Luke Delaney - A Killing Mind

Published by HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2018

Copyright © Luke Delaney 2018

Cover design © HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 2018

Cover photograph © Roy Bishop/ Arcangel Images

Luke Delaney asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780007585762

Ebook Edition © May 2018 ISBN: 9780007585786

Version: 2019-03-01

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Two Weeks Later

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also by Luke Delaney

Keep Reading…

About the Publisher

I’d like to dedicate this book to my brothers and sisters: Kirsty, Cathy, John and Alex. Thanks for always being so supportive, funny and caring. You’re a pretty cool bunch.

Luke Delaney

William Dalton was glad to be alone in the lift that jerked and rocked its way from the platforms in the depths of the Borough Underground station towards the streets of Southwark high above. The shiny metal walls of the large steel box reflected his image from all sides. There was no way to escape his own dishevelled appearance. Only eighteen years old, but the ravages of crack cocaine and living without a home had taken a heavy toll. His white skin had taken on a yellow tinge, his blue eyes were faded and sunken, his fair hair unkempt and tangled. At least with the lift to himself he didn’t have to worry about disapproving or pitiful looks from the more fortunate or worry that it was his odour that made them contort their faces or cover their noses with sweeter smelling hands.

The steel cube jolted to a stop and the doors scraped apart. Quickly he moved through the ticket area, nodding to the guard he recognized from previous days and nights, and used his treasured Oyster card to open the barrier and head into the freezing night streets of this ancient part of London. He moved as fast as he could along Marshalsea Road, only looking up occasionally to check for any possible threats. The money he’d earned from a hard day’s begging in London’s West End was carefully hidden in the crotch of his underpants; the last place anyone would put their hands – or so he hoped, although he knew other beggars desperate for cash would not hesitate to search everywhere . The only other serious risk was gangs of drunks or groups of feral youths who might decide to kick him to death purely for entertainment, but it was late and the night was bitterly cold – like only January can be – so the streets were practically deserted.

As he scuttled towards his current home – an abandoned garage at the back of a low-rise residential block – he was oblivious to the faded detritus of Christmas hanging from some of the lampposts, and the torn, dirty streamers and decorations that adorned the windows and doors of the flats he passed, fairy lights forlornly trying to cling to a happier, less bleak time. He turned into Mint Street and was soon at the garage that served as home. He could have stayed in the West End, but that would have meant sleeping on a bed of cardboard in a shop doorway till he was kicked awake by frustrated employees or owners. He moved some corrugated metal sheets aside and slipped into the garage, pulling them back into place behind him as he took a small torch from his pocket and surveyed the interior, relieved to see his few possessions were still where he’d left them. With a sense of urgency, he turned on both his camping lantern and a battery-powered outdoor heater. Its effectiveness was minimal, but it took the bitterness from the air and provided a comforting, almost homely glow. He rubbed his hands and began to search the garage for food he’d been given by donors who wanted to help but didn’t want to give him cash. On a night like this he was grateful for the food and was soon devouring a packet of biscuits as if it was his last meal.

After he’d retrieved the cash bag from its hiding place he settled down to count his daily earnings on the old broken car seat that served as his sofa, the foam protruding from gaping wounds in the vinyl cover. He pushed another biscuit into his mouth and tipped the money next to him on the seat, pushing the coins around with the tips of his fingers, satisfied at a glance that he had enough to take to his dealer tomorrow to replenish the supply he was about to use. He wiped the mix of saliva and crumbs from his lips, gathered the coins back into the bag and carried it to the wall at the back of the garage. His fingers traced the outline of a loose brick – his secret brick – and began working away at the edges until they gained sufficient purchase to pull it free and lower it to the ground.

Listening hard, he slid his hand into the hole and searched inside the cavity until his fingers touched the plastic bag he’d hidden there. He lifted it out and then replaced the brick before heading back to the sofa and making himself comfortable. As delicately as if he were handling surgical instruments, he removed the contents and placed them in a neat line in front of him: a tiny clip-seal plastic bag containing three small waxy rocks of crack, a glass pipe to smoke them with and a lighter to heat them.

Carefully he set one of the rocks on the end of the homemade pipe, placing the other end between his lips and raising the lighter towards the translucent pebble – not rushing, enjoying the moment before his world changed, for a few hours at least, from rank misery to ecstasy. But as he drew his thumb firmly over the flint of the cheap lighter to produce a spark, his head snapped around. He was sure he’d heard a noise outside. Not the normal wild noises of the night he’d grown used to hearing – the screech of a catfight or the scavenging of a fox – but something different. The clumsy noise that only another human would make.

For almost twenty seconds he sat frozen in place, his head cocked so that his ear pointed towards the entrance. He was beginning to doubt he’d heard anything, until suddenly, terrifyingly, the sound came again: unwary feet tripping over something on the ground. Another homeless person? Another drug addict? Someone who’d followed him or who’d been watching the garage, waiting for his return? Someone planning to lay claim to all his prized possessions – maybe even the garage itself? In a panic he scrambled for the six-inch kitchen knife he kept under the sofa, squeezing its thick rubber handle hard – the feel of it in his palm calming him and making him feel stronger and less vulnerable. He reminded himself he’d been surviving on the streets since he was sixteen and had yet to be seriously turned over or battered. If someone was coming for him, he’d give them what they deserved.