‘That I’m gay?’
‘Well … yes.’
‘To be honest with you, Jack, I’m not sure what I am. But I am with Lizzie at the moment,’ she smiled again, ‘and she makes me happy.’
‘Good. I’m pleased for you,’ said Delaney. ‘Really I am.’
‘So, then, if you don’t mind …?’ Gloria arched her eyebrows and moved to close the door.
‘It’s Peter Garnier,’ said Delaney, slipping the name bluntly into the conversation.
‘What about him?’ Gloria froze, all amusement in her eyes dying. ‘What about him, Jack?’
‘People who were close to him or connected to him in some way are being killed. We think he had an accomplice. We think that person is taking out anybody who had a link to him.’
‘What’s that got to do with me? I was his victim, not an accomplice.’
‘I know, Gloria. Somebody shot at me earlier today. We don’t know why or how it all ties in to Garnier.’
Gloria slumped against the door frame. ‘Okay. What should I do?’
‘Have you got somewhere you could go? Somewhere you’d be safe for a few days?’
‘He doesn’t know where I live, does he? This accomplice?’
‘We don’t know what he knows or who he is. So do you have anywhere you can go?’
‘Yes.’
‘Just for a few days, Gloria. We’ll get him, I promise you.’
‘Just like you promised you’d find that little boy.’
Delaney put his hand on her shoulder. ‘I don’t break my promises. Not any more.’
‘Okay, then.’
‘And don’t answer the door to any strange men.’
‘Yeah! Thanks, Dad.’ Gloria was trying to smile but was not quite making it.
*
Sally Cartwright was leaning against the car when Delaney returned.
‘She’s all right, then?’
‘Yeah, her phone was on charge, is all. Not a good signal in the flat.’
‘I told you that you had nothing to worry about. Nobody knows where she is. Nobody knows
‘Come on then, constable. Get in the car and let’s go.’
*
Gloria stood by the window, looking through a small gap in the curtains as Sally nosed her car out into the traffic and moved off. She continued to lean against the cool glass, feeling it on her forehead. Then she stood back and took the towel off her head, running her delicate fingers through the smooth dry hair.
She tossed the towel aside and walked over to the opposite wall. Looking at her montage of photos and articles. The yellow light from the street lamp outside spilled through the gap in the curtain to throw a slash of sulphur-yellow light across the wall, catching the picture of Peter Garnier and giving his eyes a feral, alien look. She looked at the photo of Jack Delaney holding her when she’d been rescued as a seven-year-old girl. Then she pulled her robe tight around herself and dropped her right hand, letting it come rest on a motorcycle helmet on the side table beneath the picture.
‘Turns out you couldn’t save them all,’ she said as she stared at the man in uniform holding her in his arms. ‘Could you, Jack?’
‘Has he gone?’
Gloria turned round and nodded. ‘Yes, George. He’s gone.’
‘Good. Get dressed, then.’
*
Sally Cartwright pulled the car to a stop in the White City police station car park and turned off the engine. Delaney snapped his seat belt off and reached for the door handle. Then he looked back at Sally who seemed a bit lost in thought. ‘Something on your mind, detective constable?’
‘Just wondering how Garnier is getting messages out, sir. He doesn’t have access to the internet, he’s never alone with a guard. None of them are. He’s had no mail, no visitors apart from Maureen Gallagher. Who’s now dead. So we know
‘Somebody else in there, someone who does have visitors, you think? Somebody from the outside who’s carrying messages to one of the two men in the photo?’ asked Delaney.
‘He’s talking to someone, sir.’
Delaney looked at her for a long moment, the synapses in his brain firing as he turned her words over and over. Then he smiled. ‘Of course he’s talking to someone. And he told me who it is the very first time I visited him.’
‘I don’t understand, sir. Who?’
