An Imperfect Killing
A short story by Luke Delaney
Harper
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2016
Copyright © Luke Delaney 2016
Luke Delaney asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
This is entirely a work of fiction. Any references to real people, living or dead, real events, businesses, organizations and localities are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. All names, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and their resemblance, if any, to real-life counterparts is entirely coincidental.
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Ebook Edition © JANUARY 2016 ISBN: 9780007585816
Version: 2015-09-29
Contents
Copyright
Chapter One: November 2004
Chapter Two
About the Author
Also by Luke Delaney
About the Publisher
As she entered the open-air car park in front of the TV studio where she worked, Sue Evans’ mind was already in the advanced stages of organizing her busy daily schedule: a production meeting first thing, followed by a script reading, rehearsals and finally filming. Her new consumer affairs show had been doing well in the ratings – increasing the value of her own stock even more. Her career had been steadily on the up for several years now, although it hadn’t always been easy: she’d had to survive equal amounts of sexism and sexual bribery to get where she was – her good looks concealing her toughness and determination; her tongue sharp enough to crush the strongest of egos if she was ever treated with disrespect or dismissiveness. She had become a polished act with one face for the watching public and another for the people she worked with.
She scanned her studio pass in front of the reader and waited for the barrier to lift automatically – the costly car park attendant long since dispensed with in favour of the mechanized system. Slowly she drove through the deserted parking area. At this time in the morning there were few other cars and seemingly no people around as she slid into her named space and turned the engine off. She gathered her belongings into her handbag, grabbed the script she needed from the passenger seat and sprang from the car – locking it and turning towards the studio entrance all in one well-practiced movement. But her carefree expression suddenly turned to one of horror. Both her script and bag fell from her arms, the contents spilling over the tarmac.
He stood in front of her dressed in a black boiler suit, black boots and a black balaclava that revealed only his eyes and lips. It was enough for her to recognize the man pointing a revolver at her face – the fear in his eyes matched by her own. ‘You,’ she managed to say before his gloved finger coiled around the trigger and squeezed slowly. A deafening blast shattered the morning peace, reverberating across the car park as a huge cloud of acrid smoke billowed around executioner and victim – the shooter almost dropping the revolver in shock at the sound and sight of the explosion.
At first she felt the stinging pain of burning all over her face and neck as she gasped for air. Then all she felt was the sensation of falling into darkness and the silent cold, as if she was drowning in a deep, frozen ocean. She tried to call for help, but no words escaped her lips. Moments later there was nothing at all, other than the sound of her own pulse growing weaker and weaker until that too had faded to nothing.
The shooter stood rigid, unable to move from where he stood, the revolver still stretched out in front of him. But as the smoke finally drifted away, he stepped forward to look at the prostrate figure on the ground. Her face was a mass of burnt flesh and tiny bleeding wounds caused by debris that had exploded from the end of the barrel at close range, and just below her right eye there was a larger hole the size of a ten pence piece where the main bullet had smashed through her cheek bone and entered her brain. He’d expected more blood, but there was only a trickle coming from the wound. Her lips moved as if she was trying to say something, but then she seemed to sigh, her entire body slumping before her chest fell still. And although he’d never seen anyone die before, he knew she was dead.
For a few seconds he stood over her, staring down at her body, the gun pointing at her ruined face, as if he feared she would somehow come back from the dead and he’d have to shoot her again. Then he managed to shake off the shock and re-gather his thoughts, trying to comprehend what he’d done, how he had been driven to this moment of madness that he would never be able to take back. His head span wildly as he checked the surrounding area. They were alone, but he knew it would only be a matter of seconds before people came to investigate – only minutes until the police arrived. So he turned and ran, fleeing like a terrified fox from the hounds towards London’s Southbank and safety. The feeling of joy and exhilaration he’d expected never came. Instead he felt sick with fear, sadness, and regret, and as he ran, he would have given anything to have been able to undo what he’d just done. The hopelessness of his situation pushed tears from his eyes, but he didn’t cry for her – his sorror and terror were just for himself. Only now that the anger had gone did he realize that he’d have to spend the rest of his life living with the fear of one day being caught.
Detective Sergeant Sean Corrigan parked on the edge of the police corden surrounding the car park, in front of the shimmering glass building of the television studio. He’d received a phone call informing him of the shooting less than an hour ago when he was still at home and had made his way straight to the scene. He shivered a little against the deepening cold of winter, pulling his thin raincoat closed with one hand as he flashed his warrant card to the two uniform constables and gave them his name for the crime-scene log book. He ducked under the blue and white tape, pausing to look around and assess the situation – already imagining what the scene would have looked like a little more than an hour ago, when someone had ended another person’s life. He didn’t know