Death Row - Mark Pearson [89]
‘What are you saying to me?’
‘Your wife Sinead, Jack. She of the blessed, sainted memory.’
Delaney could feel his blood heating again, he could feel it behind his eyes, in his neck, it felt like a blaze consuming his own body and the roaring in his ears made it hard to hear what the man in front of him was saying. But he had heard enough. Roger Yates’s mouth continued to move but Delaney had stopped listening – his fist had formed once more. Yates’s eyes stared back at him, challenging, like a man who didn’t care. And Delaney lashed out, oblivious to the pain in his hand, oblivious to the screaming from Yates. Oblivious to everything except the red mist that filled his head.
*
‘And yet another bizarre twist has been revealed in the ongoing Death Row story in Harrow, West London, as the horrors continue to unfold. Police so far have been unable to trace the whereabouts of missing child Archie Woods, who was abducted yesterday morning from this very allotment below, which is two streets from Carlton Row.’
Melanie Jones was standing on the road bridge above the allotments. She stood aside so that her cameraman could cover the police activity below. Then the picture swung back to Melanie Jones.
‘As we have reported earlier today the severed head of a bald woman was discovered on the altar of St Botolph’s Church, again a stone’s throw from this location, and this afternoon the grandfather of the missing boy made another gruesome discovery. The headless body of a woman – naked, cruciform and nailed to the ground. The police have still to make an official statement but unofficial sources confirm that they have little doubt the grizzly find is related to the gruesome discovery at the church round the corner. How this ties in with Peter Garnier, if indeed it does, they are at a loss to understand. A copycat abduction is the most likely scenario but the murder and mutilation of the woman’s body doesn’t fit into any pattern of Garnier’s activities. That the two incidents are not related is a very real possibility and, again, inside sources have confirmed that the killing of the woman as part of a ritualistic murder involving Satanism or some kind of devil worship is being very seriously considered. It wouldn’t be the first time that children have been used in gruesome rituals in this country.’
The picture on the television changed to old footage of police processing a crime scene on the banks of the Thames, but the reporter’s voice went mute as Gloria Williams thumbed the button on the TV’s remote control. She watched the TV for a moment or two longer, the reflected light dancing in her immobile eyes. The she blinked, stood up and turned to face away from the screen.
Her lounge was carpeted in a rich red and green pattern. It was cluttered with small tables and bookcases, green plants on every available surface that wasn’t covered with magazines, books, sketch pads. Behind her was a long wall running from the left-hand side of the room where a window overlooked the West Hampstead Pizza Express. It was entirely covered with photos, newspaper cuttings – some yellow with age, some extremely recent – with a map blown up and marked with pins and string, and at the centre of it all a photo of a man in police uniform who was holding a small dark-haired girl in his arms. A girl with scared brown eyes.
Gloria put the fingertips of her right hand to the young girl’s mouth and lights danced in her eyes once more.
Angry lights.
*
Tim Radnor had never been a strong man. Neither mentally, physically nor emotionally.
He was thirty-nine years old now, five foot eight tall, weighed just over ten stone and had thin mousey-coloured hair. He was single, with no partner, and had been in the same job for over fifteen years: kitchen assistant in a large public school. A simple enough job that required simple routines. He had never been ambitious and enjoyed the repetitiveness and security of his job. He was neither