Murder Club by Mark Pearson Page B

or anybody suffer. It was one of the things she loved so much about him. It broke her heart to see him in so much pain himself. But they had done what they had to do. It was for the best, they had both agreed that.
    In the background West London radio was playing. Another single from this year’s X Factor winner. She wasn’t sure if she preferred the old days when it would be Cliff Richard on the radio all the time, come Christmas. Sometimes it was good to know where you stood. She put bread in the toaster and fetched a jar of home-made marmalade from the dresser. Seville orange, a bit too bitter for her taste, she preferred lime marmalade, but Geoffrey liked it. She put it on the table and laid out some plates. As the song finished, she picked up the teapot and took it over to the work surface beside the range.
    An announcer came on the radio with the local news. Patricia wasn’t listening until the announcer mentioned St Luke’s Church.
    ‘… St Luke’s Church south of Queen’s Park Rangers football ground. It is not known at this stage how the body came to be buried there, or how long it has been there. The police pathologist is onsite and we will update you with developments .’
    Patricia Hunt screamed and looked down at her hand, which she had spilled boiling water from the kettle on. She dropped the kettle back on the range and ran to the sink to run cold water, putting her hand under it. As her husband came hurrying up the garden to see what had happened, Patricia found tears in her eyes.
    Stephanie Hewson was an above-average-height woman with dark, curly hair. She exuded confidence and authority, and dressed accordingly. A pin-striped two-piece suit with a dark-red silk blouse. Her hair was tied back and she wore plain-framed black glasses.
    Her voice, when she spoke, however, belied the assertiveness that her dress and bearing seemed to wish to present to the world. Her voice trembled in fact.
    ‘It was a Friday night. Ten o’clock …’ She paused to take a drink of water.
    ‘It’s okay, Miss Hewson. Take your time,’ said the judge, Helen Johns, a stern-faced woman in her late fifties. The severity of her expression softened, however, as she looked across at the woman standing in the witness dock.
    ‘Thank you, Your Honour. I know it was ten o’clock,’ she continued, ‘because I had just missed a train. And there were eight minutes until the next one. I was worried about missing my connection at Marylebone and having to wait another half-hour.’
    The counsel for the prosecution, Selena Carrow, inclined her head solicitously. She was a woman in her late thirties, of medium height with a soft voice that belied her single-mindedness.
    ‘And were you alone on the platform?’
    ‘I was initially. Like I said, I had just missed my train. But other passengers came onto the platform.’
    ‘Could you describe them?’
    ‘It was a long time ago.’
    Selena Carrow, QC, sketched her hand in the air. ‘Any stand out in particular?’
    ‘There was a group of young women, in their twenties, I should say. They had been on a hen-night, I think, some kind of party. It was close to Christmas. Maybe a works outing.’
    ‘What makes you say hen-party?’
    ‘They were drunk, unsteady, holding onto each other. Giggling loudly. One of them had on a pair of bunny ears, and they all had short skirts or dresses. Light coats on. It was cold but they didn’t seem to notice.’
    ‘And anyone else?’
    Stephanie Hewson looked to her left across the courtroom to the gallery, where DI Jack Delaney was sitting, watching events with an impassive expression on his face.
    The defence barrister, Hector Douglas – a tall, balding man in his fifties, a leading light in the firm of Gable & Wilson, and wearing a suit that cost more than Jack Delaney’s monthly salary – leapt to his feet.
    ‘Objection! Counsel is leading the witness.’
    Selena shook her head, as though annoyed by the interruption. ‘Not at all, My Lord.