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Back The Hanging Club Save as PDF
Chapters (49)
  1. About the Book
  2. About the Author
  3. Also by Tony Parsons
  4. Title Page
  5. Dedication
  6. Epigraph
  7. Prologue
  8. Part One
  9. 1
  10. 2
  11. 3
  12. 4
  13. 5
  14. 6
  15. 7
  16. 8
  17. 9
  18. 10
  19. 11
  20. 12
  21. 13
  22. Part Two
  23. 14
  24. 15
  25. 16
  26. 17
  27. 18
  28. 19
  29. 20
  30. 21
  31. 22
  32. 23
  33. 24
  34. 25
  35. Part Three
  36. 26
  37. 27
  38. 28
  39. 29
  40. 30
  41. 31
  42. 32
  43. 33
  44. 34
  45. 35
  46. 36
  47. 37
  48. Author’s Note
  49. Copyright

‘What would happen to me if I spewed the kind of filth that comes out of his mouth?’ she said, gesturing to the man in robes droning away at the end of the street. ‘If I preached hatred, and if I mocked boys who died for their country, and if I saw gays and women and Jews as less than human – what would you do to me, Detective?’

I leaned forward to look at the young man in the wheelchair.

‘Thank you for your service,’ I said.

I began to walk away. I didn’t want to argue with her and I didn’t want to arrest them. And I was afraid if I stuck around much longer I would have to do both.

Piper Maldini shouted at my back. ‘Detective!’

I turned to look at her. She was gripping the side of her brother’s wheelchair with one hand and with the other she was pulling up the sleeve of her T-shirt to show me the tattoo on her bicep. I had seen the tattoo before. It was a British Army tattoo. Five red and black poppies under six words.

ALL GAVE SOME – SOME GAVE ALL

‘My brother wasn’t the only one who served,’ she said.

22

I awoke near the end of the night, at that moment when deep, restorative sleep enters the dreaming shallows.

The first rays of sunrise were filling the big windows of the loft with a milky light. I heard Stan sigh and settle by my side and I reached out to stroke him, reassuring him it wasn’t time to get up yet.

But my phone was vibrating. It was DCI Whitestone.

Press conference –

West End Central –

0800 sharp.

I looked at the clock by the side of the bed. 04.45. I lay back with a sigh, my hand on fur that was smoother than silk. Stan’s huge round eyes were watching me in the half-light.

‘Nobody sleeps any more, Stan,’ I said.

Scout was spending a couple of nights at Mia’s, an extended sleepover that was only possible during her long summer break, so after I had walked and fed the dog I waited for Mrs Murphy to arrive and then headed off for work hours before I really needed to. There was no sound from Jackson’s room.

MIR-1 was empty when I arrived at West End Central carrying a triple espresso from the Bar Italia on Frith Street, Soho. As sometimes happened when I had not slept well, I could feel my old injuries coming back, reminders of ancient pain that my grandmother would have called ‘playing up’.

There was a three-inch scar on my stomach where a man who was now dead had stuck his knife.