Mark Pearson - Death Row

*

Delaney felt the guilt. He should be out there looking for the missing boy, not spending time with Stella Trent and trying now to create a cosy picture of Sunday-evening domesticity. A chicken in the oven, wine chilling in the fridge, candles on the table.

The trouble was that he had nothing to go on. With most crimes there was a clear motive. You followed the money, or you followed the sexual jealousy. You looked in the family. But Archie Wood’s family was in the clear. His mother was at a wedding, the father’s story had been checked out with border control and the French police and it all held true: he hadn’t even been in the country when the boy had been abducted. He picked up the bottle of whiskey and poured himself another slug. He took the glass with him to the window and looked out at the dark night. He felt the impotent rage building inside him as he pictured the boy alone out there somewhere, scared, cold, maybe hurt, maybe already dead. He took a swallow of his whiskey and tried to push the thought to the back of his mind. It was just the frustration of it all that he was finding hard to handle. He had made a promise that he should never have made, a rod for his own back that he couldn’t stop flogging himself with. He just wanted to get out there and do something. Anything.

He just didn’t know what.

He took a slower sip of whiskey as the last of the second movement of the Górecki symphony finished. He would have turned the music off but Kate walked into the room just then, fresh from the shower and dressed in a fluffy white bathrobe, and her smile chased away his guilt momentarily.

‘Are you going to pour me one of those?’ she said.

‘You drinking whiskey now, Kate?’

‘A tiny sip is all. I’m pregnant, remember.’

Delaney poured a measure into a glass and as he reached for some ice Kate took the bottle from him and read the label, raising a questioning eyebrow. ‘Armorik, Whisky Breton?’

Delaney shrugged. ‘It’s a single malt.’

‘It’s French!’

Delaney laughed and handed her the glass, clinking his own against hers as she took it from him. ‘I’m Irish — we don’t have to hate the French.’

Kate took a sip. The drink had surprisingly smoky notes but was mellow. She nodded approvingly. ‘It’s nice.’ She gave him back the glass.

Delaney bent forward and kissed her on the lips. ‘So are you.’

‘Nice, you say?’ She ran her hand lightly up his inner thigh. ‘There’s still time to get on the naughty list before Christmas.’

A timer sounded in the kitchen, its shrill bleeping somewhat ruining the moment.

‘Not before dinner, though,’ said Delaney, smiling and kissing her again.

‘Maybe pudding, then.’

Delaney pulled Kate into a hug and kissed the top of her head. Her hair was still slightly damp and perfumed. ‘When we have that baby we’re never going to let it out of our sight.’

Kate looked up at him. ‘ We ’ll be having the baby, will we ?’

‘Well … I’ll be having the large cigar and pacing up and down outside — that’s the hard part, you know.’

Kate laughed. ‘That a fact?’

‘I mean it, though, Kate. That kid is going to be the best-loved child in the world.’

Kate looked up at him quizzically. ‘What’s brought all this on?’

‘Nothing. I just think when he or she is born we should sell up and move to Ireland. To Cork.’

‘You are joking?’

Jack shook his head. ‘This city destroys people, Kate. It kills them.’

‘You can’t keep people safe for ever, Jack. Not even you.’

‘We have to do what we can, though. And we can do that.’

Kate put out her hand and held it against his cheek. ‘You and me. We’re good enough for any of them.’

‘You are, maybe.’

She patted his cheek. ‘I’m going to get dressed.’

Jack took another pull on his drink as Kate headed up to his bedroom. He turned the music up louder.

*

Bennett turned the recording device off and watched as the uniformed officers led Matt Henson out of the interview room. The youth had clammed up, refusing to say another word until he had a lawyer present. Bennett had wished him a good night’s sleep in the cell. They’d interview him again in the morning.

When the door closed Bennett took his mobile phone out of his pocket and looked at the display. A message-alert signal was bleeping on the screen.

He clicked on the button and read the message as it appeared. He nodded, pleased with what he read, a ghost of a smile hovering on his lips.

‘Showtime!’ he said in a whisper.

*

Delaney crouched down spreading his mittened hands, and opened the oven door to bring out a tray with a free-range chicken sizzling in the middle of it. He took a large metal spoon and poured some of the fat back over the chicken to baste it, then added a slug of wine in the bottom of the tray and tossed in some previously part-roasted potatoes. He was just about to put the tray back in the oven when there was a gentle knocking on his kitchen door.

‘Hello,’ he called, a little puzzled. The door opened and Siobhan bustled through, running up to hug his legs. She was followed by Wendy, who was dressed in a long dark overcoat and wearing large sunglasses.

‘Wendy, what’s up?’

Wendy looked over at the table. It was covered with a linen tablecloth and set for two with lit candles, a single rose in a vase, crystal wine glasses and a bottle of Chablis chilling in a bucket.

‘Sorry, Jack, this is obviously a bad time.’

Delaney could hear the catch in her voice. ‘It’s fine. Just doing Sunday dinner. Why don’t you have a glass of wine with us?’

‘No, it’s not a good time. Come on, Siobhan, we have to go.’

She turned back to the door but Delaney quickly stepped over to her and pushed the door shut. He turned Wendy around to face him and took off her glasses. There was a red slap mark on her cheek and one of her eyes was swollen. Both eyes were puffy and red with recent tears. Wendy looked away, embarrassed.

‘This was Roger?’ asked Delaney, his voice flat.

‘We’ve been having some problems.’

Delaney nodded and turned back to the oven, putting the tray back in. ‘Siobhan, tell Kate this will be ready in twenty minutes and to set one more place.’

‘Okay, Daddy,’ she said quietly, aware that something was up but not really understanding what.

Siobhan smiled, confused, and Delaney ruffled her hair.

‘Jack-’

Wendy started to speak but Delaney interrupted her. ‘No, it’s all right, Wendy. I’m only going to talk to him.’

Kate walked into the kitchen. ‘I thought I heard voices. Hello, Wendy, this is a nice surprise. Hey, Siobhan.’

‘We’d better go,’ said Wendy.

Delaney shook his head. ‘Dinner will be ready in twenty minutes, Kate. Siobhan and Wendy are staying the night. I’ll be back when I can.’

‘What’s going on?’

Delaney kissed her on the lips. ‘Something I need to take care of. It won’t take long.’

And he was gone.

Kate looked across at Wendy, who sighed and took off her sunglasses. Kate took in the situation for a moment and then she nodded.

‘You’ll be wanting a glass of wine.’

‘Champagne for me,’ said Siobhan and the two women smiled. But they were sad smiles. Kate crossed to Wendy and put her arms around her.

Wendy nodded gratefully and sniffed back tears. ‘Maybe something stronger if you have it?’

*

Arnold Fraser huddled up tighter against the wall of the doorway where he was sheltering from the rain. In a previous life he had been huddled in dugouts under the fierce heat of a Kuwaiti sun, with shells exploding around him and Iraqi soldiers mere hundreds of feet away who would have liked nothing better than to see his head blown apart by a bullet from one of their snipers’ rifles, and as he turned his head against a gust of rain he wasn’t sure now which was the better place to be. He pulled his overcoat tight around himself and shivered, taking a sip from the last of his tins of strong lager. It would be a long, cold night if he couldn’t get any more.