by Mark Pearson
*
Jennifer Hickling struggled to breathe but the hand clamped around her mouth was tightening. The woman pushed her back against the wall and leaned in, her voice throbbing with menace.
‘You’re not welcome here, bitch.’
Jennifer struggled but to no avail. ‘Let me go.’
The woman released her and Jenny ran up the road, darting left into Camden High Street.
She took a moment or two to catch her breath but had no intention of going anywhere else. She had a few regulars who were due a little later. Good money for very little work. Just a few hand jobs and one who liked her on her knees down the alleyway she used. But at least he didn’t insist on using a condom – she hated the taste of latex – and was clean and she made damn sure he never finished in her mouth. She knew what she was. She didn’t like it and she intended to change it. Jenny knew what she was, what she’d been made into … but she had her standards.
She looked at her watch and decided to let the foreign bitch have the street for a while while she had a coffee. Wait till the old whore picked up another punter. Any luck it would be a mad bastard who strangled her.
But Jennifer Hickling didn’t believe in luck any more. At least, not the good kind.
*
Delaney leaned on the doorbell again and looked at his watch. He guessed Gloria could be anywhere, and in a city the size of London he had as much chance of finding her without a mobile phone as he had of finding a winning lottery ticket. He hastily scrawled a phone number on a piece of paper with the words There’s a hundred pounds’ credit on it below it. He pushed the mobile phone he had just bought her through her letter box and the note after it. He ran back down the stairs to Sally, who was waiting in the car, turning up his collar against the rain and totally oblivious to the pair of eyes that were watching him from across the street. Angry eyes.
*
Several hours later and Jack Delaney put his hand on the cold glass of the window and looked out of the CID office at the car park beyond. It was dark outside now. The neon lighting overhead in the office was flickering and doing little to alleviate the headache that had been building since early that morning. He opened his desk drawer and brought out a jumbo-sized bottle of Advil that he had brought back from a trip to America. He put a couple of the tablets in his mouth and swallowed them dry. Rattling the few remaining pills in the tub and putting it back in the drawer. The car park was about half full. Some people coming in on shift. Some others leaving. All spare hands had been called to the pump but so far the hunt for the missing boy had proved fruitless. The boy’s father had finally phoned home – his mobile phone battery had run out – and was even now driving back to England. He’d make it by morning and Delaney prayed to God that someone would have some good news for him by then. Not that He ever listened to him. Or if He did He showed no signs of it.
Delaney looked across at the muted television hanging on the wall across the office. Sky News had been rolling the story all day long, alternating between pictures of Melanie Jones, her injured cameraman, Peter Garnier, and the missing boy and his desperately grieving mother. Making a link between them all but with no explanation to offer. Delaney didn’t entirely blame them. He too was sure there was a link between them all, he just couldn’t for the life of him see what it was. The degenerate slug Garnier had got that right at least, Delaney thought: his job was indeed to see how things fitted together. Find the pattern and you can work out what happens next. Find the links and he might work out who had taken the boy, and, more importantly, work out where he had been taken. Work it out in time.
Delaney picked up a half-finished cup of coffee and took a swallow of the cold liquid. What he really needed was a drink. He looked at the flashing cursor on his computer screen and switched the machine to standby. He wasn’t going to find any clues looking at his computer, he was pretty damn sure of that. He picked his jacket off the back of his chair, shrugged into it, and walked across the office to another desk, where Tony Bennett was sitting at a computer looking at CCTV footage from various cameras in Camden Town.
‘How’s it going?’ he asked.
Bennett looked up at him, rubbing sore eyes. ‘You know how it is. We coppers used to wear out shoe leather, now it’s repetitive-strain injuries and gallons of eyewash.’
Delaney grunted. ‘I know how that works.’
Bennett gestured at the computer monitor. ‘Britain is the most surveilled country in the world. More CCTV cameras per capita than any other country on the planet – for all the bleeding good it does.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Delaney, watching the screen as a drunken twenty-something-year-old woman staggered along the pavement, wobbling on high platform heels and finishing a can of cider which she tossed into the gutter. ‘There’s been a real crackdown on litterbugs.’
‘Yeah, right.’
‘You want to call it a day? Come down to the annexe, get acquainted with the most important people you need to know.’
Bennett looked up again, puzzled. ‘Annexe? Which people?’
‘Bar staff, Tony. Our local, The Pig and Whistle – it’s just around the corner.’
‘The Pig and Whistle. You are kidding me?’
Delaney put a cigarette in his mouth without lighting it. ‘I don’t kid. Not when it comes to serious matters like your local boozer. I take it you do drink?’
Bennett stood up to swing his own jacket off the back of his chair. ‘You take it right.’
As he slipped into his jacket, behind him on the monitor Jamil Azeez walked into shot, stopping beside a lamp-post and pulling out a packet of cigarettes. A young woman with dark hair and quasi-goth clothing approached to talk to him. He gave her a cigarette and lit it for her, she walked off and Jamil put a cigarette in his own mouth and lit it.
Bennett turned back and paused the footage.
‘Hang on, Jack, this is my man.’
Delaney looked at his watch. ‘As I understand it, he’s not going anywhere.’
‘True, but I’ll just see how this pans out. Catch you down there.’
‘Sure.’ Delaney headed to the door, slapping a hand on the shoulder of Jimmy Skinner, who was dealing with a pile of paperwork and sketching a farewell wave over his shoulder as Bennett called after him.
‘Make mine a pint.’
Bennett turned back to the computer monitor and clicked the cursor to play the streaming footage again. Jamil was clearly in shot: the light overhead and spilling from the shops behind made it a very clear picture.
Jamil Azeez lit his cigarette, nervously flicking the lighter a few times and shaking it to get it to work. His hands seemed to tremble as he took a few quick puffs. Bennett couldn’t tell if it was because of the cold or if he was nervous about something. He certainly wasn’t dressed for the weather: jeans and a shirt.
Bennett pushed play again and after a moment or two on the screen a young white man, early twenties by the looks of him, walked over to Jamil and raised his hands, shouting something in his face. Jamil stepped back, clearly distressed, and Bennett didn’t blame him. The white man was solidly built and was wearing tight jeans, a green bomber jacket and a skinhead haircut. A tattoo at the nape of his neck, just visible through the hair on the back of his head, read B-.
Jamil threw down his cigarette and hurried away. The man turned in profile, watching him, his handsome face now ugly with anger. Then he walked out of shot in the same direction.
Bennett rewound the footage and froze the image again with the man’s face in profile. Then he clicked the cursor on file and print. As the wireless printer across the office powered up, Bennett fast-forwarded the footage at thirty times real-time speed. He gave it an hour, up to the time that Jamil had been found by Kate Walker, but neither Jamil nor the skinhead came back into shot. Bennett closed down the computer and went across to pick up the copies of the screen grab that he had printed off. He looked across at Delaney’s desk.
‘Help you with something?’ asked Ji
mmy Skinner.
‘Yeah,’ said Bennett and held out one of the pics he had just printed off. ‘Recognise this guy?’
Skinner looked at the photo. ‘Can’t say I do. No, sorry.’
‘No worries,’ said Bennett. ‘Maybe catch you later down the pub.’
Skinner gestured at his mound of paperwork. ‘Maybe.’
Bennett nodded and headed out. Skinner looked after him thoughtfully for a moment and then sighed and picked the next form up from the pile.
*
The Pig and Whistle was crowded. It always was at that time of night, and eighty per cent of the people in it were either on the job or civilian support staff from the station. Delaney was standing at the shorter bit of the L-shape of the bar that ran across one side of the room. Sally Cartwright was perched on a stool beside him, nursing a gin and tonic.
‘Are you going to drink that, Sally, or sip it to death?’ he asked, finishing his pint of Guinness.
‘I’m driving, sir.’
‘Very civic-minded of you!’ Delaney held his glass up to the Titian-haired barwoman. ‘Stick another large one in there for us.’
‘Sure thing, cowboy.’
‘Where’s your Saab, sir?’
Delaney winked at her. ‘Back at the ranch. One of the perks of having a doctor girlfriend up the stick is that she doesn’t drink. So I have to do it for both of us.’
Sally smiled. ‘Up the stick. Nice expression. You’d say that to herself, would you?’
‘Of course.’
‘Yeah, right.’
Delaney fixed her with a serious look. ‘Sure, would the devil not strike me down here in my very shiny shoes if I were to tell a lie?’
‘It will be me striking you down, Jack Delaney, you don’t watch it.’
Delaney turned round and grinned. ‘What did I tell you, Sally? Katy’s Kabs. Bang on time.’
Kate smiled despite herself. ‘Just get me a large orange juice. I’m going to powder my nose.’
Delaney watched her walking away, the smile lingering on his lips.
‘I don’t how she puts up with you, sir,’ said Sally.
‘To be perfectly honest with you, Sally, neither do I!’ He gestured at the barmaid again. ‘Angela, you beautiful thing, will you be after getting me a large orange juice?’ The barmaid grinned back resignedly as Bennett came into the pub and threaded his way towards them. ‘And a pint of …?’ He looked at Bennett questioningly.
‘Lager’s fine.’
The barmaid nodded and Delaney pointed at Bennett’s foot as he limped over to join them. ‘Industrial injury?’
Bennett laughed. ‘No, temporary infirmity.’
‘What from?
Bennett hesitated slightly. ‘I did it playing rugby last weekend.’
‘What position?’
‘Wing.’
‘Same here.’
‘You play?’
Sally laughed out loud and covered it with a cough. Delaney shook his head. ‘Used to. Long time ago …’
‘In a universe far, far away?’
‘Oh yeah! We’re definitely talking light years,’ said Sally.
‘You can get sent back to uniform very quickly, you know, detective constable.’
‘Sir.’ Sally pretended to look chastened.
Delaney took the drinks from the barmaid, handed her a tenner and gave Bennett his pint.
‘How did you get on with the footage?’
‘He finished his smoke and walked out of shot again. But someone did come up and have words with him. Looked like an argument or some drunk having a go at him.’
‘Could you make out who it was?’
Bennett reached into his pocket, pulled out one of the prints and handed it over to Delaney. ‘Anyone you recognise?’
Delaney looked at it, shook his head and then handed it over to Sally.
‘He looks cute for a skinhead, but no. Not ringing any bells.’
She handed the picture back to Delaney, who held it out to Bennett.
‘No, keep it. Show it around. Someone might know him.’
‘You think he’s the man who stabbed your vic?’
Bennett nodded. ‘He got right into his face, shouting at him. I couldn’t make out what he was saying because he was facing away from the camera. But I could take a guess.’
‘Paki go home?’ said Sally.
‘Along those lines. Except that Jamil Azeez is an Iranian and was born here.’
‘Nick Griffin will let him stay, then, so that’s all right,’ said Delaney, folding the photo up and putting it in his pocket.
‘Who was it who said I despise everything you say but I will defend your right to say it to the death?’ asked Sally.
‘It wasn’t George Formby, was it?’ asked Bennett.
Sally laughed as Kate came up to join them. ‘The new inspector is quite the comedian, Kate,’ she said.
‘I know,’ Kate agreed dryly and pointed at a poster pinned to the wall beside the detective constable. ‘I told him he should go in for the talent competition.’
‘Fat chance,’ said Bennett. ‘I’ve got Van Gogh’s ear for music and couldn’t go on stage to tell a joke if my life depended on it.’
‘That right?’
‘It would terrify me. Had to give a best man’s speech once. Never do it again.’
‘You don’t strike me as the bashful type,’ said Delaney.
‘Trust me, I was more nervous than a pig in a pork-pie factory.’ Bennett jerked his thumb backwards at the flyer. ‘So what about you, Jack? You going to do us a song-and-dance routine?’
Delaney gave him a flat look. ‘Not in this lifetime.’
Bennett slapped his leg. ‘And my gammy leg counts me out in that department.’
‘So what brought you down to London, Tony?’ asked Kate.
‘Ambition, I guess.’
‘I’m not sure White City is the place for ambition,’ said Delaney.
‘It’s a start and I don’t plan to be here too long.’
‘Very wise. The sooner you and my brilliant constable get promoted out of here, the safer the public are going to be. Me, I’m just going to count out the days to my pension and settle into obscurity.’
Kate patted her belly pointedly. ‘Right. Well, I wouldn’t be getting too many ideas about early retirement, cowboy! You’ve got a few more years on the range yet.’
‘Yes, boss,’ said Delaney, pretending to be disappointed.
‘You’re not fooling anybody, sir,’ said Sally, amused.
‘Anyway, enough shop,’ said Bennett, finishing his pint. ‘It’s my round. Who’s for a refill?’
‘Not for me,’ said Sally.
‘Or me,’ said Kate.
‘I’m in,’ said Jack, draining the remaining two-thirds of his pint and holding his glass out to Bennett.
Bennett nodded approvingly. ‘You want a large shot of Jameson’s with that?’
Delaney threw him a quizzical look.
‘Your fame precedes you!’ said Bennett.
Delaney looked at Kate and shrugged. ‘Just the Guinness, thanks.’
Bennett handed the glasses over to the barmaid.
‘So where are you staying?’ Delaney asked him.
‘Got myself a little flat down in Shepherd’s Bush.’
‘Handy.’
‘Yeah, close enough, and there are enough fast-food takeaway outlets to keep a bachelor boy happy.’
‘Couple of nice boozers, too,’ said Delaney.
‘And that. Did some research.’
‘Very wise.’
‘And what about you, Jack? Where are you based?’
Kate slipped her arm through Delaney’s. ‘He’s just bought himself a nice little house in Belsize Park.’
Bennett whistled. ‘Belsize Park? Nice.’
Delaney shrugged. ‘If you like that sort of thing.’
‘Must have cost a pretty penny?’
Delaney shifted his feet a little uncomfortably. ‘I had some l
uck with investments.’
Bennett grinned. ‘I’ll take half your luck.’
‘Yeah, well, my wife died. So I sold the house we owned and rented a flat and I put the money together with the life insurance into some investments that did okay, and I pulled the cash back before the big downturn. So I really wouldn’t want to wish that kind of luck on you.’
‘Sorry, I didn’t realise.’
‘No reason you should,’ said Delaney.
Twenty minutes later and Bennett was clearly feeling at home. On first-name terms with the barmaid and flirting with Sally Cartwright. Delaney finished his third pint and turned to Kate. ‘You ready to go home?’
‘More than ready.’ She held her hand up to Sally and Bennett. ‘See you later.’
‘Bye,’ said Sally.
‘Thanks for the drink.’ Delaney nodded at Bennett.
‘De nada.’
Kate and Delaney threaded their way through the noisy bar and headed for the door.
‘Did I say the wrong thing earlier, about his house and everything?’ Bennett asked Sally.
‘He’s just a little sensitive about his wife, is all. She was shot during an armed robbery.’
‘Really?’
‘I’m surprised you haven’t heard about it.’
‘I’m the new boy, remember.’
‘It happened some years back. There was an armed robbery at a petrol station. Jack and his wife just happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time.’
‘It happens. Especially in our job.’
‘I guess. This was off-duty, though. Jack tried to intervene, his wife got caught in the crossfire.’
‘Ouch. No wonder he’s a little sensitive.’
‘Exactly.’
‘They ever catch who did it?’
Sally shook her head. ‘No. They never did.’
‘Jack Delaney doesn’t strike me as the kind of man who lets sleeping dogs lie.’
‘He’s moved on.’
Bennett nodded thoughtfully. ‘I can well imagine that Kate Walker doesn’t take any shit, either.’
Sally laughed. ‘I’m not sure she’d put it like that herself, but you’re probably right.’