before that night. This pub is in Phil Ware’s jurisdiction. None of Nathan’s regular pubs were. Delaney lured him here for that reason, so that his murder would be investigated by his pal who heads the local murder squad. Of course, Delaney didn’t swing the axe. Why get your hands dirty? But he had someone waiting outside that night who did.
‘Now, how many people could’ve known Nathan was in here that night? Delaney’s phone records show he made a call to Ware’s direct line at Croydon police station on that evening at 5pm. I’m certain they were in cahoots.’
My brain is clinging on, just, and screaming one question: ‘So Delaney is behind Nathan’s murder, Ware helped derail the investigation. Who wielded the axe?’
‘Delaney’s brothers-in-law at that time were Chris and Gary Warner, major-league drugs importers with a history of extreme violence. Their alibis for the night are flimsy, to say the least. My information is that they even boasted about the murder in their local pub. We’ve arrested and questioned them but we haven’t got any forensic evidence or witnesses willing to tell us what they know.’
Fintan starts pacing the car park. ‘My old crime editor used to say there are only three motives for any murder. Dough, blow or a ho!’
Lambert frowns, confused.
‘Money, drugs or a woman.’
He stops and turns to Lambert. ‘Why don’t you tell Donal here how there was more to Delaney having Nathan Barry wiped out than a fifteen-grand civil court action?’
Lambert hardly lets him finish. ‘Nathan and Delaney were part of the West Croydon Lunch Club, a group of self-styled local high achievers who used to meet every other Friday and had gained legendary status for drunken shenanigans. Turns out Delaney and Nathan were romancing the same married woman, a local beautician called Karen Moore.
‘In fact, before he went to the White Horse on the night of his murder, Nathan met Karen Moore at a local wine bar where they were seen in intimate conversation for well over an hour.’
‘She must know something,’ I say. ‘Especially if things had come to a head between Nathan and Delaney.’
‘I’m afraid Delaney has closed that line of enquiry on us,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘He left his wife and married Karen Moore a few months later.’
Coombe Road, Croydon
Saturday, June 18, 1994; 15.00
Fintan and I remain astride the White Horse for a long liquid lunch.
‘They’ll never solve the Nathan Barry murder,’ he declares. ‘Not unless they get a walk-in confessor, a witness to the actual murder or some incontrovertible DNA.’
I sigh. ‘I just can’t see how there can be any connection to Julie Draper, except the fact they both worked in Croydon.’
‘At least the Draper case is live. The Nathan Barry case looks dead and buried.’
‘A bit like my career,’ I grumble.
‘There is another option, you know?’ he says, surveying me archly like a disappointing art project. ‘And this option would get you into CID tomorrow.’
‘Like I’ve said before, I’m not joining the Freemasons.’
‘Virtually every cop I know is in it. It’s just a boys’ club, Donal, you can use it purely for your own ends.’
‘Virtually every criminal I’ve put away is in it too. It’s rotten to the core. I’m having no part in any dodgy secret societies. Anyway, I thought you had some philandering Tory to front up for tomorrow’s paper?’
‘I do,’ says Fintan, checking the time. ‘We always leave it as late as possible, so he can’t get hold of a lawyer or a judge or the Prime Minister or anyone else who might shoot the story down or leak it to a rival.’
‘What about his right of reply?’
‘That’s what I’ll be giving him at precisely 5pm. He wanted me to come to his home or constituency office, but I’ve insisted on a hotel lobby.’
‘Why? In case he was planning on producing his Boer War Elephant gun?’
‘Amongst other reasons.’
‘And what is this man’s grave crime?’
‘He’s a fifty-three-year-old married dad-of-two who had an affair with a rent boy about four years ago.’
‘And how does this sexual peccadillo detract from his performance as an MP?’
‘He’s a “hang ‘em and flog ‘em”, church-going Tory for one thing. And, last week, he defied the party whip to vote against reducing the gay age of consent to sixteen, in line with the heterosexual age of consent.’
‘How old is his rent boy?’
‘There’s the rub, for want of a better word. When the Right Honourable George Field began relations with this man, he was a sixteen-year-old boy, which, under the law he himself championed, makes him a child sex offender and, even worse for a politician, a rampant hypocrite.’
‘God his poor kids. And wife.’
‘She must have known he swung both ways before she married him.’
‘How can you just assume that? And how can you square doing this to his kids?’
‘His sons are cocooned at some twenty-grand-a-year private school where buggery is virtually on the curriculum. I’m sure their wealthy friends will rally around and get them all massively paid numbers in the City.’
‘Is it a class thing with you really, Fintan? Are you the hunt sab who cares about foxes, or the one who just loves knocking over-privileged gits off their expensive horses?’
‘A bit of both,’ he grins, jumping to his feet. ‘Come on. Saturday is Take Down a Tory Day!’
Lingfield, Surrey
Saturday, June 18, 1994; 17.00
Our Porsche turns not a single head outside the Lingfield Park Country Club.
‘You watch, he’ll sit there and lie through his teeth,’ says Fintan.
‘You can tell?’
‘Jesus, don’t they teach you anything at cop school? Two classic giveaways. If he glances low and left directly after the question, he’s about to lie. If
