corridor.
Peter Lawton, sentenced to fifteen years for armed robbery and murder. Term being served in Whitely Maximum Security Prison, Derbyshire.
Term being served.
Gregson rubbed both hands over his face, exhaling deeply.
Another ten or fifteen minutes and he would leave. It was time to go home.
But first there was something he had to do.
TWENTY-THREE
The wound was big enough to push two fists through. Portions of ribcage, shattered by the shotgun blast, protruded through the mess of pulped flesh gleaming whitely amidst the crimson.
Gregson looked long and hard at the photo, then slipped it carefully, almost reverently, on top of the others.
The baby had been practically cut in two by the blasts that had ripped through its pram.
Gregson looked at the tiny form, his face expressionless. There was another shot of it from a different angle. The angle made no difference to the massive damage that had been inflicted on the tiny child.
The DI took a swig from the glass of whisky he held in his other hand and pulled another photo from the pile on the table.
Before leaving New Scotland Yard he had collected the files on all of the victims of the gunman whose identity still remained a mystery.
There was a picture of the head of the motorcyclist the man had shot outside the bank.
The wound in the base of the skull looked relatively small, no larger than a ten pence coin. It was the other photo that showed the exit wound which caused Gregson to drain, a little more quickly than he would normally, the last dregs in his glass.
The bullet had exited just below the motorcyclist's right eye, shattering the cheekbone and dislodging the eye from its socket.
Although, Gregson reasoned, it hadn't been the shell itself that had blasted the orb free but the gases, released from the high velocity round as it had powered through the man's head. The eye was intact, still attached to the skull by the optic nerve.
Gregson dropped the picture down with the others and got to his feet, crossing the room to the sideboard. He opened it and took out the bottle of Teacher's. He poured himself a large measure, thought about adding some soda then decided against it. For long moments he stood by the sideboard, his breath coming in low, deep gasps, as if he'd just run a great distance. He rolled the glass across his forehead, his back still to the sitting room door.
He heard the door open but did not turn as his wife entered the room.
Julie Gregson was wiping her hands on a dishcloth. She muttered something about the diamond in her engagement ring coming loose and gazed across the room at her husband.
'Dinner's ready,' she said.
'I'm not hungry,' Gregson said flatly, his back still to her. He took a swig from his glass.
'Did you have any lunch?' she wanted to know.
He shook his head.
She moved towards him, passing the table where the photos were spread out.
'Jesus Christ,' she muttered, noticing the topmost of them. She moved a step away, her eyes still fixed on it mesmerised for a moment.
Gregson finally turned to look at her.
No. Not at her. At the table. The photos.
'What are they?' she said, the colour draining from her face.
'Isn't that obvious?' he said acidly, sitting down and looking at the photos again.
'Who are they?' Julie enquired, still keeping away from the table.
'Is it important?'
She moved the dishcloth from one hand to another, gazing at her husband then looking swiftly at the pictures once more.
She was a couple of years younger than him, her face etched with lines a little deeper than a woman in her late twenties would expect. She was slim, almost thin, her small breasts hardly visible even beneath the tight T-shirt she wore. Her jeans
Peter Lawton, sentenced to fifteen years for armed robbery and murder. Term being served in Whitely Maximum Security Prison, Derbyshire.
Term being served.
Gregson rubbed both hands over his face, exhaling deeply.
Another ten or fifteen minutes and he would leave. It was time to go home.
But first there was something he had to do.
TWENTY-THREE
The wound was big enough to push two fists through. Portions of ribcage, shattered by the shotgun blast, protruded through the mess of pulped flesh gleaming whitely amidst the crimson.
Gregson looked long and hard at the photo, then slipped it carefully, almost reverently, on top of the others.
The baby had been practically cut in two by the blasts that had ripped through its pram.
Gregson looked at the tiny form, his face expressionless. There was another shot of it from a different angle. The angle made no difference to the massive damage that had been inflicted on the tiny child.
The DI took a swig from the glass of whisky he held in his other hand and pulled another photo from the pile on the table.
Before leaving New Scotland Yard he had collected the files on all of the victims of the gunman whose identity still remained a mystery.
There was a picture of the head of the motorcyclist the man had shot outside the bank.
The wound in the base of the skull looked relatively small, no larger than a ten pence coin. It was the other photo that showed the exit wound which caused Gregson to drain, a little more quickly than he would normally, the last dregs in his glass.
The bullet had exited just below the motorcyclist's right eye, shattering the cheekbone and dislodging the eye from its socket.
Although, Gregson reasoned, it hadn't been the shell itself that had blasted the orb free but the gases, released from the high velocity round as it had powered through the man's head. The eye was intact, still attached to the skull by the optic nerve.
Gregson dropped the picture down with the others and got to his feet, crossing the room to the sideboard. He opened it and took out the bottle of Teacher's. He poured himself a large measure, thought about adding some soda then decided against it. For long moments he stood by the sideboard, his breath coming in low, deep gasps, as if he'd just run a great distance. He rolled the glass across his forehead, his back still to the sitting room door.
He heard the door open but did not turn as his wife entered the room.
Julie Gregson was wiping her hands on a dishcloth. She muttered something about the diamond in her engagement ring coming loose and gazed across the room at her husband.
'Dinner's ready,' she said.
'I'm not hungry,' Gregson said flatly, his back still to her. He took a swig from his glass.
'Did you have any lunch?' she wanted to know.
He shook his head.
She moved towards him, passing the table where the photos were spread out.
'Jesus Christ,' she muttered, noticing the topmost of them. She moved a step away, her eyes still fixed on it mesmerised for a moment.
Gregson finally turned to look at her.
No. Not at her. At the table. The photos.
'What are they?' she said, the colour draining from her face.
'Isn't that obvious?' he said acidly, sitting down and looking at the photos again.
'Who are they?' Julie enquired, still keeping away from the table.
'Is it important?'
She moved the dishcloth from one hand to another, gazing at her husband then looking swiftly at the pictures once more.
She was a couple of years younger than him, her face etched with lines a little deeper than a woman in her late twenties would expect. She was slim, almost thin, her small breasts hardly visible even beneath the tight T-shirt she wore. Her jeans
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