Death Row - Mark Pearson [34]
‘Something up, sir?’
‘It’s cold, Sally. That’s all. Sure, I’d never have left the sun-kissed shores of Cork if I’d have known the weather was going to be this bleeding miserable year in and year out.’
‘We had a cracking summer, sir.’
‘Seems like a lifetime ago now.’
Sally looked through the softly thwumping windscreen wipers at the rain-drenched urban landscape of West London beyond and couldn’t help but agree. London in the summer was a different place. No doubt about that.
A short while later, Sally pulled the car to a stop on the street across from the library, next door to the bookshop that was painted Tardis blue and was busy with customers, seemingly defiant in the face of the recession and the competition from Amazon and the supermarkets. Maybe people in Pitshanger could afford to pay the full price for books, or maybe they just didn’t want to be seen shopping in Asda or Tesco. ‘Do you want me to wait in the car?’ she said.
Delaney shook his head. ‘Not at all, Sally. Come with me. We might need some thinking done after all. And you’re the girl for that.’
‘Woman, sir.’
‘Jeez, you’re all so keen to grow up. I don’t know what’s wrong with the youth of today, I surely to God don’t.’
‘I sometimes think you were born a grumpy old man, sir.’
‘Nah,’ said Delaney. ‘A proper miserable personality is like a good beer belly – it takes many years and serious application to achieve it.’
Sally glanced across as Delaney levered his tall athletic frame out of the car, at his flat stomach and powerful shoulders. ‘Well, at least you’ve got time for the beer belly, sir.’
Delaney closed the car’s passenger door and pulled the collar of his jacket up against the cold rain that was slanting across the street. Then he led Sally across the road, past the bookshop and through a double doorway to a staircase leading up into a group of flats called Kenmure Mansions that ran above the shops that lined the street. They both shook the moisture from their hair as they climbed upward. Delaney’s shoes clattered loudly on the bare concrete steps and Sally’s curiosity was piqued. She knew better than to ask him what they were doing here – she’d find out soon enough, she was sure of that. Must be pretty important for him to delay getting to Harrow, she knew that much. Or then again, maybe she didn’t, she realised. Who knew with Jack Delaney, after all? The man was about as predictable as the weather in barbecue season.
Delaney walked past a number of doors, all black, all well kept, before stopping and tapping on one that was painted bottle green and had a shiny brass knocker. There was a small metallic plaque on the wall beside it. Sally kept her expression neutral but flicked her glance sideways to read it.
DR MARY O’CONNELL.
Before she had a chance to ask Delaney if that was his cousin the door opened. A tall woman in her late forties with long honey-coloured hair and sparkling blue eyes looked Delaney up and down critically and then smiled. ‘It’s good to see you, cousin.’
‘And you, Mary.’ He gave her a hug.
‘Well, you’d best come through.’ She looked at Sally and tilted her chin teasingly. ‘And who is this beautiful young thing with you? I hope you’re not up to your old tricks again, Jack Delaney?’
Sally blushed despite herself and held her hand out. ‘I’m a detective constable. I work with Inspector Delaney. Sally Cartwight.’
‘Pleased to meet you, darling.’
Mary shook Sally’s hand in a warm grip, clasping the other hand over and patting it.
Delaney gestured that they should go in. ‘She’s my right-hand woman, Mary, and that thirsty, more importantly, that she can barely speak for the dust in her throat. Let’s get the kettle on.’
‘Come in, come in, then! It’s you that’s standing there on the step like a kidnapped garden gnome who’s lost his fishing rod.’ Mary waved them in, laughing. ‘And kettle, you say? Are you sure you’re my cousin? What have you done with him, Sally? Signed him up for the pledge?’
Sally laughed. ‘Not in