Hard Evidence

by Mark Pearson

  Today, though, he was focusing on business, or trying to. He had his notebook open on his lap and his pen in his hand.

  'Come on, love, she's dead. Not a pleasant death.'

  Melissa shivered. 'I heard.'

  'Or Billy Martin's.'

  'What's happened to that prick, then?' She put two mugs of tea on the table and sat opposite him. Bonner watched distracted as she placed a cigarette between her ruby-red lips and fired it up, her lip muscles twitching and the cigarette doing a lazy circular dance as she drew deeply. Her chest swelled as she inhaled and Bonner had to flick his eyes away from her cleavage. The heat wave was showing no signs of abating and a small drop of sweat was running slowly down her right breast.

  'I said what happened to him, then?'

  Bonner blinked and looked up at her face. 'He went for a bit of a swim. Didn't wear his lifebelt.'

  Melissa sucked in more smoke, her cheeks hollowing and her lips pouting. She let the smoke slip forth in a lazy stream, and Bonner almost sighed along with her.

  'Good,' she said finally, and Bonner nodded in agreement. Billy Martin's passing from the world was universally unmourned, but he still had a job to do, and the sooner he got business out of the way, the sooner he could attend to other matters. He nodded to the smoke-stained wall to his left.

  'Jackie Malone. You telling me you didn't hear anything?'

  'I already told your uniforms. Nothing at all.'

  Bonner gave her his policeman's look. 'You told them nothing or you told them you heard nothing?'

  'You've got my statement. I didn't hear a thing.'

  'She was murdered right next door, for goodness' sake.'

  'I wasn't listening. I'm a working girl, remember. I have to concentrate.'

  'So you didn't notice anything out of the ordinary? You didn't hear anything unusual?'

  'She was a specialist, wasn't she, Eddie? It was all unusual there.' She threw him a knowing look, half amused, half challenging. 'Wasn't it?'

  Bonner closed his notebook. He was only going through the motions anyway. The woman didn't know anything, that much was clear.

  'What about her son? Where did Andy go, do you know that?'

  Melissa looked at her watch and blew out another stream of smoke. 'Who knows with that one? Thirteen years old going on thirty. He's probably with his other uncle, travelling. He was never here much, you already know that. You spoke to his uncle?'

  'We're looking for him.'

  Melissa shrugged. 'I wish I could help, love, but I didn't hear or see a thing.' She ground out her cigarette in a small plate on the table and drained her mug of tea. 'That the official business over with, is it?'

  'For now.'

  'Right.' She stood up and took off her cardigan. Her voice suddenly uncompromisingly authoritarian. 'Get next door then and get on your knees.'

  She reached behind her to pick up an improbable-looking object with straps and buckles from the kitchen table. Bonner nodded, the dry tip of his tongue nervously licking the corner of his lips.

  Sometimes he really loved his job.

  *

  Later that afternoon, Delaney ground his cigarette stub with a quick flick of his shoe and watched as a police van pulled to a stop in the car park outside White City police station. The back doors swung open and a couple of uniformed officers climbed down, leading a middle-aged man between them. In his forties, he was dressed in filthy black jeans, with beads, bangles and long greasy hair. Half hippy, half Hell's Angel, more metal in his face than God or nature ever intended. Jackie Malone's elder brother. He scowled as he saw Delaney lounging against the wall and spat on the ground.

  'Might have known.'

  Delaney walked over to the officers. 'I'll have a quick word with him, thanks, guys.'

  'All yours.'

  'There was no sign of the boy?'

  One of the uniformed men shook his head. 'We asked around too. Nobody has seen him for a long time.'

  'Okay.'

  The officers walked away, rubbing their hands as if to clean off the taint of Russell Martin.

  'What do you want, Delaney?'

  Delaney pushed the man against the wall and wasn't gentle about it.

  'Suppose you tell me where the boy is, for a start?'

  Martin struggled angrily. 'And suppose I tell you to go stick your head in a pig?'

  Delaney kneed him quickly in the groin; he doubled over in pain but Delaney hauled him up by his throat and leaned in close.

  'You fuck with me, Russell, and I'll make your eyeballs bleed. Do you know what I am saying to you?'

  Russell Martin looked away and Delaney slapped him as hard as he could, open-palmed against the side of his head.

  'Do you know what I am saying to you?'

  Martin grunted and rubbed his head. 'I've got rights.'

  'You've got the right to remain silent. But you exercise that right and I'll spoil you for your girlfriend. You fuck with me, you piece of pikey shite, and I'll spoil you for any woman.'

  'What do you want from me?'

  'I want to know where Andy is.'

  'I don't know where he is. I haven't seen him for weeks.'

  Delaney slapped him again on the side of the head. 'I'm telling you, don't fuck around with me.'

  Martin was nearly in tears. 'I don't know where he is. I swear.'

  'I don't care what you swear; you lie to me and you'll live to regret it.'

  'I've been on the road for four months and he wasn't with me the last couple. He came back to his mum, that's all I know.'

  'You spoken to her lately. Or your brother?'

  Martin shook his head, 'I heard what happened to them, but it's got nothing to do with me.'

  'Who has it got to do with, then?'

  He shrugged. 'I don't know. We weren't exactly close.'

  Delaney curled his lip, genuinely disgusted. 'You're a real piece of shite, you know that.'

  Martin shook his head angrily. 'I know what I am and I know what they were. This has got nothing to do with me.'

  Delaney leaned in angrily again. 'It's got everything to do with your nephew right now.'

  Martin flinched back and shook his head. 'I wouldn't do anything to hurt the boy.'

  'That's right. You're a regular Mary Poppins, aren't you?'

  'I don't know where he is, Delaney. It's the truth.'

  Delaney looked at him for a long moment. 'You wouldn't know the truth if it fucked you in the arse.' He gave him a rough shove towards the road. 'Stay where I can find you.'

  Russell staggered and caught his balance. 'Yeah, right.'

  'I mean it. Don't make me come looking for you.'

  Martin hurried away out of the car park entrance without looking back. Delaney palmed a cigarette into his mouth and lit it, a dark look in his eyes as he drew the soothing smoke in and watched Jackie Malone's brother scurry away. He took a couple more drags and then walked across the car park, heading towards the road.

  Pacing about on the deep-pile carpet of his office on the second floor, Chief Superintendent Walker was talking on his mobile phone, and he was far from happy.

  'I don't care what your problems are. I told you I'm dealing with it.' He walked over to the window and looked out, anger sparking in his eyes like an electrical storm as he saw the person they were discussing heading out of the car park.

  'I told you I'd take care of it, so just let me do my job!' He snapped the phone shut.

  Kate threaded through the crowd of off-duty police already packing the Pig and Whistle at five o'clock, and made her way to the bar. Delaney was sitting on a stool in the corner, nursing a pint of Guinness, watching Sally Cartwright beat Bob Wilkinson at darts but not really paying any attention. His thoughts were elsewhere. Kate took a penny out of her pocket and slid it along the bar counter in front of Delaney. He picked it up and looked at it.

  'If they were that easy to get rid of, I'd gladly give them to you.'

  Kate nodded at his glass. 'That doesn't solve anythin
g.'

  'It does if you drink it.'

  Kate laughed and Delaney decided he liked the sound. He'd decided that a long time back, of course, but he was beginning to admit it to himself.

  Kate smiled at him. 'When you're right, you're right. Same again?'

  'My turn.' Delaney gestured at the barmaid. 'Large vodka and tonic, please.'

  'I've still got a bit of work to do. I can't be drunk.'

  'You work with dead people. What can it hurt if you slip with your scalpel?'

  Kate looked across at him. 'You are joking?'

  'I am.'

  Kate hesitated. 'It's just paperwork.'

  Delaney looked at her thoughtfully. 'So twice in as many days. You following me?'

  'I just dropped some files off and I saw you heading here.' She shrugged. 'I've had a hell of a day, and what do they say about misery loving company?'

  Delaney laughed unexpectedly. 'You like to say it as it is, don't you?'

  'Not a lot of call for subtlety in my job.'

  'I suppose not.'

  Delaney looked at her again as he took another sip of his drink. 'On Monday night, at Jackie Malone's flat . . .'

  'Yes?'

  'I was rude to you. I'm sorry.'

  'There's no need to apologise.'

  'I was in a bad mood. I'd spent the day at Northfields cemetery. It was our wedding anniversary.'

  'I heard about your wife. I'm sorry.'

  It was Delaney's turn to shake his head. 'I just wanted you to know.'

  The barmaid handed Delaney the vodka and he held it out to Kate. 'So, is work over for the day?'

  Kate looked at the drink and then levelled her sparkling eyes at him as she took the glass. 'Does this mean we're friends now, Jack?'

  'I don't have friends. People don't like me.'

  'People change.'

  'Like hell they do.'

  Again the laugh from Kate, and Delaney suddenly realised he had to be careful.

  Kate looked at him, her smile smoothing into a serious line as she bit her lower lip. 'I haven't spoken to my uncle on a personal basis since I was nine years old.'

  Delaney looked at her wide-open eyes and could feel the blood pumping in his heart. Maybe it was adrenalin kicking in, fight or flight. He came to a decision. He clinked his glass against hers.

  'I think I'd like to be your friend, Kate.'

  Her smile was a thousand watts now.

  25.

  Delaney found that he was enjoying Kate Walker's company. The first time since the death of his wife that he had enjoyed a woman's company so much. Kate glanced at her watch and Delaney felt guilty at the disappointment he felt.

  'Running out on me again?'

  'Time's up, I'm afraid.'

  'Oh?'

  'Got to give a speech at my old university. Then dinner with a friend.'

  'A male friend?'

  Kate looked at him curiously. 'Lady friend. A doctor. She's trying to persuade me to go and work for her.'

  'Are you considering it?'

  Kate shrugged. 'I kind of like my work.'

  'Queen of the Dead?'

  'Something like that. Not quite as glamorous.'

  Delaney looked at her, puzzled. 'As who?'

  'It was a literary reference.'

  Delaney smiled. 'I read The Beano as a kid.'

  Kate laughed. 'Your dumb-cop act doesn't fool me you know.'

  'You think I've got hidden depths?'

  'I reckon you're a regular walking city of Atlantis.'

  Delaney laughed again. 'You sure you're not a psychiatrist?'

  Kate shook her head and looked at him appraisingly. 'I like working with my hands too much.'

  'And you're good at your job.'

  Kate leaned in, her voice a little husky. 'So I've been told.'

  Delaney looked at her and felt himself becoming lost in her eyes. Imagining what would happen if he just leaned across and kissed her. Wondering if her lips tasted as good as they looked, as good as they sounded. Then he caught himself and sat back, looking at his watch.

  'You best get along to your dinner.'

  Kate reacted to the shift in his tone. 'I could cancel it. You look like you could do with some company.'

  'No, you get along, Kate. I'll be okay.'

  Kate stood up, leaning over him, and for a moment he knew she was about to kiss him on the cheek, just a farewell kiss, but Delaney realised it would be more than that. He could feel it and his cheek burned; he wanted it, he wanted more than that, but he hated himself for it. Kate took a breath, straightened up and painted on a smile as Delaney raised his glass and took a defensive drink.

  'I'll see you later, Jack.'

  Delaney nodded. 'Yeah.'

  'Thanks for the drink.'

  He watched as she walked out of the pub. Wanting to call her back but keeping his silence. He thought there was an almost imperceptibly more exaggerated swish to her hips as she walked away, and if there was, he realised that it was all for his benefit, and suddenly he felt even more confused. The blood was pumping in his ears again and he had to loosen his tie as he swallowed another measure of his drink. He drained the glass and shook the thoughts away; he already had enough in his life to feel guilty about. He gestured at the barman, and soon his glass, at least, was full.

  The pub got even busier with the relief coming off shift, and Jack Delaney joined in with the usual meaningless banter as he sank a couple of pints, but in truth it washed over him, his mind elsewhere. After half an hour or so he made his farewells and left.

  Back at his flat, he closed the door behind him, checking his post on the mat, picking up a number of bills, junk mail and a small padded envelope with his name and address on it, written in crude block letters. He tossed the mail on a small table and walked through to his lounge. The evening sun was streaming through the windows, still hot, still bright. He pulled the heavy curtains shut. Taking off his jacket and starting to sweat as the room became even more like a sauna. He opened the padded envelope and pulled out a DVD. He loosened his tie, walked over to the DVD player and took out the DVD that was in it, Sin Sisters, replacing it with the new, unlabelled disc. He poured himself a large glass of whiskey and pushed play.

  White noise and static hissed on the screen for a moment or two and then cleared. Delaney sat back in his chair to watch.

  On screen was a static shot, filmed with a good-quality camera. A Victorian front room. Thick curtains drawn over lace nets on the windows, a small gap throwing a golden shaft of diffuse sunlight into the room. A piano with old photos in silver frames on top of it; the floor plain dark wood but polished so it shone, with a single faded rug. Dark furniture in the background, a display case on thin sculpted legs, a sideboard with broad gothic doors. A jardinière stand with a white ceramic pot on it, but no flowers.

  And music playing. 'Pie Jesu'. Delaney's eyes watched motionless, the flickering light of the television dancing and reflecting in his pupils as he took another dispassionate swallow of whiskey.

  A young girl walked into shot. She was around nine years old and you could see she was nervous. She walked slowly towards the camera wearing a simple white dress with ribbons in her long dark hair. She stopped and knelt down like a supplicant, opening her mouth into an oval.

  A dark-suited figure moved in front of her.

  *

  Saturday morning. The twenty-eighth day in a row without rain in London, and the capital was looking set to break heat records for the month.

  A television studio is a world without a ceiling, but that didn't make it any cooler. It is a place of wires and cables and chaos; and like any other universe it has its own laws, its own morality, its own little gods.

  In the director's room a number of monitors showed a group of primary school children of about nine or ten years of age. They were singing 'All Things Bright and Beautiful'. Alex Moffett, in his late thirties and prematurely balding, took off his designer glasses and paused the tape.

  'Okay, Carol
ine, that's fine. Cue up the bishop for me.'

  Caroline, a perky media school graduate in her twenties, with short bleached hair teased into spikes, combat boots, a tartan skirt and a T-shirt with 'The Dog's Bollocks' hand-written across her front, shuffled a box of tapes and shrugged apologetically. She flicked through the box again and shook her head.

  'The bishop's back in the office. The runner should have brought it up by now.'

  Moffett glared at her.

  'What is it I always say?'

  Caroline looked at her boss's angry face. A little amused, a little scared if truth be known, although Moffett wasn't a scary-looking man.

  'Never work with bloody amateurs.'

  'Never work with bloody amateurs, that's exactly bloody right. Christ, I need a drink.'

  Caroline looked a little taken aback as Moffett stood up and slipped into his jacket.

  'Alex, we record in one hour!'

  'I have been producing this show for five bloody years, sweetheart. I know what our sodding schedule is.'

  'Of course.'

  Caroline smiled, placating, and turned back to her monitor. Moffett muttered under his breath and headed for reception. He didn't even acknowledge the nod from the security guard who sat behind the desk, just pushed the big green button to the side of the doors and headed out to the car park.

  He scowled dismissively at a huddle of studio employees who stood at the kerb of the road that ran parallel to the studios, blowing smoke and gossiping. If gossip was currency in the TV industry, then everyone was a millionaire. If you weren't sticking a knife in someone else's back, then you had no business being there. Moffett headed past them further down the road and pulled out his mobile phone, punching in a number with frustrated urgency.

  'It's Alexander. What's happening?'

  He listened, teasing a hanging nail on the corner of this thumb between his teeth, then shook his head, unhappy.

  'I don't like it.' He sighed, his temper rising like a needle on a thermostat. 'Sod your bloody golf game. I'm shooting Jesus' bloody sunbeams in forty-five sodding minutes! I tell you, I'm beginning to get very nervous here, so do something about it or I will.'