Murder Club - Mark Pearson [34]
Roy forked a few rashers of bacon onto a thick slice of white bread, added a fried egg, squirted some tomato ketchup over, slapped another slice of bread on top and handed it over to Delaney in a paper napkin.
‘There you go,’ he said. ‘Just as you like it.’
‘About bleeding time.’
Roy looked at him, unsmiling. ‘So what was that all about?’
‘A nuisance call is all.’
‘Michael Robinson?’
‘Yeah.’
‘What? They just let him phone you up?’
‘Prisoners on remand get to make phone calls, Roy. This isn’t Victorian England.’
‘More’s the pity, you ask me. They would have that filthy, raping scum hanged and dancing the dead man’s jig long before now.’
‘He’ll get what’s coming to him.’
‘Will he, though? How many fuckers like him get off?’
‘He won’t be getting off.’
‘There’s plenty as do. And what will he get anyway? Some nominal sentence and serve half of it?’ Roy scraped the fat from his hot plate angrily.
‘We do what we can.’
‘I know.’
‘And he did more than just rape the woman, Roy.’
‘I’d have been in your shoes, Jack, I’d have made sure he didn’t even make it to court.’
‘Not the way I operate.’
Roy twitched the corner of his mouth. ‘That’s not what they say in the papers.’
‘Not true, Roy.’
‘Might influence the jury, though.’
Delaney took another bite of his sandwich. Drops of the red sauce squirting from it stained the snow beside his feet. He looked down at the bright red splatters glistening against the brilliance of the snow in the early-morning sunlight, and then back up at the roadside chef.
‘Like I said, he’ll get what’s coming to him.’
He scuffed his foot over the crimson stain, crushing it under the snow.
Delaney walked along the platform towards the steps leading up to the ancient courthouse. He was aware of the barrage of questions being shouted at him, of the lights flashing as photographs were taken, of the fact that film cameras were being pointed at him. But he ignored it all. He walked through them, not even bothering to say: No comment.
‘Knock ’em dead, Delaney.’
Delaney turned, recognising the familiar voice. Melanie Jones, the Sky News reporter, was standing close by, her cameraman training a state-of-the-art HD video camera on him. Time was when Delaney would have ignored her too. But things had changed. Maybe Delaney was getting less cynical, maybe Melanie Jones was. Either way, when Delaney looked across at the woman, she seemed to be genuinely encouraging. He gave the smallest, barely noticeable nod to her and walked into the court building.
His boss, Superintendent George Napier, was standing in full dress uniform inside, waiting for him.
He strode across and pulled Delaney to one side. ‘Where the bloody hell have you been?’
‘Something came up, sir.’
‘What?’
‘Breakfast, sir. Needed to get something to eat.’
‘You better be bloody joking, Delaney.’
‘The car was playing up. The cold, sir. Took longer to sort out than I thought.’
‘And in the meantime you didn’t think to call or return any of Diane’s calls?’
‘The phone was inside on charge, boss. Didn’t see the calls missed until I was halfway here.’
Napier looked at Delaney closely. He was pretty certain the man was lying to him, treating him as he did everything else – like it was some kind of joke. Only Napier wasn’t laughing. The man had been skating on thin ice so long, it was a miracle to him that Delaney was still in the force. If Diane hadn’t protected him like a jealous tiger protects her cubs, he’d have been gone long ago. True, he had cleaned his act up in recent months – Dr Kate Walker was clearly having an influence on the man. But he didn’t trust him. Not as far as he could kick him.
‘Just make sure you stick to the script, Delaney.’
‘Of course, sir,’ said Delaney and smiled, walking onwards into the court.
The look in his eyes told a very different story, however.
24.
PATRICIA HUNT TOOK the large aluminium kettle from the trivet it was sitting on beside her range-style cooker and carried it over to the sink