by T. M. Logan
I reached the fork and stopped. There was no sign of him. Shit. Running farther, retracing my steps from earlier, the path curving in a big semicircle around to the left as it went back to the parking lot. Ben was still nowhere to be seen. I stopped, panting with the exertion, looking around. How had he gotten away from me so fast? He’d had a head start, but even still … I looked around, cold October air scouring my lungs. There was no wind; the trees were completely still. A high-pitched whistle of birdsong far off in the distance.
I was completely alone. Or was I?
Maybe he hadn’t run off at all. Maybe he was hiding here, nearby. Watching me. Stalking me. Laughing to himself. There was lots of cover, dense bushes, and trees standing close together, lots of places to conceal yourself. I looked around quickly, with a powerful sense that I was being watched. Listened hard, my ears straining for the tiniest sound that would give him away.
Off the path, a flash of bright blue stood out against the autumn undergrowth. Ben’s sports bag. The one he’d just been carrying. It was only a few feet off the path in a small clearing. A quick calculation told me that straight through the trees here would bring me out into the parking lot.
He had taken a shortcut to get there before me.
Moving branches aside, I left the path and headed into the undergrowth. Twigs scratched and snagged at my coat and jeans. Ducking my head, I pushed on and through, the bushes closing up behind me and hiding me almost completely from the path. The bushes were heavy and wet, streaking my clothes with water. A low branch scratched my cheek. Another stabbed the back of my hand.
The blue sports bag was slack and unzipped. I nudged it with the toe of my shoe, feeling it yield under the pressure. I picked it up. Empty.
So he took the gun out?
I stopped for a second, an icicle of realization sliding into my stomach.
Ben’s here, with a gun. Full of hate and anger and jealousy.
He’s led you here, got you where he wants you.
There’s no one else around. No witnesses.
You idiot.
He had played me to perfection.
Shit.
The bushes and trees were thick around me. Lots more places to hide. No fast way out. Where the hell were the police? I’d asked them to meet me here, given them the time and place.
Maybe they weren’t coming.
Crouching down, I listened to the sounds of the woodland. The drip of moisture from overnight rain. The wingbeats of a bird high overhead. Faint sounds of rustling in the fallen leaves. Expecting at any moment that Ben would step around the trunk of a tree and level his shotgun at me.
Can’t stay here.
My sense of direction had never been brilliant, but it seemed that a route directly away from the path and slightly to the left would be the quickest way back to my car and safety.
I stood up and ran.
Pushing back the undergrowth, branches cracking as I plowed through, head down, ignoring the scrapes from protruding branches, ducking and weaving between tree trunks, a thick carpet of leaves beneath my feet. Hearing my own breathing loud and labored in my ears. Imagining Ben appearing in front of me. Or maybe I wouldn’t see him. Maybe I’d just feel the impact of a shotgun blast.
Where is he?
I kept on running, my legs getting heavier. Stumbled into a dip and almost fell, barking my knuckles on a tree stump as I struggled to stay upright.
Just get back to the car. Get the hell out of here and don’t make the same mistake again. Worry about the rest later.
I burst through the last line of bushes and out into the parking lot, breathing hard, streaked with rainwater and dirt, shoes caked in mud, tree-branch scratches on my hands and face. Clutching the blue sports bag in my hand.
But I was too late. Ben’s white Aston Martin was gone.
29
There was no sign of Ben anywhere. The only people in the parking lot were a middle-aged man and a younger woman getting out of a nondescript sedan, him in a dark jacket and tie and her in a charcoal-gray trouser suit. I studied them as I got my breath back, the blue sports bag loose in my hand, panting hard from my run through the trees. The woman was slim and attractive in an uncomplicated way, with dark brown hair tied back in a ponytail. The man was a good ten years older than she was, maybe forty, with a day’s worth of stubble on his face and his tie at half-mast even though it was not yet 9:30 A.M. He wore a hangdog, almost apologetic expression, like he’d seen a lot of life and didn’t care for most of it.
“Joseph Lynch?” he said, walking over to me.
“Yes?”
“My name’s Detective Chief Inspector Marcus Naylor, Metropolitan Police.” He indicated the woman next to him. “This is Detective Sergeant Rachel Redford.”
We all shook hands, and I gestured back toward the way I’d come.
“You missed him. You literally just missed him.”
“Who?”
“Ben Delaney. He was here. Just left. Must have been right before you arrived.”
Naylor looked at his watch.
“Didn’t get the message from morning briefing until half past eight, and we came straight here,” he said in his flat South London accent. “Thought we might be early. You said ten o’clock?”
“He was early. So was I.”
“Ah. Shame.”
He seemed to notice the bedraggled state of my clothes for the first time.
“Are you all right?” he said.
I was still trying to get my breath back. Hadn’t realized how out of shape I was.
“Fine. Just a bit out of condition.”
“You were running.”
“Wanted to catch Ben before he left. And then…” I suddenly realized how foolish it sounded, but I had started the sentence now and had to finish it.
“And then?” Naylor repeated, raising an eyebrow.
“Then I thought he might have been, sort of … lying in wait for me, so I legged it back here to get to my car.”
Naylor put his hands in his pockets, regarding me with a quizzical expression.
“Lying in wait for you? Why do you think he would do that?”
“It’s a long story.”
“So I’ve heard. But you didn’t actually talk to him?”
I shook my head. “Saw him, but not close enough to talk. He was texting me.”
“You sure you’re all right?” Naylor said again, indicating my right hand. “You’re bleeding.”
“It’s fine; it’s nothing.” A line of blood trickled between my knuckles where I had caught it on a tree branch. The knuckles were barked red raw from where I had lost my balance and almost fallen over, the hand stiffening up already.
“What’s in the bag?” Naylor said, indicating the blue sports bag in my other hand.
I’d almost forgotten I was holding it.
“Oh, this? Nothing. It’s Ben’s. He dropped it back there.”
“Are you sure it’s his?”
“He was carrying it earlier. I think it might have had one of his shotguns in it.”
“What makes you say that?”
“It looked like he had something in it just now. Something long and heavy.”
“But he left the bag behind?”
“I found it in the bushes back there.” I held it out to him. “Here, take a look.”
Naylor didn’t take his hands out of his pockets. “Rachel, would you mind?”
His colleague was already around the back of their sedan, opening the trunk. Returning with a large, clear Ziploc plastic bag. She opened it and held it out to me so I could drop the sports bag into it.
As she sealed the bag, I realized she had put on white rubber gloves.
Naylor said, “Thanks, Mr. Lynch. So we just missed him, did we?”
“By a couple of minutes at most. He left in a white sports car with a personalized plate.”
“Didn’t see one.” He turned to his colleague. “Did you, Rachel?”
“Nope,” she said, w
riting something on the Ziploc bag in black marker. It was the first word I’d heard her utter.
“Since we appear to have missed the boat here,” Naylor said, “would you have some time to talk to us now?”
“Sure.”
“At the station?”
“No problem.”
Naylor opened the back door of their sedan. “Great. Shall we?”
“Can I follow you in my car?”
“Probably easier if you ride with us. It’s an absolute bugger to park near the station anyway, especially on a weekday. Rachel can drop you back here to your car after we’re done, if you like.” I studied him for a moment, trying to read him, to work out what he was thinking. His left ear was cauliflowered like a rugby player’s and he had a small white scar curling below his lip. His eyes were a very pale, icy blue and gave nothing back. Before this weekend, I had never in my life spoken to a policeman for longer than required to ask directions. Now I’d met three in as many days.
Assuming they are actually police.
“This is going to sound a bit weird,” I said, “but aren’t you supposed to show me your ID or something?”
Naylor looked pained, as if I’d offended him. “Do you not believe that I’m a police officer, Mr. Lynch?”
“No. I mean, yes; it’s not that. It’s just that I’m not really sure what to believe, these last few days.”
A trio of geese flapped noisily overhead, squawking to each other. Naylor kept his eyes on me.
“Really?” He produced a black wallet ID from his jacket pocket. I looked briefly at the picture on his warrant card—name, rank, collar number—alongside the crest of the Metropolitan Police before he snapped it shut again. “Bad weekend?”
“Bad doesn’t really cover it, to be honest.”
I got in the back seat and DS Redford pulled the Ford smoothly around in a semicircle, back out to the exit onto the main road.
“Sorry to hear that,” Naylor said to me over his shoulder.
“I had sort of assumed that young officer I met on Saturday would be the one who came out this morning. Didn’t realize they’d send a detective chief inspector.”
“Things have moved on a bit since Saturday.”
“How do you mean?”
“Let’s talk at the station.”
We passed the rest of the journey in silence.
30
For the second time in three days, I found myself in the reception area of Kilburn Police Station. There were a couple of tramps sitting half-asleep on the back row of seats and a bored-looking custody sergeant behind the counter who nodded at Naylor as we came in. Redford punched buttons next to a heavy security door, and it opened into a bare corridor with three doors on each side. The last door on the left bore the black plastic nameplate “Int Room 3.” Inside were four chairs and a table. Redford gestured for me to take a seat.
“Tea or coffee?” she said. She had a clear, kind tone to her voice, which made me instantly warm to her. I couldn’t tell what her accent was, but it wasn’t London. Something northern.
“Tea, please. Milk, no sugar.”
She nodded and disappeared, closing the door behind her.
Before this weekend, I had never been inside a police station except for a bike-coding day they’d held at Harrow Road last year. It was a thoroughly depressing place, as was this one. The interview room was a case in point. Bare walls, four nondescript plastic chairs, and a plastic-topped table that was pockmarked with cigarette burns. I guessed the table had been there long before the smoking ban.
There were no missed calls or messages on my phone. I wondered again what had happened with Ben at the country park. Maybe he’d clocked the detectives before I had and panicked? Not smart to get caught by the police with a shotgun in a gym bag. I typed a new message to Ben.
Why did you leave the park earlier?
10:33 A.M. Me
The door opened again, and DC Redford came in with a steaming cup of tea in a Styrofoam cup. She set the cup down in front of me, and I sat up straighter, assuming we were about to start.
“Is your colleague joining us?” I asked her.
“He’s just sorting a couple of things out,” she said. “Back in a minute.”
She disappeared back into the corridor, closing the door behind her. I looked at my watch. Monday morning at 10:34 A.M. should mean a tenth grade class on Of Mice and Men, but instead I was here in a dingy police station waiting to be interviewed about Ben bloody Delaney. I stood up and went to the barred window. Beyond the police station parking lot there was a railway siding with tracks butted up next to each other, a dozen steel lines crossing my view in parallel from left to right. Gray high-rise blocks looming up behind. Drops of rain spattered the window.
My phone remained obstinately silent. I typed another text to Ben.
What the hell was this morning all about anyway? If you’ve got something to say to me, just say it.
10:35 A.M. Me
The door opened again, and Naylor came in with Redford behind him. They took the two seats opposite me, both holding white mugs of tea. Naylor’s mug had the words Property of the BOSS in large red letters on its side. Redford had a brown cardboard folder and a notepad under her arm.
Naylor’s chair scraped loudly on the floor as he pulled it into the table.
“Sorry about the delay,” he said. “Let’s get started, shall we?”
He took a small digital Dictaphone out of his pocket and set it on the desk between us, a red light blinking on-off-on-off.
“You don’t mind if I use this, do you? Saves me making notes.”
“Of course.”
“Great,” he said, clasping his hands on the table in front of him. “So: Benjamin Delaney. As you know, his wife reported him missing on Friday, and we’re trying to establish his whereabouts, so thanks for coming in on Saturday to talk to PC Khan and also giving us the heads-up about this morning—much appreciated. I’ve read through your statement and those made by your wife and Mrs. Delaney, and I’ve got a few questions.”
“No problem.”
“Mr. Delaney’s a friend of yours, correct?”
“He was.”
“Past tense?”
“He’s not a friend anymore, no.”
“But he was?”
“Our wives went to school together. I’d met him at weddings, christenings, things like that over the years. But I’ve only gotten to know him more this past year, since he moved to London.”
“More of an acquaintance, then.”
I shrugged. “Through Mel.”
“How often do you see him and his wife?”
“Maybe once every six weeks, couple of months, when Mel and Beth organize a get-together—dinner, barbecue, or whatever.”
“You go to the pub with Mr. Delaney sometimes?”
“No.”
“Never?”
“We don’t have a hell of a lot in common, to be honest.”
That brought me up short. Except we do now. We definitely have something in common.
“You mean you don’t have the same interests.”
“He tried to get me to join his poker night a few months back. Mel wanted me to join in, make an effort to get to know him a bit better.”
“Mr. Delaney likes his poker, does he?”
I shrugged. “He’s good at it. He knows when to push his luck and when to fold. He’s very good at reading people, and he’s got more money than the rest of the players put together. So, yes, he likes his poker.”
“How about you?”
“I only went once. It wasn’t really my thing.”
“You lost money?”
“A bit. I’m not very good at bluffing.”
“So what is your thing, then?”
“My wife and I have a four-year-old son, William. He just started last month at Saint Hilda’s Primary. He gets a lot of my time. And sports—I used to play hockey at county level until I got injured. Now it’s squash once a week with my frien
d Adam, five-a-side football sometimes. And I’m an English teacher at Haddon Park Academy.”
“So you’re not friends anymore because of this thing he had for your wife?”
“You’ve read Mel’s statement from Saturday?”
“I’ve read all of them.”
From the brown manila file DS Redford produced printed forms that looked familiar from my first visit to this police station.
“Well,” I said, “it turns out there was a bit more to it than that.”
He studied me across the table. “In my experience, Mr. Lynch, there usually is.”
31
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat.
“The truth is, since that weird run-in with Ben on Thursday night, some things have happened and … I’ve found out some other things that I didn’t know before.”
“Such as?” Naylor said.
It wasn’t something I wanted to say out loud in front of strangers: saying it made it real, official somehow, while it still felt very much to me like it was in the realm of the unreal. It would mean the story of Mel’s betrayal would be recorded on tape, maybe forever. The red light on Naylor’s Dictaphone blinked on-off-on-off.
“What did you find out, Joe?” Naylor repeated, sitting forward in his chair.
My hands were shaking. I clasped them in my lap. “He and Mel. They were … involved.”
Naylor waited for a few seconds before he spoke again. “Involved in what way?”
“An affair. He pursued her for ages, and she finally gave in a few months ago. It’s been going on since the summer.”
“And you discovered this on Thursday evening?”
“No. Well, kind of. It was yesterday that I found out, but Thursday was the first sign I had that something strange was going on. That’s where it started.”
“Tell me how it happened.”
I gestured to the forms that Redford had produced from her brown manila file.
“It’s in there, in my statement. Most of it anyway.”
“Tell me in your own words.”
