DI Sean Corrigan Crime Series: 6-Book Collection: Cold Killing, Redemption of the Dead, The Keeper, The Network, The Toy Taker and The Jackdaw. Luke Delaney

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СКАЧАТЬ need of a strong drink, something that would instantly slow his mind and body without filling his bladder. If sleep came he didn’t want it chased away by having to get up to urinate.

      Kate had waited up for him. He wished she hadn’t. He didn’t want to talk. He wanted a drink, a sandwich and to watch some trash on TV. He passed the living room where his wife sat, speaking into the room as he headed for the kitchen. ‘It’s only me.’

      After a few seconds Kate followed him into the kitchen. ‘You’re back late,’ she said, her tone neutral.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ Sean replied, conscious he seemed to be saying that more and more. ‘You know what it’s like when I get a new case − first few days are always a nightmare.’

      ‘A nightmare for who?’ Kate asked, her words more provocative than she had intended.

      ‘I don’t know,’ Sean answered. ‘For me? For you? For the guy who’s just had his skull smashed in, dead before his life’s even started? For his parents who have to come to terms with the fact their only child is gone and never coming back?’

      An oppressive silence gripped the room. Kate took a breath. ‘Are you okay?’

      Sean accepted the truce. ‘Yeah. Of course. I’m tired and grumpy, that’s all. Sorry. Are the kids asleep?’

      ‘It’s gone eleven. What sort of mother would I be if they weren’t?’ She moved towards him. He had his back to her while he looked around for a glass. She put her arms around his waist. He was in good shape for a man in his late thirties. He had the physique of a middleweight boxer, a legacy from his teenage years. The sport had been one of the things that had kept him out of trouble while too many of his childhood friends turned to a life of crime. ‘I’m glad you’re home,’ she said. He leaned back into her.

      ‘I’m glad too. Sorry. I should have called. Must have lost track of time. How’s Mandy? Will she forgive me?’

      ‘Well, she’s only three. You’ve plenty of time to make it up. But never mind little Miss Mandy. What about me? How are you going to make it up to me?’

      Sean was smiling slightly. ‘I’ll buy you a bunch of flowers.’

      ‘Not good enough, Detective Inspector. I was thinking of something a bit more immediate and a lot more fun.’

      Kate led him to the stairs and made for their bedroom. As Sean’s foot reached the top step he heard a voice coming from Mandy’s room.

      ‘Daddy.’

      He looked apologetically at his wife. ‘I’d better stick my head in,’ he whispered.

      Kate slipped her shirt off, her brown skin shining in the semi-dark. ‘Don’t be long,’ she said. ‘I might fall asleep.’

      Sean quietly entered Mandy’s room, the night light illuminating a small pyjama-clad figure. She grinned uncontrollably when she saw him. ‘Daddy.’

      ‘Hey, hey, sweetie. You’re supposed to be asleep,’ Sean reminded her.

      ‘I was waiting for you to come home, Daddy.’

      ‘No, you mustn’t do that, because sometimes Daddy doesn’t get home until very late.’

      ‘Why don’t you get home till late, Daddy?’

      ‘Now is not the time to talk about it, honey. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.’

      ‘Mummy says you’re catching bad men.’

      ‘Does she?’ Sean said, not meaning it to be a question.

      ‘What have the bad men done, Daddy?’

      ‘Nothing that you should be worried about,’ he lied. ‘Go to sleep now. Daddy is here. Daddy is always here.’

      Sean found himself stroking her hair. He watched her eyes flicker shut, but even when he knew she was asleep he couldn’t leave her. Kate would understand. He needed this – needed something to balance the horror of what he dealt with day in, day out. Needed something to suppress the darkness that always lurked just beneath the surface.

      7

      There were three others before the little queer. I’ve already told you about the solicitor-type I stabbed in the heart. That means there are two I’ve not mentioned.

      The first was a young girl. Seventeen or eighteen. I’d parked forty metres from the entrance to an abortion clinic. I didn’t have to wait long. These places do a good trade.

      This clinic was in Battersea. Quite far from where I live. It was a low-rise, modern, sandstone building. Very discreet. It was not far from Battersea Rise. Close to Clapham Common. Nice in the summer. Lots of traffic though, and too many mahogany-skinned migrants fleeing poverty, war and starvation.

      I knew exactly what I was waiting for and then, there she was. It was a few weeks ago and wasn’t as warm as it is now. She hurried along the pavement. Collar turned up against the mild chill as well as to hide her face. She entered the clinic with her head bowed.

      I waited for her. A couple of hours and there she came. Hurrying back along the pavement. I could smell her shame. Probably a Catholic. I hope so.

      I caught up with her soon enough, keeping pace, about five metres back. She was too trapped in her own private hell to feel my presence. If she ever needed an awareness of what was around her, then she needed it now. It was the only thing that could save her.

      I was close enough to see her properly now. She was slightly built. Good. And she was clearly crying. Good. She was also alone. What type of young girl would come here alone? Simple. One who hasn’t told anybody about her little problem. So Mummy and Daddy didn’t know yet. She was perfect. All she needed to do was keep walking in the direction we were heading. I’d already checked out several routes away from the clinic and most had possibilities. But there was a nice concealed railway line on this one, running under a bridge, hidden from the road above. Close to the scene of the Clapham railway disaster.

      I was wearing a raincoat I’d bought for cash from Marks & Spencer in Oxford Street a few months ago and hadn’t worn it until then. It was a common enough coat. Nothing special. Deliberately so. I also wore brand-new plain leather-soled men’s shoes, and a pair of leather gloves nestled in the coat pocket. A large bin liner was stuffed into the other pocket.

      I had to get the next bit exactly right, or this would be over before it began. We approached the break in the roadside wall that led down to the railway. I put the gloves on. I had to move fast now. Anyone around and this was off.

      I ran the short distance between us and punched her as hard as I could in the centre of her back. I felt her spine give way to my fist. I heard the air rush from her lungs. She couldn’t make a sound. She dropped to her knees.

      I grabbed her from behind and pulled her through the break in the wall. She was no match for me, but I couldn’t risk being caught by a flailing arm. If she had scratched me, I would have cut her fingers off and taken them with me rather than making a present of my skin, my DNA, for the police.

      The way down to the railway lines was exactly what СКАЧАТЬ