Mark Pearson - Murder Club

For the last decade and a half, Mark Pearson has worked as a full-time television scriptwriter on a variety of shows for the BBC and ITV, including Doctors, Holby City and The Bill. He lives in Norfolk. Hard Evidence, Blood Work and Death Row, the first three novels in the Detective Inspector Jack Delaney series, are available in Arrow.

Detective Inspector Delaney is looking forward to spending Christmas with Kate Walker and his young daughter Siobhan, but the past always had a way of ruining Jacks best-laid plans. And this holiday season is no different!

A year previously, Delaney was responsible for the arrest of Michael Robinson, a viciously violent rapist. Robinson always claimed he was set up by the police but before he could be brought to trial he was brutally attacked in prison and left for dead. He didnt die, however, and a year later, out of hospital and fit for trial, he is pointing the finger squarely at Delaney for the assault that nearly killed him. And not only that it looks like he has a case!

And everything is about to get a whole lot worse for the Detective Inspector when Robinson walks free from court.

There are new faces at White City and with them come old crimes, old bones and old scores to settle!

It seems that Delaney is not the only one in West London with a past theyll take any measures to hide. And as the body count starts to climb, it looks like Jack himself might be about to join the club.

The Murder Club!

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.

Its 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 cant 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 peace has returned to the streets.

And thanks, finally, to the most important person of all you the reader, without whom JD would just be a very nice thing to drink with ice and crushed mint!

Twelve Months ago Christmas

FUCK THAT! SAID Jack Delaney.

The middle-aged woman dressed in a Salvation Army uniform looked horrified and would have backed away, but the pub was extremely busy, and she was jammed in tight amongst the revellers. Friday night at The Crooked Hat off the Goldhawk Road in Shepherds Bush was always busy. But it was only a short while to the Christmas holidays and The Hat was packed with people, young and old alike, getting into the spirit of the season. Office parties mingled with the regulars and the pub was filled with laughter and shouting and the kind of unresolved sexual tension that usually leads to regret and red faces the morning after. The couple behind the Salvation Army woman were going some way to resolving that tension, however, if the way they seemed to be swallowing each others tongues was anything to go by. Young women today, thought Delaney, youve got to love them.

But he wasnt smiling. Delaney wasnt getting into the spirit of the season, he was just getting into the spirit. Irish whiskey to be precise and drinking it without strict adherence to the guidelines about the number of units of alcohol it was safe to consume. Jack Delaney had already consumed more than a weeks worth of them and tossed back another large Jamesons as he scowled at the woman holding a collecting box under his nose.

Will you take a drink instead? he said to the woman, who shook her head outraged.

I dont drink alcohol, she said. The Salvation Army is a temperate organisation. It is not for kings, O Lemuel, it is not for kings to drink wine; nor for princes strong drink, lest they drink, and forget the law, and pervert the judgement of any of the afflicted. Give strong drink unto him that is ready to perish, and wine unto those that be of heavy hearts. Proverbs 31, 4 to 6!

Delaney nodded at her and took a glug of his pint of Guinness. Psalm 104: 1415 He makes grass grow for the cattle, and plants for man to cultivate bringing forth food from the earth: wine that gladdens the heart of man, oil to make his face shine, and bread that sustains his heart.

You have studied the good book? she asked surprised.

I have studied man, he replied. And was he not made in Gods image?

So the Bible tells us.

Then I have no desire to meet the maker of such a despicable race. Troll your jolly bowl around somewhere else, lady!

The womans face flushed, whether with anger or embarrassment Delaney couldnt tell. He didnt care either way. Get us another whiskey here, he shouted across at the barmaid, a young woman called Aysha, who winked and stuck her thumb up before fetching his drink.

Oi, I was next.

Delaney turned round to the man standing beside him. In his late twenties with a goatee beard, jeans and a loose, blue linen shirt. Probably working at the BBC, Delaney surmised, the place was filled with them nowadays. Creeping about from their numerous buildings around Shepherds Bush and further up the road at White City and Television Centre. Turning a proper old boozer like The Hat into some kind of trendy, yuppie, yahoo nightmare. It had even started calling itself a gastropub, for Christs sake. Delaney resisted the urge to smash his fist into the outraged prigs face. Fuck you! he said instead and the man seeing the latent violence in Delaneys eyes backed away. Delaney wasnt a particularly big man, but he was six foot tall with broad enough shoulders, dark, curly Irish hair. And eyes that would have been blue in the spring sunshine of a May morning, had he been well rested and refrained from strong liquor. As it was, the blue was tinged with red, and his eyes were not peaceful, if they were, indeed, the windows to the soul the BBC script editor was gazing into a very dark place. Dark and dangerous. He held his hands up and backed away. As best as he could, that is, with his heehawing colleagues from Media Central clustered around him like so many braying donkeys.

Cheers, darling, he said as he took the drink from Aysha, an extremely pretty, young woman, with come-to-bed eyes and a full, womanly figure. Jeez, he said, if I was ten years younger, Id be having you in my bed faster than you can say Christ on a bicycle.

The Salvation Army officer took a deep intake of breath and made an involuntary sign of the cross on her chest.

Come back tomorrow when you are sober enough to get it up, and I might let you, Jack, said the barmaid with an earthy laugh.