Murder Club (11 page)

‘You’re a real miserable sod in the mornings, Jack. Anyone ever tell you that?’ Roy, the ruddy-faced owner of the burger van, called over his shoulder.

‘And make sure it’s crispy.’

‘Well, do you want it now or do you want it crispy?’

‘Just get on with it.’

Roy gave him a quizzical look. ‘You’re not worried about this court case, are you?’

‘Do I look worried?’

‘Hard to tell with you, Jack, you always look as happy as an Irishman chewing on a lemon.’

Delaney would have responded, but his mobile phone trilled in his pocket. He fished it out and flipped it open, looking at the caller ID, but not recognising it.

‘Delaney?’ There was a wheezing sound on the other end of the line. ‘Still economical with your words, I see, Jack?’

‘Who is this?’

‘It’s an old friend, don’t you recognise me, Detective Inspector?’

The man had a raspy, low voice and Delaney nodded. ‘Michael Robinson.’

‘In the flesh, large as life. So to speak.’

‘What can I do for you?’

‘Just wanted to tell you I’m looking forward to seeing you in court.’

‘I’ll talk to you there then …’

He would have hung up, but Robinson spoke again. ‘I hear you’re going to get married, Jack. I wanted to congratulate you.’

‘You heard wrong.’

‘Shacked up with a lovely lady doctor, with your daughter all nice and cosy, and a new one on the way as I heard.’

Delaney breathed through his nostrils. ‘You better hear this then. You’re going down today, and this time you are staying down.’

‘I wouldn’t count your chickens.’

‘You can count on this, Robinson. You get in my life or my family’s life, and I will fucking destroy you.’

He clicked the phone off and put it back in his pocket. ‘That sandwich ready yet?’ he said to Roy.

Roy forked a few rashers of bacon onto a thick slice of white bread, added a fried egg, squirted some tomato ketchup over, slapped another slice of bread on top and handed it over to Delaney in a paper napkin.

‘There you go,’ he said. ‘Just as you like it.’

‘About bleeding time.’

Roy looked at him, unsmiling. ‘So what was that all about?’

‘A nuisance call is all.’

‘Michael Robinson?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What? They just let him phone you up?’

‘Prisoners on remand get to make phone calls, Roy. This isn’t Victorian England.’

‘More’s the pity, you ask me. They would have that filthy, raping scum hanged and dancing the dead man’s jig long before now.’

‘He’ll get what’s coming to him.’

‘Will he, though? How many fuckers like him get off?’

‘He won’t be getting off.’

‘There’s plenty as do. And what will he get anyway? Some nominal sentence and serve half of it?’ Roy scraped the fat from his hot plate angrily.

‘We do what we can.’

‘I know.’

‘And he did more than just rape the woman, Roy.’

‘I’d have been in your shoes, Jack, I’d have made sure he didn’t even make it to court.’

‘Not the way I operate.’

Roy twitched the corner of his mouth. ‘That’s not what they say in the papers.’

‘Not true, Roy.’

‘Might influence the jury, though.’

Delaney took another bite of his sandwich. Drops of the red sauce squirting from it stained the snow beside his feet. He looked down at the bright red splatters glistening against the brilliance of the snow in the early-morning sunlight, and then back up at the roadside chef.

‘Like I said, he’ll get what’s coming to him.’

He scuffed his foot over the crimson stain, crushing it under the snow.

Delaney walked along the platform towards the steps leading up to the ancient courthouse. He was aware of the barrage of questions being shouted at him, of the lights flashing as photographs were taken, of the fact that film cameras were being pointed at him. But he ignored it all. He walked through them, not even bothering to say:
No comment
.

‘Knock ’em dead, Delaney.’

Delaney turned, recognising the familiar voice. Melanie Jones, the Sky News reporter, was standing close by, her cameraman training a state-of-the-art HD video camera on him. Time was when Delaney would have ignored her too. But things had changed. Maybe Delaney was getting less cynical, maybe Melanie Jones was. Either way, when Delaney looked across at the woman, she seemed to be genuinely encouraging. He gave the smallest, barely noticeable nod to her and walked into the court building.

His boss, Superintendent George Napier, was standing in full dress uniform inside, waiting for him.

He strode across and pulled Delaney to one side. ‘Where the bloody hell have you been?’

‘Something came up, sir.’

‘What?’

‘Breakfast, sir. Needed to get something to eat.’

‘You better be bloody joking, Delaney.’

‘The car was playing up. The cold, sir. Took longer to sort out than I thought.’

‘And in the meantime you didn’t think to call or return any of Diane’s calls?’

‘The phone was inside on charge, boss. Didn’t see the calls missed until I was halfway here.’

Napier looked at Delaney closely. He was pretty certain the man was lying to him, treating him as he did everything else – like it was some kind of joke. Only Napier wasn’t laughing. The man had been skating on thin ice so long, it was a miracle to him that Delaney was still in the force. If Diane hadn’t protected him like a jealous tiger protects her cubs, he’d have been gone long ago. True, he had cleaned his act up in recent months – Dr Kate Walker was clearly having an influence on the man. But he didn’t trust him. Not as far as he could kick him.

‘Just make sure you stick to the script, Delaney.’

‘Of course, sir,’ said Delaney and smiled, walking onwards into the court.

The look in his eyes told a very different story, however.

PATRICIA HUNT TOOK
the large aluminium kettle from the trivet it was sitting on beside her range-style cooker and carried it over to the sink to fill. As she did so, she watched her husband, still working in the garden. He had cleared the pathway to his wooden studio completely of snow and was now clearing the birdbath. He brushed the snow aside and, with the handle of a small trowel, tapped the surface of the frozen water, tilting it so that he could remove the top layer of ice. It came loose in one frozen circle, which he put to one side, and then filled the bath with fresh water from a can.

Patricia smiled, for she knew the water would be frozen again in no time at all, but Geoffrey hated to see the birds suffer. He hated to see anything or anybody suffer. It was one of the things she loved so much about him. It broke her heart to see him in so much pain himself. But they had done what they had to do. It was for the best, they had both agreed that.

In the background West London radio was playing. Another single from this year’s
X Factor
winner. She wasn’t sure if she preferred the old days when it would be Cliff Richard on the radio all the time, come Christmas. Sometimes it was good to
know
where you stood. She put bread in the toaster and fetched a jar of home-made marmalade from the dresser. Seville orange, a bit too bitter for her taste, she preferred lime marmalade, but Geoffrey liked it. She put it on the table and laid out some plates. As the song finished, she picked up the teapot and took it over to the work surface beside the range.

An announcer came on the radio with the local news. Patricia wasn’t listening until the announcer mentioned St Luke’s Church.

‘…
St Luke’s Church south of Queen’s Park Rangers football ground. It is not known at this stage how the body came to be buried there, or how long it has been there. The police pathologist is onsite and we will update you with developments
.’

Patricia Hunt screamed and looked down at her hand, which she had spilled boiling water from the kettle on. She dropped the kettle back on the range and ran to the sink to run cold water, putting her hand under it. As her husband came hurrying up the garden to see what had happened, Patricia found tears in her eyes.

Stephanie Hewson was an above-average-height woman with dark, curly hair. She exuded confidence and authority, and dressed accordingly. A pin-striped two-piece suit with a dark-red silk blouse. Her hair was tied back and she wore plain-framed black glasses.

Her voice, when she spoke, however, belied the assertiveness that her dress and bearing seemed to wish to present to the world. Her voice trembled in fact.

‘It was a Friday night. Ten o’clock …’ She paused to take a drink of water.

‘It’s okay, Miss Hewson. Take your time,’ said the judge, Helen Johns, a stern-faced woman in her late fifties. The severity of her expression softened, however, as she looked across at the woman standing in the witness dock.

‘Thank you, Your Honour. I know it was ten o’clock,’ she continued, ‘because I had just missed a train. And there were eight minutes until the next one. I was worried about missing my connection at Marylebone and having to wait another half-hour.’

The counsel for the prosecution, Selena Carrow, inclined her head solicitously. She was a woman in her late thirties, of medium height with a soft voice that belied her single-mindedness.

‘And were you alone on the platform?’

‘I was initially. Like I said, I had just missed my train. But other passengers came onto the platform.’

‘Could you describe them?’

‘It was a long time ago.’

Selena Carrow, QC, sketched her hand in the air. ‘Any stand out in particular?’

‘There was a group of young women, in their twenties, I should say. They had been on a hen-night, I think, some kind of party. It was close to Christmas. Maybe a works outing.’

‘What makes you say hen-party?’

‘They were drunk, unsteady, holding onto each other. Giggling loudly. One of them had on a pair of bunny ears, and they all had short skirts or dresses. Light coats on. It was cold but they didn’t seem to notice.’

‘And anyone else?’

Stephanie Hewson looked to her left across the courtroom to the gallery, where DI Jack Delaney was sitting, watching events with an impassive expression on his face.

The defence barrister, Hector Douglas – a tall, balding man in his fifties, a leading light in the firm of Gable & Wilson, and wearing a suit that cost more than Jack Delaney’s monthly salary – leapt to his feet.

‘Objection! Counsel is leading the witness.’

Selena shook her head, as though annoyed by the interruption. ‘Not at all, My Lord. I ask only if there were other persons present that night that she might recall.’

The judge nodded. ‘Overruled. You can answer the question, Miss Hewson.’

‘I saw a man further along the platform, he was looking at the women.’

‘And could you describe him?’

Stephanie Hewson looked across at Jack Delaney again, and once more the defence barrister sprang to his feet.

‘Your Honour!’ he said, seemingly outraged. ‘The witness seems to be seeking advice in this regard from members of the gallery. Are we not to have her opinion unalloyed by prejudicial direction?’

The judge sighed. ‘Please spare the court your theatrics, Mr Douglas, and sit down. And, Miss Hewson, please try to focus on counsel and her questions.’

‘He was a long way down the platform from me.’ She shrugged. ‘He was of medium height, had a dark coat on, was wearing a hat and had glasses.’

‘Okay. Now please tell the court what happened next?’

‘I waited for my train. More people came onto the platform. The train arrived and I made it in time to Marylebone to catch my overland train to Harrow-on-the-Hill.’

‘But you had to run in order to do so?’

‘Relevance, My Lord,’ asked Hector Douglas, this time not bothering to rise.

The judge gestured to Selena Carrow.

‘Goes to her state of mind, Your Honour. Focus as to who she may or may not have seen.’

‘Continue.’

‘So you were running, Miss Hewson?’

‘I was. As fast as I could, I had court shoes on.’

‘And did you notice the man you had seen in the hat earlier?’

Douglas stood up. ‘Objection, My Lord!’

‘You know better than to lead the witness, Miss Carrow.’

‘Sorry, My Lord.’ She turned back to the witness. ‘Did you take any notice of the people around you?’

‘I did not. No. Like I said, I was running as fast as I could.’

‘Quite so. And you made your train?’

‘I did.’

‘And then what happened that evening?’

‘The train came into Harrow station some twelve or so minutes later and I continued my journey home on foot.’

‘Could you describe that journey for us?’

‘I live on the hill, so it is a ten-minute walk. Usually I take a taxi.’

‘But that night you didn’t.’

Stephanie Hewson looked at the woman for a minute, her hand trembling. She took a sip of water, spilling some, then placed the glass down. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I did not.’

‘Why was that?’

‘It was a nice evening.’

‘You said earlier it had been cold?’

‘It was cold. But it was a nice night. Clear sky. The moon was full, so there was plenty of light, there were stars in the sky …’ She shrugged. ‘I don’t know, I was in a good mood. I thought I would enjoy the walk.’

‘But you didn’t enjoy the walk?’

Stephanie Hewson looked down at her feet for a moment, then looked back up, her eyes wet. ‘No, I did not enjoy the walk.’

‘Can you tell the court what happened?’

The judge looked sympathetically at the woman in the witness dock. ‘It’s okay. Take as long as you like.’

‘Thank you,’ she said and raised the glass to her lips once more, taking a few more sips of the water. She placed the glass back down and then straightened herself, as if steeling herself for what was to come. ‘I was gagged and raped. And when he was done with me, he took a sharp knife and sliced it across my breasts, my stomach and my thighs.’

THE WOMAN LOOKED
across at the accused, who was watching her intently, but seemed neither agitated nor concerned.

Michael Robinson was in his early fifties with receding sandy-coloured hair, of medium height, but stocky with broad shoulders. He wore tortoiseshell retro-style glasses, and the skin on his balding pate was flaky. He was dressed in a two-piece suit and wore a white shirt with a green tie. He met the woman’s gaze with unblinking eyes, then turned his gaze on Delaney, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.