The Getaway - By Tom Barber Page 0,30

about re-establishing contact with his father. But he never had. He’d always waited, promising himself he’d do it tomorrow. And now that he was gone, there were suddenly a million things he wanted to tell him that he could now never say. He shook his head and walked on up the street, his hands in the pockets of his suit, past 54 and up Broadway towards the Park.

This whole situation was troubling. He’d known Gerry for as long as he could remember. They hadn’t seen each other since Archer was a teenager, but time didn’t matter with a guy like Gerry. If you were friends with him, you were friends for life. He was as reliable as anyone he’d ever met, and an old acquaintance to boot. If he was convinced that Farrell or someone in his crew had killed his father, then he was probably right. The young cop glanced up at the sky as he walked. He’d lost his mother a couple of years ago, but they’d all known that was coming. She’d passed in her sleep, not in any pain, and Archer was at peace with that. Goodbyes had been exchanged. They’d been prepared, and everything that needed to be said had been said.

But this wasn’t gentle or peaceful. Someone had got the jump on his father and executed him. Whoever did it didn’t even have the courage to look him in the eye as he pulled the trigger. Not the way a person should leave this world. And whoever did it was out there right now, walking around, figuring they’d got away with it, moving on with their lives and forgetting about the one they just ended.

He shook his head again, his anger rising.

He arrived on 59, the entrance to Central Park across the street. Twenty four blocks, just like that. The Park looked stunning in the afternoon light, green and verdant and healthy.

Looking left and right, he saw there were scores of people up here, tourists and wealthy residents, tour operators and people in athletic gear headed into the Park for a workout. Archer was standing at a crossing beside a group of other pedestrians, waiting for the lights to change. Once the orange hand on the crossing lights flashed to the white man leaning forward, he walked over the white lines on the tarmac, and continued onto a footpath that led into Central Park.

From the exterior, the place had looked special, but it was even more beautiful inside. The grass and trees were full and healthy and a vibrant green, golden sunlight streaming through the branches and leaving dark shadows on the ground. People of all shapes and sizes were wandering along the dusty winding paths, some licking ice-creams, others snapping photographs of family and friends, others like Archer just here for a quiet stroll and a chance to get some private thinking done.

As he walked on, a stream of joggers and partners on bicycles passed him on the road, moving down designated lanes, the occasional bell on a bike ringing to prevent a collision with someone crossing the road up ahead. There were people scattered here and there on patches of grass, lying back on towels or rugs, soaking up the rays, working on their tans. The occasional horse-drawn carriage trotted past, a couple or family sat in the back, enjoying the novelty of being pulled along by a horse whilst snapping photographs as they passed the gorgeous scenery around them. It was an amazing place, surreal for those who visited and an escape for those who lived here, a welcome respite from the frantic pace of the city streets. One moment, everywhere you looked was concrete, taxi-cabs and glass windows, and the next you were surrounded by nature and wildlife, green leaves and brown trees, birds and earth.

Alongside the bike path, Archer sat on a bench facing the Upper West Side, alone, and loosened his tie further, taking in a deep breath of the clean air.

Gerry was right.

He was going to be in town anyway. His return flight wasn’t until Sunday, a week tomorrow, and Cobb didn’t want him back before then anyway.

And he couldn’t just pack his bags and leave knowing that he hadn’t helped in any way to catch the killer.

Waking up every day in London knowing that the person who did it was still out there.

Knowing that they were still robbing banks, stealing themselves rich and living the lavish life.

His knuckles whitened and his eyes narrowed, and he shook