Mark Pearson - Death Row

Even though it was bright outside, it was still dark in the shed and he sent Sally back to get a torch. It was pretty much as Delaney remembered it, the usual clutter of a gardening shed. No heavy-bladed instruments. Not that he reckoned Graham Harper would have had the strength to cut off a woman’s head, but it wouldn’t have been the first time he had been wrong on a case.

A short while later Sally returned with the torch. ‘They’re not too happy us being here, sir. They’ve put a call in to Duncton. He’s on his way over.’

‘Great,’ grunted Delaney and scanned the floor. The floorboards were old and covered with the kind of ingrained dirt that takes years to build up. He moved the boxes around, paying little heed to the fact that he was disturbing a crime scene.

Nothing.

Frustrated, Delaney let his gaze travel around the room. He looked at the battered armchair, crossed to it and snatched up the cushion. Nothing. He threw it back in place and then shoved the armchair out of the way. The floor was as it was everywhere else, black with dust and dirt. Except there was a small knothole in one floorboard. Delaney bent down and put his finger in it. He gripped under and pulled upwards. The plank came loose. Delaney put it to one side and put his arm through the aperture. ‘Bingo,’ he said quietly and pulled his hand back up, bringing with it a pack of cigarettes. He reached down with his arm again and felt around. There was nothing there. ‘That’s it,’ he said, disappointed, nodding to the cigarettes. ‘At least we know he wasn’t lying about those.’

‘Let me have a go, sir,’ said Sally. ‘My arm is thinner than yours.’

Sally knelt down and put her arm through the hole, reaching in almost up to her shoulder as she groped on the floor under the shed. ‘Hang on — I think I’ve got something,’ she said excitedly as she forced her arm further in. She reached again and then pulled her arm slowly out. She held in her hand an A4 brown paper envelope, filthy with dust and covered with spider webs and mouse droppings.

She handed it to Delaney, who took it and opened it, sliding out a series of photographs. He took one look at the top photo before sliding the rest back into the envelope and dropping it on the armchair. Then, holding his hand to his mouth, he dashed out of the shed. Sally picked up the envelope and looked inside it.

Delaney put his hand on the side of the shed, leaning against it, and threw up. The bitter acid taste of the Bushmills he had been drinking the night before filled his mouth and he retched again, a dry, heaving retch. A short while later he became aware of Sally standing beside him.

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ she said.

‘Were they all of her?’ asked Delaney.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And the men …?’

‘There were no faces.’ Sally’s face was ashen too. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said again.

*

Delaney stood beside Sally’s car. He was aware of people moving around him, could hear voices but had no idea what anyone was saying. It was just sound. Meaningless.

Ahead of him the news vultures had gathered again behind the yellow tape. Melanie Jones’s assistant fluffing her hair and touching up her make-up. The glamorous face of the news. News that was hitting home to Delaney fifteen years too late. Hitting home like a sledgehammer in his gut.

He fumbled a cigarette into his mouth, grateful at least that the rain that had been falling for days on end seemed finally to have let up. He scratched a match and lit up, drawing deep and holding the smoke in his lungs till they burned.

It was cold but the sky was clear, pale streaks of salmon pink threading through it like coral in a cobalt ocean. Delaney looked at the street lamp that stood at the entrance to the alleyway, but it certainly didn’t lead to Narnia. He remembered the posters of the children that had been plastered all over the area. He remembered the hundreds of hours he’d wasted walking the area. He looked at his watch. Eleven o’clock. He took another pull on his cigarette as Sally Cartwright approached.

‘What do you reckon, Sally?’ He said. ‘Too early for a pint?’

Sally looked at him sympathetically for a moment and then shook her head. ‘No, sir,’ she said simply. ‘The Crawfish is just around the corner. If it’s still open.’

‘That used to be the best boozer in the area back in the day.’

‘Not any more.’

Delaney nodded sadly. ‘No. Not any more.’ He stood up straight. ‘Shit,’ he said.

‘What is it, sir?’

‘Something Bob Wilkinson said. About never mind the church, it’s the pub that is at the heart of the community.’

‘So?’

‘It’s the locus. Things happening round here. All those years ago and now happening all over again.’

‘I don’t follow.’

‘The landlord back then had the pub as a sort of nerve centre for the search for the missing children. Organised teams of locals as well as the police who were combing the area. Ellie Peters used to work there now and again, I remember her.’

‘And?’

‘She was a part-time hooker, an alcoholic, a drug addict. It was a fairly well-known secret that the landlord was giving her more than just three pounds an hour. And she was giving the customers more than a bitter shandy.’

‘I still don’t follow, sir.’

‘The landlord was due to marry his chef who worked there at the time.’

Sally nodded, remembering. ‘The woman who cooked the best seafood platter south of your Aunty Noreen?’

‘Exactly.’

‘And she’s important because …’

‘Because of her maiden name, detective constable.’

‘Which was?’

‘Her name was Emily, Sally. Emily Harper!’

*

Delaney sat the bar with a pint of lager in front of him as a horde of SOCOs and uniforms headed down to the cellar. Duncton, red-faced as ever, panted as he came up the stairs and into the bar, followed by the red-haired barman, Terry Blaylock. He was clearly less than pleased as he stood aside to let the SOCO get down into the cellar.

‘I’m telling you it’s a waste of time. There’s nothing down there.’

‘Anything, sir?’ Sally asked Duncton, who shook his head and looked across disgusted at Delaney, who raised his glass back at him as in a toast.

‘Your boss is a disgrace, detective constable. Anybody ever tell him that?’

Sally nodded, with a small smile. ‘Everyone does, sir — he takes it as a compliment.’

Sergeant Emma Halliday walked in from outside, her mobile phone held to her ear. She finished the call and crossed to Duncton and the red-haired barman. ‘They’ve searched the house.’ She shrugged, disappointed. ‘Nothing.’

‘What I told you,’ said Blaylock aggressively.

‘Why didn’t you tell us you’re related to the boy?’ asked Delaney from the bar.

Duncton swung round at Delaney, annoyed. ‘We’ll do this properly down at the station, thank you very much.’

‘I’ve got nothing to hide. My old man died fifteen years ago and my mum hasn’t spoken to her brother for twenty years. And neither have I.’

‘Why not?’

The man glared, his voice growing more belligerent by the minute. ‘I don’t know and quite frankly I couldn’t give a fuck. Ask her.’

‘We’re asking you, sunshine, and we’ll do it properly,’ said Duncton, every bit as bellicose. He nodded to his tall assistant. ‘Take him in, sergeant.’

Delaney finished his pint and stood up, gesturing to Sally to follow him as he walked behind Emma Halliday, who was steering Blaylock to the exit.

‘Get back to White City and process some parking tickets or whatever it is you’re good at, Delaney,’ Duncton called after him.

Delaney smiled coldly to himself but carried on walking. Outside, a uniform was holding the back door of a police car open and Sergeant Halliday was about to guide Blaylock in when Delaney called out to her.