Death Row - Mark Pearson [44]
Duncton sighed and nodded finally. ‘We go together. And you don’t do anything on this without clearing it with me first. We clear on that?’
‘Clear as a glass of water from a mountain lake in the Ring of Kerry,’ said Delaney, slipping into a soft brogue.
*
The allotment was a scant six hundred yards or so from Graham Harper’s house. It took them just a few minutes to walk there. At the bottom of Carlton Row they turned left into Rowland Avenue at the bottom of which a public footpath led up to a cast-iron bridge built in the early part of the last century. Painted battleship grey, it had rivets like half-marbles studded across it. Wire meshing stretched either side of the bridge, making it into a cage to prevent disaffected youths from dropping rocks onto the passing Underground and overland trains below as they thundered east towards the city.
Delaney paused for a moment, flashing back to a time in his youth when he’d stood on a bridge at Balleydehob. The river below him snaking out to sea, the dazzling light bouncing off it like a million shattered crystals. He remembered picking up a pebble and lobbing it to send a crow flapping away. He remembered his cousin Mary, whom he had left just a short while back, telling him that it was a raven he had disturbed and that it would bring bad luck down upon him. He looked at where he was today, looking down through meshed wire onto a railway line that carved through an unbroken run of development that stretched from Harrow to Stratford and beyond. He looked at the garbage that littered the sides of the railway, he looked at the grey sky overhead and wondered if his cousin had been right all along. He didn’t know what it was that had brought him here, but if it was luck it certainly wasn’t of the good kind.
He carried on over the bridge, taking the arm of Graham Harper and helping him down the iron steps on the other side. There was more wire fencing at the base of the steps enclosing what looked like some kind of Second World War memorial. Whatever it was was rusted and overgrown with weeds and tangled growth. The allotments were to the left. A small muddy path ran alongside them, with another wire fence between them and the railway line beyond. In all there were probably about thirty allotments that ran alongside each other for a couple of hundred yards or so before ending in a wooded scrubland. A road bridge above the railway loomed high over the undergrowth. In the wooded area Delaney could see a couple of uniformed officers finger-searching the ground.
Graham Harper led the way along to an allotment near the end of the run. It had two areas for cultivation bisected by a simple narrow shingle path that led up to a wooden shed. A door, with one window to the right, a small porch or step in front, plain wood, the varnish on it peeling, all of it bleached by the sun that was now no more than a distant fond memory. It looked to be about twenty or thirty years old, Delaney reckoned, and like its owner not in its prime, to say the least. Judging by the hacking cough he was listening to it was a toss-up which would stay standing the longest. He walked into the shed with Duncton while Sally stayed outside with the elderly man.
Delaney wasn’t sure what he expected to find inside but what he did find didn’t surprise him. The weak sunlight barely filtered through the grime- and dust-encrusted window. Delaney placed his feet carefully, mindful that the floor had rotted in places. It was a bare floor with boxes scattered here and there. Vegetable-seed packets, twine, gardening gloves. Against one wall stood a hoe, spade, and assorted plastic plant pots. In the corner was an old-fashioned wing-backed upholstered armchair. A table beside it with an ashtray brimful of fag ends. The air reeked with the smell of creosote and stale cigarette smoke and for once Delaney didn’t feel like reaching into his pocket for his own packet.
To the right of the chair, as Delaney looked at it, was a shelf filled with all sorts of knick-knacks