the DS said. ‘At least if he’d been murdered she’d know there was a reason why. She might never know why he killed himself. She might blame herself.’
Talbot sighed.
‘You’re in the wrong game, Bill’ he said. ‘You should have been a bloody social worker. Give me some change.’
Rafferty fumbled in his pocket. ‘What’s it for?’
‘The coffee machine. Come on, I’ll buy you a cup of hot, brown water’ Talbot chuckled.
‘You’re all heart’ Rafferty told him.
‘That’s my middle name. Come on.’
They closed the door behind them and Barclay heard their footsteps echoing away up the corridor.
He waited a moment then took the file on Peter Hyde and slid it into one of the bottom drawers of his desk.
Thirteen
The barrel of the .357 Magnum glinted beneath the banks of fluorescents, the cylinder clicking as it was turned.
Neil Parriam pulled back the hammer and wiped the firing pin with the same oily cloth he’d used to clean the frame of the gun. The smell of gun oil was strong in the air, mingling with the less acrid aroma of coffee. Parriam put down the weapon, laying it on a cloth he’d spread out on the table. He wiped his hands on the edge of the cloth then took a sip of his coffee.
‘How long have you known?’ asked the man seated to his right.
Parriam beamed at him.
‘About a week’ he said, happily. ‘We weren’t going to tell anyone until Lynn had her first scan, but then we thought what the hell.’
‘I don’t blame you’ said Jacqui Weaver. ‘It’s not every day you find out you’re going to become a father, is it?’
She squeezed his arm. ‘I reckon you’re a clever boy.’
The other three men seated at the table broke into a chorus of chuckles.
Parriam felt his cheeks redden and he nodded humbly.
Jacqui retreated back behind the counter, glancing up as the buzzer on the main door sounded. She checked the closed circuit TV screen behind the desk, recognised the man waiting outside and buzzed him in. She recognised most of the members of the gun club. A good percentage of them were regulars, turning up at the same time on the same night, week in week out.
Parriam was a regular. Every Tuesday he booked a lane, seven o’clock until eight. He’d been a member of the club in Druid Street for the last five years.
It was the only hobby he’d ever had in his life which had made him truly relax. He felt no competitive drive here. No need to be the best shot at the club, no burning desire to be top dog.
Lynn had encouraged him to join. Her brother had introduced him to the delights of pistol shooting and he’d found the pastime instantly addictive but, over the years, the social side of the activity had taken on added significance for him. The gun club was somewhere to meet friends on a weekly basis, somewhere to unwind, to forget about the pressures of work, although, if he was honest with himself, his job brought very little pressure. He loved what he did and he got well paid for it.
Rumour had it that he was likely to be made a partner in the firm of architects he worked for. And he had yet to reach his thirtieth birthday.
And now to learn that he was to become a father.
As far as Neil Parriam was concerned, life couldn’t get much better.
A child seemed to be the one thing missing, the only remaining piece to be fitted into the jigsaw.
He’d wanted to keep it secret until they were sure the baby was going to be perfect. He and Lynn had both agreed to wait until the third month before releasing the news to friends and family, but neither had been able to contain their excitement.
They’d already been out and bought a cot.
So much for patience.
Parriam smiled to himself and sipped his coffee.
He intended decorating one of the spare rooms next weekend in preparation for transforming it into a nursery.
Nursery.
Even the word made him glow inside.
‘Have you thought about names yet?’ Graham Rogers asked.
Parriam shrugged and continued cleaning the .357.
‘Kelly if it’s a girl, or Nicole,’ he said. ‘Sounds a bit exotic, doesn’t it?’
‘What if it’s a boy?’ Rogers wanted to know.
‘I haven’t thought about boy’s names, I think we both want a girl so much.’
Parriam pushed the wire brush through each of the cylinder chambers, holding the gun up towards the light to check if there was any excess oil left in the chambers.
He reached for the box of ammunition close by and flipped it open, pushing the heavy grain shells into the chambers one by one.
The door to the range opened and the range-master stuck his head out. ‘Your
lane’s free when you’re ready, Neil,’ he said.
‘Cheers, Bert’ Parriam called as the other man disappeared back inside.
‘Are you going to be there at the birth?’ Jacqui asked, pouring herself a cup of coffee and crossing to the table where she sat down opposite Parriam.
‘Bloody right I am’ said Parriam, chuckling. ‘I might even video it.’ He pushed another slug into the cylinder.
‘I’m sure Lynn will appreciate that’ Rogers laughed. ‘You can show it to your friends over dinner. They’ll love it.’
‘My old man was there for the birth of our first’ Jacqui said. ‘He passed out.’
The men around the table laughed.
‘One minute he was telling me to push and that he could see the baby’s head, the next he went down like a sack of spuds’ she said, grinning. ‘Men!’ She shrugged. ‘I hope you don’t pass out, Neil.’
‘No chance, Parriam assured her. ‘Anyway, I’m staying up the end without the blood.’
‘Chicken’ Rogers chided, nudging him.
‘Were you there when your wife gave birth, Graham?’ Parriam asked, thumbing the final shell into the cylinder.
‘I was there in spirit’ Rogers said.
Parriam looked puzzled.
‘I was in the pub getting pissed. When I got there I said to the doctor, “Can you put a couple of extra stitches in down below, she’s never been very tight.”’
Rogers let out a cackling laugh, Parriam joined him.
Jacqui slapped Rogers on the arm and scowled in mock outrage.
‘Bloody chauvinist’ she said, grinning.
Parriam was shaking with laughter. ‘I must remember that, Graham’ he chuckled.
Then, in one fluid movement, he spun the .357 around, pushed the barrel into his mouth and pulled the trigger.
Fourteen
James Talbot paced back and forth across his office, occasionally stopping to look out of the window, gazing down on the streets which led into New Scotland Yard.
Every now and then he would walk back to the desk and take a square of chocolate from the bar of Fruit and Nut he’d broken up. He chewed thoughtfully, seemingly oblivious to the gaze of Rafferty who watched his superior as he paced.
‘Was the gun his?’ Talbot asked, turning back to his desk, peering at a collection of ten by eights which lay there.
‘Everything was in order’ the DS said. ‘The certificate of purchase was in the carrying case, so was his FAC
Talbot picked up the first picture.
It had been taken by a police photographer less than ten minutes after Neil Parriam had shot himself.
The body was still upright in its seat, the gun still clutched in one fist.
It looked as if the wall behind Parriam had been coated with red paint.
‘There were at least four witnesses who saw him do it’ Rafferty said. ‘No question of foul play, the autopsy
report backs that up anyway.’ Rafferty jabbed the manilla file beside the photos.
Talbot looked at the second photo.
It showed a rear view of the dead man’s head.
The exit wound was large enough to accommodate two fists; a gaping hole which showed the full extent of the damage wrought by the heavy grain bullet.