Mark Pearson - Death Row

‘Are you all right, Jack?’ she asked breathlessly.

‘I’m fine. What the hell are you doing here?’

‘Tony brought me.’

Kate walked across to the body of Bill Thompson. The shotgun blast had removed most of his face. It seemed a ridiculous thing to do but she knelt down and put her hand on his wrist. She was not at all surprised to find that he had no pulse.

Delaney walked to the back of the large boathouse, to the door from behind which the scream had sounded. The door was locked but a shoulder charge from Delaney battered it loose to hang from one hinge. Inside, huddled in the corner, Archie Woods looked up at him with wide frightened eyes.

‘It’s all right, Archie,’ said Delaney. ‘You’re safe now.’

He held his arms wide and the little boy, sensing that Delaney was right and that he was indeed safe, ran into their enfolding embrace.

Delaney stepped out of the boat shed, the young boy cradled in his arms hanging onto his neck.

A broadside of flashbulbs blinded him momentarily and then he saw the army of news reporters and photographers behind the cordon line that had already been set up. At the forefront Melanie Jones, as ever … only this time she wasn’t shouting questions at him, she was clapping her hands and smiling. Delaney looked at her for a moment and then nodded.

*

Bennett handed Delaney a cup of tea as, behind them, a squad of SOCO and CID headed into the boat shed. Bennett shook his head, puzzled. ‘She could kill all those people. Could cut the head off her own mother, and yet couldn’t bring herself to kill the man who had been holding her captive all these years.’

‘The adult Alice couldn’t — the controlling personality.’

‘Stockholm syndrome?’

Delaney shrugged. ‘Something like it … which was why she brought Gloria here to do it for her, I guess.’

‘And she couldn’t kill Thompson either?’

‘No. And I’m glad. She’s had enough to deal with as it is.’

‘You’d have pulled the trigger?’

Delaney looked at him for a moment. ‘I take it you’re not really from Doncaster?’ he said, taking a sip of the hot, sweet tea.

‘No. Organised crime tactical unit. Right here in this fair city. CO19 before that.’

‘So. How did you find us?’

‘You were under investigation, Jack.’

‘Me?’ said Delaney, trying to keep his face neutral. A number of possibilities running through his mind about what he could have been investigated for. None of them good.

‘A guy called Alexander Zaitsev. Came here in the early 1990s. Russian Mafia. A major, major player. Drug dealing, prostitution, people trafficking. He’s been the focus of our attention for a long time and today we moved to close him down. Multitask forces from the States, Russia, France, Holland and Great Britain all coordinating.’

Delaney’s brow furrowed. ‘What the hell’s that got to do with me?’

‘Zaitsev’s London accountant.’

Delaney took another sip of his tea and the penny dropped. ‘Roger Yates,’ he said.

‘Exactly. Your brother-in-law. Up to his neck in laundering money for Zaitsev. We weren’t sure about your connection. You just bought a house in Belsize Park and paid a very large deposit in cash. Let’s just say our interest was piqued. As was Zaitsev’s: he wasn’t sure if Yates was feeding you information, apparently, so he tried to take you out.’

‘The shooter at the burger van?’

‘Yep.’

‘And the woods?’

Bennett shook his head.

‘How can you be sure?’

‘Someone like Zaitsev goes down and, believe me, there are all kinds of high-level lieutenants queuing up to do a deal.’

‘So who did it?’

‘Don’t know. But it wasn’t the Russians.’

‘But it was this Zaitsev who worked Roger over?’

Bennett nodded. ‘His people, anyway. Yates wasn’t supposed to survive.’

Delaney shrugged. ‘This is all news to me.’

‘I know, inspector. Yates agreed to give us what we needed. He’s turned Queen’s evidence. You’re in the clear on this.’

Delaney nodded, relieved: he had too many skeletons in the closet for too much close examination. ‘I still don’t understand how you came to be here.’

‘Just in the nick of time, too.’ Bennett smiled.

‘Well, yes.’ Delaney didn’t like to dwell too much on the recent memory of a deranged woman pointing a shotgun at him and pulling the trigger.

‘After the operation today I was in White City briefing your boss,’ said Bennett. ‘Kate spoke to me — she was worried about you when you dropped off the radar.’

‘And …’

Bennett grinned more widely. ‘And you didn’t drop off my radar … I had a tracer on you.’

Delaney finished his tea. ‘Please tell me your name’s not Tony Bennett, at least?’

Bennett held his grin. ‘Nah. It’s Tony Hamilton.’

Delaney held his hand out. ‘Nice to meet you. Thanks for the assist.’

The younger cop slapped him on the arm. ‘Well, you’re the poster boy for the Met, aren’t you? We couldn’t have your face plastered over that boathouse wall.’

Delaney grimaced again at the memory. ‘What’s going to happen to Roger?’

Tony Hamilton shrugged. ‘Don’t know. Witness-protection programme, I should imagine. You’ll probably never see him again.’

Delaney crumpled the plastic beaker in his hand. ‘I always knew he was a little shit.’

Hamilton slapped him on the arm again. ‘Well, his shit just got canned, Jack.’

Delaney looked at him and shook his head, a slow smile forming, and pointed at his leg. ‘So you really did that playing rugby?’

‘Nah. I fell off a pushbike.’

And Delaney laughed.

Diane Campbell stood next to Delaney’s desk by the open window. Outside dawn was breaking. The sky was clear again with only the faintest of red streaks far away in the distance. She blew out a stream of smoke into the cold air, her breath frosting with it, half-listening as Kate Walker talked and watching as a small dark-haired woman barked some orders she couldn’t hear at Bennett or Hamilton or whatever his name was supposed to be, and hurried in towards the HQ entrance. Hamilton followed behind carrying a cardboard tray and a guilty grin on his face like an admonished schoolboy. Diane smiled dryly herself, it looked like Hamilton’s boss had just as much trouble with him as she did with Jack Delaney. She realised she had missed what Kate was saying. ‘Sorry, what was that?’ she asked.

‘Multiple-personality disorder or MPD is not as rare as some people think,’ said Kate.

‘And it’s usually women?’ asked Delaney.

Kate nodded. ‘About eight times more frequent in women than in men. Although the figures may be skewed as men with MPD tend to be violent and may never be diagnosed because they are put into prison rather than hospital.’

‘And it’s linked into the abuse?’

‘Absolutely. Alice Peters is a textbook case. Gloria was able to block out the memory of what had happened to her. But Alice clearly couldn’t — it was happening on a daily basis. The level of abuse she suffered, and over such a period of time, shattered her. Literally shattered her personality, creating what are called alters to deal with the different emotions. These alters can take on different genders, ages, even nationalities and can speak in foreign languages.’

‘Really?’

‘Oh yeah. Not only that: their body characteristics can change, different alters can have different heart rates, skin temperatures, different allergies, even asthma, and most pertinently they can have different pain thresholds.’

‘Was that why the taser didn’t take her down, then? Like someone on PCP?’