“You? You were going to be an executioner?”
“I was. Like the Pierrepoints, keep it in the family. My father taught me everything I’d need to know, where to put the noose, the kind of rope, and the most important thing of all, the calculations for the drop.”
“Which is why Ginny Ferro died immediately. You went to all that trouble, following her, getting the right-length rope, even the mask over her face.” Hugo looked up to see Walton’s grin in the mirror.
“I liked that touch. Most people think it’s was black cloth they used over the face, but it wasn’t. Now, it’s true the judge put a piece of black cloth on his own head when he passed sentence, but for the executions it was a white, silk bag. Were you there for the autopsy? She died immediately, right?”
Hugo felt a knot of sickness in his stomach, the same one he’d felt every time a serial killer expressed pride in his handiwork. Yes, Ferro had died straight away, just like she was supposed to, but he wasn’t about to give Walton the pleasure of knowing that.
“So Stanton is next?” Hugo said.
Walton patted his bag. “She is. And no doubt you think you can stop me, but remember how close to a death sentence you are. Any time I pull the trigger, it’s justified.”
“In your crazy world, Harry. But what do you think will happen afterward? They know it’s you, so sooner rather than later you’re going to end up in a prison cell.”
“Watching TV and getting food, clothing, and medical care.” Walton laughed. “And thanks to Pendrith, they’ll let me out in a few years.”
“Not you, Harry. I have a feeling you’ll be inside until they carry you out in a wooden box.”
“Which is how it should be!” Walton shouted. He banged his fist against the front seat and then flopped back. “You idiots have no fucking idea. By the time I’m done, people will see how it should be. You just see if they don’t.”
“You’re doing society a favor, is that it?”
“You better believe it. Just like my dad, only I don’t expect anyone to be grateful. We do the dirty work and get nothing for it, except in my case maybe a prison cell.”
“Society’s button man, is that it?”
“Oh yes, society’s button man.” Walton grinned mirthlessly. “I like that. And you just wait and see, wait and see what happens.”
“Wait, you said ‘maybe a prison cell.’” Something clicked in Hugo’s mind but at first he couldn’t find the words, the realization of Walton’s insane scheme finally dawning. “It’s your death, isn’t it? You want to bring back hanging, and you want them to start with you.” Behind him, Walton kept quiet. “That’s it, isn’t it? You really think that people are going to be so outraged by you killing Harper and Ferro that they’ll call for hanging to be brought back? That’s really what you think is going to happen.”
Looking out the side window, Harry Walton just smiled.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
June Stanton’s home was small and painted white, a two-story detached house with no grass in the front, just a concrete square for parking cars — a space that was empty when Harry Walton steered the police car into it. Walton didn’t like this part of London, the part that had no sights worth seeing and no countryside to temper the endless lines of houses, the wide roads lined with them, going on for miles. These drab boulevards used to be the suburbs of London, but now the houses were lived in by students, two to a room, or large families of Pakistanis, or other blue-collar workers who couldn’t afford to live close to the city center and couldn’t afford the prices in the new suburbs, where the houses were larger and the spaces between them greener.
The only saving grace for this particular stretch of anonymity was a patch of ragged grass taken up by a pond, right across the road from Stanton’s house. A circle of gray water surrounded by as many trash cans as trees, a pond that Walton would put to good use in just a few minutes.
Parked in front of the house, Harry Walton sat quietly in the car for a moment before climbing slowly out and casting an eye over the neighbors’ houses. Once satisfied, he went to Stanton’s front door and knocked, then knocked again when he got no answer. He waited a full minute before walking along the front of the house to peer through the front windows, but the white net curtains obscured his view and made it impossible to see much of anything. But the lights were off, he could see that.
With no one home, his plan was to wait, so he went back to the police car and started it up, executing a quick one-eighty so the car faced the road and its rear bumper hung over the flower bed by the front window. He wanted enough room for a second car to park in the space and a good view of whoever came. He switched the engine off and relaxed, a peace and a calm settling about him as he watched the road.
It took just ten minutes. A white Renault nosed into the driveway, pausing when its driver saw the police car, then easing forward again to get its tail out of the main road. It stopped ten feet from the police car, Walton watching it all the way, pleased the driver was alone.
A woman stepped out and Walton recognized her at once, the face that was once beautiful, worn with age and hard living, eyes suspicious of the police car. Her hair was different — she’d dyed it black already — and a long, olive overcoat hung across her shoulders. She stopped short of the police car and Walton knew what she must be thinking, that somehow her release was a mistake, that her brief taste of freedom was over. Damn right.
When she got within six feet of the police car, Walton slid out to meet her.
“Who are you?” she asked. “Police?”
Walton smirked. “Not quite. Think of this as real justice.”
“What do you want?”
“I just told you,” said Walton. He pulled his hand out of his pocket and pointed the gun at her stomach. “Get inside the house, now.”
Stanton put a hand to her mouth, her eyes wide. “Oh God, no, you don’t understand, please, I’m—”
“Quiet!” It was the first time Walton had needed to raise his voice and it irked him. People should follow instructions when a gun is pointed at them. The American had known to do that at least. Funny thing, it seemed like the more people knew about guns, the more familiar they were with them, the more scared they were. Or maybe it was the other way around. Stanton was a killer, but she was too stupid to be afraid of a gun. What sense did that make?
As soon as they were indoors, Walton felt a warm rush of relief. Imposing justice on the unwilling was never easy, and in several instances he’d gotten lucky with the circumstances, a thick enough tree branch, a nice stone wall. And again here, the staircase overlooking the hall with iron balusters half an inch thick.
“Go up the stairs,” he said.
“Please, just tell me what you want.”
Walton raised the gun. “Up the stairs.” He watched as she started up, paused on the second step, then kept going. He wondered if her legs might give way, they were shaking so much. He waited until she was three-quarters of the way up. “That’s far enough. Sit down, on your hands.”
When she complied, he started up the stairs himself, slipping his bag off his shoulder as he climbed, eyes and gun trained on Stanton. Halfway up he stopped and kicked one of the iron balusters with his toe. Solid enough, for sure. He knelt and emptied the bag with his left hand as he watched Stanton, not because he wanted to see the horror on her face, but because he didn’t want her to escape. He felt the white silk of the face mask under his fingers and almost smiled. His old mind wasn’t as sharp as it used to be, but the occasional good idea came to him. He threw the hood to Stanton and she stared, wide-eyed, as it landed on her right knee.