Murder Club - Mark Pearson [104]
‘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.
71.
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.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
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