Hard Evidence

by Mark Pearson

  He listened for a moment or two longer and his shoulders sagged.

  'I'll see you later.'

  He clicked his phone off but didn't head back to the studio. He stood a while longer, worrying at his hangnail. Finally he tore it loose, gasping with pain as it ripped into the quick and a bright spot of blood appeared. He sucked it, tasting the iron and copper, and grimaced. He didn't like omens.

  Delaney was also uncomfortable that Saturday morning. Five days since the anniversary of his wife's death, and he was at his sister-in-law's again, perched on the edge of her sofa like a distressed seagull on a wall. He fitted a finger under his collar and pulled it out to cool his neck. He would have loosened his tie but he knew that if he did, busy female hands would seize it and tighten it even more uncomfortably. The truth was that Delaney had never been a suit-and-tie man.

  He looked across as the lounge door flew open in an explosion of anarchic energy. Siobhan, dressed for her First Holy Communion, came bursting into the room like a human cannonball, the happiness and innocence shining from her eyes like a beacon.

  'What do you think of the dress?'

  Wendy followed her in. 'Siobhan. Be careful. Watch your hair.'

  'You look a picture, darling. Daddy's sweetheart.' Siobhan clambered into his arms and he hugged her.

  'Everything all right, Jack?'

  Delaney found a smile and nodded at Wendy. She held her hand out to Siobhan. 'Come on then. We'd best be getting on. Can't be late for the big day, can we?'

  'They'll make a convert of you yet, Wendy.'

  Wendy shook her head. 'I may be a hypocrite, Jack. But not that big a one.'

  Delaney stood up and took his daughter's other hand.

  'Come on, darling. Let's get your membership card to the biggest club in the world.'

  The Church of St Joseph was old. Dating back to the Norman Conquest, it had history in its very bones. High vaulted arches crossing above the nave. Stained glass filling every window. Dark wooden pews worn smooth over the years by countless people sitting and praying. Around the church were the fourteen pictures of the Stations of the Cross. Behind the altar a tall crucifix. The agonies of Christ captured in brutal realism. Blood trickling from the crown of thorns, a gash in His side where a Roman soldier had been ordered to put Him to early death so as not to spoil the Sabbath rituals. His hands and feet stained with dried blood as it pooled around the hard iron of the nails that had been hammered through His tender flesh and bone.

  Delaney sat in one of the forward pews. He ran a finger under the collar of his shirt again and tried to get comfortable on the hard wooden bench. He stretched his legs out and crossed them. Wendy sat beside him and dug him in the ribs. He nodded apologetically and sat up straighter.

  Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. He didn't say the words aloud but they echoed in his head as if he had shouted them to ring in the rafters of the ancient church.

  Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.

  At the back of the church, in an upstairs gallery, Mrs Henderson, a kind-faced, mild-mannered lady of fifty-two, sat at the organ and positioned her feet on the pedals. She turned the sheet music, placed her hands on the keyboard and began to play. Sweet music filled the air. The music of celebration and worship. The music of ritual, thought Delaney, as the sound carried him back to his own childhood. To another church in another country and another time.

  Jack could feel the blood pumping in his veins as he knelt in front of the altar, waiting for Father O'Connell to return. He shifted uncomfortably, the cold stone painful on his sore bare knees.

  Jack Delaney was an altar boy, the youngest of a group of five or six boys from the village who came to church every Saturday morning to practise. The other boys had been sent home half an hour or so ago and Jack had been ordered to wait on his knees and think about his sins. Jack did think about his sins. He thought about them a lot. Especially the one thing he had done and could never take back, no matter how hard he prayed to go back in time and undo it. That was why he hardened his heart to what was going to come. Whatever it was, he deserved it.

  Jack could hear movement in the vestry and clenched his hand into a fist to stop it from trembling. He had sinned and now he had to face the consequences.

  Father O'Connell was a man capable of great anger. You only had to listen to his old-fashioned sermons on a Sunday morning to know that. He was very clear on what he despised, and what he thought of sin and sinners and what should become of them. And Jack was a sinner right enough. His father swore that he was born to sin as a duck was born to water. And his father should know.

  He looked up as a shadow fell on the polished floor in front of him and he heard the soft swish of a black cassock. Father O'Connell was not particularly tall, but to a kneeling ten-year-old his five foot ten gave him Olympian proportions, while his rough white beard and sore red eyes lent him the look of an Old Testament prophet of doom. Jack shivered despite himself. He was usually afraid of no one, would front up to much bigger kids in the school playground if they messed with him, but Father O'Connell had a reputation. He liked to hurt boys. He kept a strap in his vestry and none of the parents in the area objected if he used it to keep their unruly children in line. And there were rumours.

  'Jack. What are we to do with you?' The priest's booming voice echoed around the stone walls of the church, rich with disappointment.

  'I didn't mean to do it, Father.'

  'You didn't mean to drink the bottle of communion wine?'

  'No, Father.'

  'Was it the Devil that made you do it then?'

  'I'm thinking it must be, Father. For sure as you're standing there I have no inkling of why I'd do such a thing.'

  'No inkling?'

  'None whatsoever. As God is my witness.'

  'But God is your witness, isn't he, Jack?'

  'Yes, Father.'

  'So it was the Devil in you that had the inkling, is that what you are thinking?'

  'Now you come to mention it, Father, that must be the right of the matter. For I have no inclination in myself whatsoever to be drinking wine. It tastes disgusting.'

  'And yet you drank a whole bottle of it.'

  'And was heartily sick.'

  'Then maybe you have learned a valuable lesson, Jack.'

  'I certainly have learned my lesson, Father,' he said hopefully.

  'It was the Devil in you. You're sure of it now?'

  'Certain sure, Father.'

  'It is a bad business when you let the Devil into your body, boy.'

  'He must have snuck up on me, Father. I'll be vigilant from now on. I promise it to you.'

  'But if the Devil is in you, boy, we have to get him out, don't we?'

  'Do we?'

  'The Devil is like a cancer, boy. Like a sickness. We must purge him, son. It is our Christian duty.'

  'Purge?'

  Father O'Connell laid a heavy hand on Jack's head, and Jack flinched.

  'Our Christian duty, son. Come with me to the vestry.'

  And as Jack looked up into the middle-aged man's eyes, he saw not anger but some kind of feral hunger, and he trembled even more as he was led to the vestry door.

  The hymn came to a close and Delaney wiped the back of his hand across his forehead, damp now with sweat. Wendy handed him a tissue, which he took gratefully as the twin doors to the church opened and a procession of young children, boys and girls, came in. The girls in white dresses, the boys wearing red ties. They walked slowly up the aisle in a line to the altar. Delaney smiled at Siobhan as she passed, but Siobhan kept her eyes ahead, looking at the cruciform figure of Christ hanging behind the altar. Wendy put a hand on Delaney's knee and he squeezed it, holding on just a little too tight.

  Wendy smiled reassuringly at him. 'She looks a million dollars, Jack. A million dollars.'

  Siobhan came to the altar and knelt at the little rail. The priest made the sign of the cross in front of her with his hand, and Siobhan shut her eyes and opened her mouth, putt
ing out her tongue so he could place the communion wafer on it.

  Kate looked around the empty CID office. She paused at Delaney's desk. It was neat and ordered. Files stacked tidily, pens in a pot, loose papers collected, everything aligned. The desk of a man who liked to keep control of things, Kate surmised. Not least his emotions. A photograph stood centrally on the desk. Silver-framed. A smiling woman holding a young baby. Delaney's wife and daughter, Kate guessed. She picked up the photograph; his wife was very beautiful. Kate couldn't begin to imagine what he must have gone through when she died.

  She put the report she had brought him on top of his files, suddenly feeling guilty, and started as Bob Wilkinson came across, a thinly veiled anger in his eyes.

  'Come to gloat, have you?'

  'What are you talking about?'

  'Come off it, Dr Walker. We all know you're no friend of Jack Delaney.'

  Kate shook her head, puzzled. 'You've lost me.'

  'What are you doing here, then?'

  'I promised Jack a copy of the autopsy report on Billy Martin.'

  Bob Wilkinson was a little taken aback. 'Right.'

  'And for your information, whatever differences Jack and I had in the past are just that. In the past.'

  'I'll take your word for it.'

  Bob Wilkinson went to move away, but Kate gripped his arm firmly. She lowered her voice to a whisper. 'What are you talking about, though? What's going on?'

  'There's rumours flying around. That's all.'

  'What kind of rumours?'

  'About Jack.'

  'What about him?'

  Bob leaned in and lowered his voice too. 'They're saying he was involved in Jackie Malone's murder.'

  Kate shook her head, shocked. 'That's ridiculous!'

  'You and I know that,' said Bob Wilkinson, letting the implication hang in the air.

  'You've got to do something.'

  He shrugged. 'I'm just a foot soldier, what can I do?'

  Kate looked across the office, her face hardening as Chief Superintendent Walker came out of DCI Campbell's office, forcefully pulling the door shut behind him. He strode angrily down the corridor, not even glancing at his niece.

  Wilkinson looked pointedly at Kate. 'If something bad is coming down on Jack Delaney, and if you are his friend like you say,' he looked across at the superintendent's retreating figure, 'then he's going to need friends with connections in high places.'

  'I'm not sure I have any influence there.'

  'Maybe it's time to find out.'

  Kate considered for a moment, looked down at the photo on Delaney's desk and hurried after her uncle. Time to swallow her pride and ask for help.

  Outside the church, Delaney leaned against the cool stone of the old flint wall and caught his breath, telling himself it was just the heat. But the feverish pump of blood in his heart told a different story. He took a couple of deep breaths and forced himself to relax. He started as the mobile phone in his pocket rang and had to take a moment or two to answer it. 'Jack Delaney?'

  The voice on the other end of the phone was breathy and low. A woman. 'Did you get the film?'

  'Who is this?'

  'It doesn't matter who I am. Did you get the film I sent?'

  'I got the film.' Sweat was breaking out on Delaney's forehead once more.

  'Did you enjoy it?'

  'Who is this?'

  'You can call me a friend.'

  Delaney barked a short dry laugh. 'My friend?'

  'I don't know you.'

  'Whose friend, then?'

  'Jackie Malone's friend.'

  Delaney sighed, running his hand across the top of his forehead again.

  'What do you want?'

  There was a small chuckle on the other end of the line. A chuckle that had as much warmth in it as a penguin's foot. 'That's the twenty-four-dollar question?'

  'You want money?'

  'No. I don't want money.'

  'What do you want then?'

  Delaney could hear the woman on the other end covering the phone and hissing to someone: 'Give me a minute.' He heard a man's voice replying to her but couldn't make out the words.

  Delaney's patience was wearing thin. 'What do you want?' He spoke curtly into the phone.

  'I want justice for Jackie. I want retribution.'

  'Why don't you come in and talk about it?'

  Another harsh laugh. 'I don't think so, Jack. People involved in this business seem to get hurt, don't they? Jackie. Her dropkick brother Billy.'

  'What do you know about Billy Martin?'

  'I know they both ended up getting terminally hurt. And I never was like Jackie. I don't play the rough games. And this is a sick business.'

  Delaney frowned. 'What business?'

  'Blackmail.'

  Delaney sighed again. 'I see.'

  'Billy Martin thought he had stumbled on a little goldmine, but Jackie didn't want anything to do with it. She gave me the tape to look after. Anything happened to her, she said to send it to you.'

  Delaney nodded. 'Where's the boy?'

  'I don't know anything about a boy.'

  'Who am I talking to?'

  'Anyway, that's it. I don't want anything more to do with it. She said you'd know what to do with the DVD. She said you'd take care of those responsible. She didn't trust the police but she trusted you to make sure they got what was coming to them.'

  Delaney could hear the man in the background shouting at her, urgent, angry. He thought he could make out the name Carol, or Karen.

  'I've got to go.'

  'Just tell me where—' But the line had gone dead. Delaney closed his phone angrily and looked over to the church doors, where children flanked by happy parents were spilling noisily out. Delaney watched them for a moment or two and then ran to his car.

  Wendy came out with Siobhan. Shielding her eyes against the sun and squinting as she looked around for Delaney.

  'Jack?'

  But Delaney had gone.

  In his car he lit up a cigarette and took a few deep drags, then picked up his mobile phone and tapped a number in. 'Sally, it's Delaney. I want you to get Jackie Malone's file out. Trace all her known associates and go back as far as you can. I'm looking for a Carol or a Karen. Probably on the game. And do the same with Stella Trant's file too. And I want it yesterday.'

  'Yes, boss, but . . .'

  'Just do it, Sally. There's something I need to take care of.'

  He closed the phone and it rang immediately. He looked at the number. Campbell. He switched the phone off and took a few more hits on his cigarette as he turned the key in the ignition, his eyes dark pools of anger.

  26.

  Alexander Moffett's tongue poked thickly from his mouth. His eyes bulged painfully, small blood vessels in them breaking as he twisted. The veins and muscles of his neck were thick with effort, like cords or snakes writhing under his skin. He grunted with desperation. With madness. His head rocked back and the skin on his neck burned and tore. Struggling just made the noose tighter, however, and his breathing stopped completely with a last horrible gurgle. His legs strained downward but his toes couldn't find the floor. His eyes bulged even more and red tears leaked from the corners of his eyes, his tongue so swollen now as to fill his mouth, blocking it even if he could draw air. He jerked once, maybe twice more, and was still. The eyes rolled back, and the body swayed silently on the rope in a gentle circle like a drunken, grotesque ballerina.

  Behind him on a large flat-screen television, Billy Martin was screaming soundlessly as Kevin Norrell picked him up and threw him, hands and feet tied with coat-hanger wire, into the cold night water of the Thames.

  A hand reached down, ejected the DVD and turned off the television. His face was reflected in the wide, staring pupils of Alexander Moffett, but as the man left the room, his image went with him.

  Parked a few doors up from Moffett's house in Paddington, Delaney crushed a cigarette into his already full ashtray and automatically put another in his mou
th. Flaring a match, he watched blue-suited forensic investigators hurry into the house, past flashing lights, and uniforms stretching out yellow and black tape to cordon off the area from curious passers-by. Nothing to see here. Not any more, thought Delaney.

  Inside, Chief Inspector Diane Campbell nodded sourly at the uniformed constable who stood to the side of the door opening into Moffett's study. She walked into the room swearing quietly under her breath. It was an opulent room. A man's study from another era. Book-lined walls. A deep-pile carpet underfoot. A large globe of the world from a time when most of it was coloured pink. A sideboard with decanter and crystal glasses. A large mahogany desk with a green leather inset. A humidor stocked with the finest cigars from Cuba. The only modern things were the flat-screen TV and the telephone. It was a man's room. A dead man's room.

  Moffett's body had been lowered, the rope cut down from the three-hundred-year old beams that spanned the ceiling. Bonner stood to one side as a police photographer finished taking shots of the deceased. Moffett's face was stained purple with the blood pooling in the loose skin. His eyes were dull and his tongue protruded like an obscene gesture. Campbell brushed a hand angrily in the air as a fly buzzed past, and turned to Bonner.

  'Where is Dr Walker?'

  'On her way, ma'am.'

  She sighed and looked at her watch, then glared back at Bonner. 'And more to the bloody point, where's Jack sodding Delaney?'

  Bonner shrugged as Campbell's mobile phone went. She snapped it open. 'Campbell?'

  She listened, her lips tightening with anger. 'Bring it in. All of it.' She snapped the phone shut and glared angrily at Delaney as he walked into the room. 'Your phone switched off, was it?'

  Delaney shook his head. 'Must have been out of range. I called in; Dave Patterson gave me the shout.'

  'Obviously. Or you wouldn't be here, would you?'

  Delaney picked up on her tone. 'What's that supposed to mean?'

  Campbell nodded to the body on the floor. 'Alexander Moffett. What do you know about him?'

  'Just what I was told by Slimline.' Delaney shrugged again. 'Television producer. God slot. Sunday morning, singing children, all that. Now dead.'