Murder Club (32 page)

‘I’ve heard that.’

‘I might have forgotten nearly everything else out there on the streets, but the Bible has been hardwired in here.’ He tapped the side of his head.

‘I wish I could go back in time, Stuart. I would do things so differently,’ said Laura, tears pricking her eyes.

The elderly man took her hands and shook his head. ‘You are a healer now. You have made your own way in the wilderness. Just think of the lives you have saved. Regret nothing, lass. I made my own bed. I knew you were gay, but I didn’t care. I used you, I was your supervisor and I abused my trust. You should have just told them the truth. Nobody would have blamed you. Everything was just a terrible accident.’

‘When I saw what I had done to you the other night, I couldn’t forgive myself, Stuart. I tried to save her life, but I destroyed yours instead.’

‘There is nothing to forgive. Nobody had to show me the way to drink, my angel. Believe me, the demons were in my head long before we ever met. Falling in love with you didn’t make me what I am,
but
what you are is why I fell in love with you.’

‘I’m sorry.’

Stuart Gregor looked over at Dr Walker. ‘What are you going to do?’

She smiled. ‘It’s really nothing to do with me, is it?’

‘Don’t worry, Kate,’ Laura said, her cheeks wet with tears, her hands still held in the surgeon’s clasp. ‘I’ll make things right. I promise.’

Jack Delaney walked along Edgware Road with Sally Cartwright beside him. ‘This sunshine keeps up, the snow will all be melted by Christmas, sir,’ she said.

‘I wouldn’t bank on it, Sally. Besides, I promised Siobhan a White Christmas.’

‘Was that wise, sir?’

Delaney laughed. ‘I’m not sure if many of my decisions fall into that category.’

They turned into the side street and walked up to a female, uniformed police sergeant with a younger constable who were drinking mugs of tea with a homeless couple.

‘Morning, sir. Good work last night.’

‘Thanks. These the two?’

‘Yes sir, Mr and Mrs Stubbs.’

‘Is there a reward?’ asked the man.

‘There might be,’ said Delaney. ‘Depends what you can tell us.’

The man gestured at the uniforms. ‘The bobbies have been out and about asking if anybody saw anything last Friday night.’ He rubbed his thumb and fingers together. ‘Thought there might be some coin in it.’

‘Just tell us what you saw.’

‘Well me and the missus, we was here. With Bible Steve and the young lass. I don’t know her name.’

‘Meg,’ said Delaney. ‘Her name was Meg O’Brien.’

‘The four of us were just here, for the warmth, you know. And Bible had got lucky. Made a big score. He had whisky and was passing it around. Later on the police came and took him away. Blonde woman and a miserable, old geezer.’

‘Go on.’

‘Well we stayed there for a bit. Then the old lady closed up the Chinese restaurant about ten-thirty. Half an hour after that, a bunch of the Chinese came back.’

‘What Chinese?’

‘I don’t know, the waiters, cooks.’ One of them had a leather jacket on. Thought he was Elvis fucking Presley.’

‘What were they doing there?’

‘They come back to play cards and that funny game with the little bricks.’

‘So what happened?’

‘They told us to clear off. I think Bible really pissed them off when he pissed all over their front window.’

His wife chuckled.

‘And did you move?’

‘Not at first. We was still a bit bladdered, to be honest. But Elvis, he gets out these couple of sticks with a chain in the middle and we figured we’d best get out of there.’

‘Nunchuckas,’ said Sally Cartwright.

‘I beg yours, darling?’

‘It’s what the sticks are called,’ said Delaney, walking over to the restaurant. As they went in, Dongmei Chang’s nephew shouted over his shoulder.

‘Go away, we’re closed!’

‘You’re going to be closed for a very long time, sunshine!’ said Delaney.

The Chinese man looked round and the snarl on his face disappeared. Then he turned tail and raced off to the kitchen.

‘Get him, Constable!’ shouted Delaney. The young uniform charged after him followed by the sergeant, both of them flicking their asps out as they ran.

‘Aren’t you going with them?’ Sally asked.

‘Stuff that for a game of coconuts,’ said Delaney. ‘I’m getting too old for this malarkey.’ He put a cigarette in his mouth and patted his pockets. ‘Have you got a light, Sally?’

‘No, sir!’

‘Never mind,’ said Delaney and picked up one of the restaurant’s paper matchbooks from one of the tables and lit his cigarette.

Hampstead, north-west London. Christmas Eve
.

THE SKY WAS
mostly clear, a few clouds drifting past the waning moon. The moon had a crisp white colour that night, twinkling stars in the background. All it needed was Santa on his sleigh riding in front of it, and it could have been the poster shot for a Disney film. Santa comes to Hampstead.

Delaney took one last puff of his cigarette, flicked the lighted end into the snow, then put the stub in the bin outside Kate’s kitchen door.

Through the glass in the door Delaney could see that Kate was making mulled cider. An old recipe she claimed came from some distant Norfolk relative. Delaney had never been a fan of mulled wine, but Kate had promised to convert him. His daughter Siobhan was helping her make it. Her laughter was as musical as ever. Delaney stood for a moment just watching them. Not aware that a smile had crept across his face. He thought back to last Christmas, what he could remember of it, and couldn’t believe where he was now. He hadn’t believed he could fall in love again, but he had.

He cursed himself for being all kinds of fool and took out his mobile phone.

When the familiar female voice answered he smiled and slipped another cigarette in his mouth. He moved away from the window and leant against the wall.

‘Hi, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘It’s Jack. I’ve got an early Christmas present for you.’

Kate held out the spoon of the cooled liquid and let Siobhan take a tiny sip. Siobhan considered for a moment, her brow furrowed. ‘I don’t mind it,’ she said finally. ‘But I think I prefer cream soda.’

Kate laughed as the back door opened and Delaney walked into the kitchen.

‘I’m going to look at the presents again!’ said Siobhan and ran excitedly out of the room.

‘How many times does that make it now?’ asked Delaney.

‘Ooh, I don’t know. About a thousand.’

Delaney laughed, but Kate noticed the expression on his face. ‘What is it, Jack?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘There’s something in your eye. I know you by now. You’re up to something.’

‘Maybe you know me too well.’

‘None better.’

Delaney held up his mobile phone.

‘Go on,’ said Kate.

‘I just called Diane Campbell. Told her I was resigning from the Metropolitan Police.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I have brought the people I love into harm’s way and I can’t do that any more.’

‘Why don’t you just phone her back then, and tell her you were only joking?’

‘Fuck that!’ said Jack Delaney.

And kissed her.

Many thanks, as ever, to the stalwart team at Random House for their continuing faith in the recovering Irishman, Jack Delaney. Paul Sidey, Paulette Hearn, Caroline Gascoigne, the brilliant design and sales teams, and especially Susan Sandon, who let me have extra time to deliver the book so I could work on another little project!

Muchos Gracios
to the Marchioness of Camden, Lucy Dundas, who read the book first and was kind about it, and to the Uber-agent Robert Caskie, for continuing to be a thoroughly good egg and friend, and everyone at PFD!

Special mention to Irish John for his continuing advice in Cork based matters, and … also of Ireland.

It’s been a busy year, and Lynn has been brilliant, as usual, in keeping my feet on the ground, my nose to the grindstone, my powder dry and my chin up. She has been less than successful, however, in stopping me from mixing my metaphors.

Parts of London in the book are real and some are imaginary. As I write this, some areas of the capital city are in flames and turmoil as rioting spreads. DI Delaney bangs on about London continually, but deep down he loves the place, as do I. In
Private
London,
Dan Carter says London is the best city in the world, and I can’t help but feel Jack Delaney would agree with him – not that they will ever meet – and would wish that by publication of this story some peace has returned to the streets.

And thanks, finally, to the most important person of all – you the reader, without whom JD would just be a very nice thing to drink with ice and crushed mint!