herself, she thought, and then made love.

A lot of people had made the mistake of thinking that Stella Trent was uneducated. That she had fallen into prostitution through circumstances beyond her control. But that was only partly true. She was convent-school-educated and had come to London thinking she could be a model: she was tall enough, had the long, shapely legs that a catwalk demanded, had a beautiful face that screamed innocence and Ireland. Trouble was, there were a thousand girls every day coming to the city with the same dreams. And Stella’s looks just weren’t fashionable. She wasn’t gooky or weird enough. But there were modelling jobs available if you didn’t mind going topless. And there were drugs available if you wanted to party all night on the club scene, looking to be spotted. And pretty soon it was more than a sniff here and there, and pretty soon after that it wasn’t just the bra that was being slipped off for the photographers. And pretty soon after that there wasn’t even a camera.

Stella looked at herself and smiled again. She was pretty much out of that life now and wouldn’t be going back, and the good thing about it all was that she didn’t feel guilty. She was Irish Catholic and didn’t feel guilty — which in the circumstances, she thought, was a bit of a miracle. But she knew it was just sex, that was all. Consensual sex. And she had done it for money, that was all. No one had been hurt except herself — if she had chosen to let it hurt her. She had chosen not to. Maybe she was the exception to the Catholic rule. The man who was due to visit her at any minute certainly felt guilt. He was a walking poster-boy for it, an ex-altar boy who had sinned indeed. A choirboy who didn’t make confession any more. At least, not to a priest.

‘It’s open,’ she said, smiling wider and turning to watch the door open and Jack Delaney walk in. God help us, he’s a good-looking man, she thought to herself. He had a bottle of wine in one hand and a small case in the other. She nodded at it and said, ‘You’re getting very serious about this, then, cowboy?’

‘I am,’ he replied.

She smiled again. ‘And you brought wine?’

‘Not for us.’

‘Oh?’

‘I needed an excuse to get out of the house. I’m cooking dinner.’

Stella’s smile disappeared. ‘Lucky Kate.’

‘Don’t start, Stella.’

And suddenly the smile was back and with it the mischief in her sparkling eyes. ‘Well, at least I get you for half an hour or so. There’d be plenty of women in this grand metropolis who would envy me that delight.’

Delaney put the bottle of wine on the table and the case on the floor and looked at his watch.

‘Let’s get on with it, then,’ he said.

And Stella laughed. ‘Jack Delaney, last of the great romantics.’

*

Jennifer Hickling was standing behind the eighteen-year-old youth in the alleyway just off Camden High Street where a man had been stabbed just days before. She could feel the knife that had stabbed him, a reassuring weight in her left-hand jacket pocket. Her right hand was wrapped around a weapon of a different nature, pumping it hard up and down. The youth was making groaning sounds, asking her to be a bit more gentle, but that just made Jennifer grip and pump harder as she leaned in to whisper insults into the youth’s hot ear. She knew from experience what made men excited. The boy had wanted full sex with her and she had refused. Telling him it was a hand job or a blow job and that was it. She was a virgin, she had said, and he had laughed.

But it was true. She was a virgin. Anal sex didn’t count. She knew that. Especially when it wasn’t her choice.

The thought made her yank even harder and she realised that the boy was crying out in pain now. He had spilled his seed moments before, staining the cobbled ground that was still marked with the young Iranian’s blood.

Not many more to go now, Jennifer thought as the red-faced youth zipped himself up and hurried away, unable to look her in the face. Which suited her just fine. The next one who looked her in the face … she was going to use the knife!