by Mark Pearson
Hoskins picked it up and nodded. 'That's him. Regular visitor he was. Sometimes he was carrying flowers, sometimes a bottle, you know what I mean?'
'I can imagine. And you're prepared to swear in court you saw him on the day in question?'
'He came in just before twelve o'clock.'
'What time did he leave?'
'About six o'clock that same evening.'
'You're sure about that. That's a very long time for this kind of visit.'
'Not for him it wasn't. He was a regular.'
'I want you to think very carefully. You could definitely swear to it in court?'
'I'd swear to it on my life.'
Bonner's eyes glinted as he nodded pointedly. 'So he didn't leave any time between twelve and three o'clock?'
'I told you. He came in and he didn't leave. I was there all day.'
Bonner closed the file. 'Thank you, Mr Hoskins. You've been very helpful.'
'I can go now?'
Bonner nodded. 'We'll be in touch.'
'And about bleeding time.' He stood up awkwardly and walked to the door.
Bonner leaned across the table and picked up the photo, studying it with a troubled expression in his eyes. But the eyes that looked back at him from the photo weren't troubled at all. The eyes of Jack Delaney almost seemed to be smiling.
Kate Walker sat at the bar of the Holly Bush in Hampstead, sipping on a Bloody Mary and letting the noisy chat of the other customers wash over her. She swirled the drink in her hand. The Holly Bush had their own secret recipe for Bloody Marys and always put a splash of red wine in to finish it off, lending sinister authenticity to the drink. She took another sip and steadied her breathing, trying to order the wild thoughts that were dancing in her brain. It made no sense to her. The preliminary examination of Moffett had been fairly straightforward. As she had told Diane Campbell, there was no way of telling whether it was a genuine suicide. There had certainly been no indications of a struggle or resistance, and she couldn't see the autopsy throwing up any contradictory information. That was straightforward. What wasn't straightforward was how Jack Delaney fitted into it all. Although Campbell had told Kate very little, she had spoken to the other officers there and was shocked at what she heard. They were accusing him not only of murder, but also of blackmail, stealing evidence, selling drugs and profiting from paedophile pornography. There was very little in this world that was certain, she knew that, but she was certain that Delaney was innocent of the charges. She absolutely knew it. What she didn't know was what to do about it. She understood it wasn't safe to talk to his colleagues from what he said on the phone. So who was she supposed to talk about it to? Maybe it was time to swallow her pride and talk to her uncle, as Bob Wilkinson had hinted she should. He would know what to do. There must be protocols. She finished her drink and stood up. She'd speak to him tomorrow.
*
Wendy sat on the sofa, her knees together, her arms wrapped protectively around herself. The television played the theme tune for Casualty and Wendy snatched the remote control up to switch it off. She'd had enough misery for one day. It had been some time since the police had left and she still felt a bag of nerves. She worried a fingernail between her teeth and sighed. Siobhan hadn't understood why the policemen had been there; she hadn't understood why her daddy wasn't with them, where he had gone after her First Holy Communion, and Wendy didn't have the words to explain. She couldn't believe Jack had been arrested for murder. She couldn't believe he was on the run.
The phone rang and Wendy jumped. She took a moment or two to settle her breathing and answered it.
'Hello.'
'It's Jack.'
'Jack, for God's sake, where are you?'
'It doesn't matter.'
'Of course it matters. I've had a house full of detectives questioning me, questioning Siobhan.'
'Is she all right?'
'She's upstairs sleeping.'
'I want to talk to her.'
'And what are you going to say to her?'
She could hear his frustration on the other end of the line. 'For Christ's sake . . . I don't know, Wendy.'
'Exactly. So let her sleep.'
'Everything is going to be okay. Tell her that.' 'How?'
'I don't know how. But tell her it will.'
'Should you be talking on your phone? Can't they trace it?'
'It's a personal mobile, they don't know anything about it.'
Wendy nodded, taking a deep breath. 'Did you do it?'
'You think me capable of murder?'
Wendy sighed again, blinking the tears out of her eyes. 'Yes, Jack, I do.'
It was light outside as the sun sank slowly in the west, and although it had been far hotter during the heart of the day, the heat still hung heavy in the air. Inside Kate's hallway, however, it was cool and dark. The doors leading to the kitchen and the dining room and the lounge were all closed, and the stained-glass window on the front door was darkly coloured. The floor was laid with original Victorian tiles, a geometric mosaic in red, green and cream. A spilling of light through the stained glass spattered ruby colours on the hall floor like a splash of old blood. But in the corners and the depths it was dark.
Kate walked up to the front door, jangling her keys through to the right one, and slipped it into the keyhole. With a practised flick of her wrist she turned the key in the lock and opened the door. She was about to step inside when she felt a cold trickle run up her spine. She turned back to the road behind her and checked the approach to the house. She had had a feeling she was being watched ever since she left the pub, and even though the road was deserted she couldn't shake the feeling off. She was a medical doctor not a clinical psychologist, but given the circumstances, she knew that a certain amount of paranoia was justified.
She shivered slightly and turned back, bending over to pick up the mail that was scattered on the doormat. She straightened up and closed the door, distracted as she flicked through the envelopes, then a movement caught her eye and she looked up, her heart hammering in her chest as she saw a large man step out from behind the coat stand. Her knees buckled and she screamed in genuine terror.
28.
'For God's sake, Jack, what are you doing here?'
'Waiting for you.'
'You nearly gave me a bloody heart attack.'
'Sorry.'
Kate blinked at him, astonished. 'Is that it? Sorry!'
'I didn't mean to scare you, but I had to make sure you were alone.'
'What the hell are you doing here anyway? How did you get in?'
'You keep your back door key hidden under a pot in your garden. Not wise.'
'You were arrested. Shouldn't you be in jail?'
'I didn't like the idea.'
Kate shook her head. 'You better come in, make yourself at home.' The words seemed ridiculous given the circumstances.
She led him down the hallway, opening the door at the end to the kitchen. Delaney followed her in and looked around. 'Nice.'
A stone-flagged floor, high ceiling and a conservatory that had been added to make a dining area. The late evening sunlight spilled in through French doors leading to a well-designed and very well-maintained garden. Kate picked up a large kettle from the hotplate of her Aga and filled it with water at her original butler's sink.
Delaney called out to her, 'Have you not got something a little stronger?'
Kate put the kettle down and opened a cupboard, taking out a bottle of single-malt whisky. 'No Irish, I'm afraid.'
'That's okay. Maybe I'm starting to appreciate what the mainland has to offer.'
Kate picked up two glasses and carried them across to the farmhouse table that Delaney was sitting at. She poured out a couple of hefty measures and clunked her glass quickly against his. 'Slainte.'
'Yeah.' Delaney took a quick swallow and smiled gratefully at Kate.
'What did you do, Jack?'
'I escaped.'
'How?'
'I throttled Eddie Bonn
er. Made him crash the car.'
Kate took a swallow of her whisky, winced a little, and then took another.
'Do you think that was a good idea, all things considered?'
'I had to do something. I didn't murder Jackie Malone.'
Kate looked at him for a beat. 'Did you sleep with her?'
Delaney looked back at her, surprised by the question, then shook his head. 'No. I didn't sleep with her.'
'Just good friends?'
'Not even that. I just looked out for her now and again. I could talk to her.'
Kate nodded sympathetically. 'She's certainly landed you in a whole world of trouble.'
Delaney shook his head again. 'Not Jackie. Whoever killed her has put me in the frame for it, and that is something they are going to live to regret.'
'I know you didn't kill her, Jack.'
Delaney finished his whisky and Kate picked up the bottle to pour him another.
'And what makes you so sure?'
'You told me you'd spent the day at your wife's grave.'
'I did.'
'Did anyone see you?'
Delaney shrugged. 'Not that I'm aware of.'
'Other mourners? Someone who runs the place?'
'I don't know, Kate. I wasn't really in a state to notice much.'
'So you have no alibi?'
'No.'
'And no clue as to who really murdered Jackie Malone or Billy Martin, or Alexander Moffett?'
'None at all.'
Kate took a sip of her drink and looked at him sympathetically. 'Then you really are in the shit, Jack.'
Delaney finished his second glass. 'Neck high.'
Chief Inspector Diane Campbell leaned forward to look at the film that was playing in miniature on her laptop computer. A Victorian front room. Thick curtains drawn over lace nets, 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'. Campbell licked her dry lips as 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 and then gestured off camera. A young boy, only just in his teens if that, walked into shot. A pretty boy, with long dark curly hair, dark eyes and red lips.
The girl and the boy looked at each other as the man held his arms out like a Louisiana missionary and spoke with a dead man's voice.
'It's time to make some beautiful music, children.' The voice of Alexander Moffett.
There was a knock on the door and Campbell's heart leapt in her chest. She quickly closed her laptop and called out, 'Come in.'
Bonner came through the door. Campbell looked at him angrily. 'Do you have any good news for me, Sergeant Bonner?'
'I don't, ma'am.'
Campbell's temper rose as she shouted back at him. 'Then find him, for Christ's sake. Bring him in, Eddie. I don't care how and I don't care in what condition. We clear on that?'
'Ma'am.'
Campbell fixed him with a long, cold look. 'I'm not going down on this alone, Sergeant. If I go, you go with me. This is your fuck-up, you sort it. You hear me?'
'Loud and clear.'
'Get the fuck out of my office then.'
Bonner left, pulling the door hard behind him. Campbell looked at her laptop and folded her hand into a tight fist.
Kate poured a splash more whisky into Delaney's glass and a last measure into her own. She looked at Delaney, her voice slurring a little now, a smile tugging the corners of her lips and mischief definitely dancing in her eyes.
'What made you think you could trust me? Coming here?'
Delaney smiled, the strain showing in his tired eyes, but enjoying her company.
'Woman's intuition.'
Kate laughed, a musical laugh. 'Oh yeah. Yours?'
'Yours.'
'Pretty sure of yourself.'
'And they're not going to look for me here, are they?'
'Why not?'
Delaney leaned forward. 'Because everyone knows we can't stand the sight of each other.'
'People change.'
'Like hell they do.'
And the smile was in his eyes too. He leaned forward and Kate tilted her chin upwards, her lips warm and parted. And they kissed.
Delaney lost himself in the warmth, the taste of whisky on her, the openness in her wide, beautiful eyes. Eyes he could drown in. Then he caught himself and pulled back.
'Sorry.'
Kate shook her head. 'You've got nothing to be sorry about.' She held his head and pulled him back in to her, her teeth nipping his lower lip, hungry now. Passionate.
They stood up, Delaney shrugging out of his jacket and wrapping his strong arms around her pliant body. Holding her, needing her. Kate stood back, catching her breath, her ivory face flushed with desire. She held her hand out and Delaney took it, and she led him from the kitchen, to the stairs towards her bedroom. And Delaney almost made it.
'No. This isn't right, Kate.'
'Jack . . .'
But Delaney put a hand to her lips so that she couldn't speak.
'Don't, Kate. This isn't the right time.'
'It feels like it to me.'
He shook his head. 'With everything that's going on. I've already involved you in too much already.'
Kate looked at him for a moment. 'I haven't done anything that I haven't wanted to do.'
Delaney nodded, conflicted. 'I'm sorry.'
Kate looked away, embarrassed suddenly. 'There's a big sofa you can sleep on.'
She led him through to the lounge and Delaney sat gratefully on a wide red leather sofa.
'What are you going to do, Jack?'
'I don't know. Someone's very scared. I have to find out why.'
'It all comes back to Jackie Malone?'
Delaney nodded. 'Yeah, I think it does.'
'Somebody murdered her. And whoever it was, someone on the force is protecting him. Setting you up for the fall.'
'Looks that way.'
'I hope you find the bastards.'
Delaney's eyes hardened. 'Oh, I'll find them, Kate.' He was lost in his own thoughts for a moment and then smiled apologetically at her. 'I'll be out of your hair in the morning.'
Kate looked at him and then nodded, finally, with a small smile of her own and left.
Delaney lay back on the sofa, his mind dancing with thoughts he wasn't sure he wanted to be having. This wasn't a time to be getting emotionally involved with someone. And he knew that that was exactly what it was. It wasn't about sex. If it was, he'd already have been in Kate's bed. He'd lied to her earlier about Jackie Malone. They were more than just friends; he had slept with her. Not often, but every now and again, when enough Guinness and whiskey had chased the guilty thoughts of his wife out of his turbulent and troubled brain, he had visited her and they had slept together. And she had written about it in her diary. But they were just friends, there was no emotional context at all apart from that. They could talk, they could relate to each other and they could have sex without it meaning a damn thing. Until the next morning, of course, when Delaney would wake with more than a hangover. He'd wake with the guilt returning tenfold. Guilt that made his stomach cramp and his throat gag drily. That made him hate himself all over again.
Kate coughed quietly, and Delaney snapped out of his reverie. She had returned with a duvet under her arm and a new bottle of whisky in her hand. She put the whisky on a small table and handed Delaney the duvet.
'Are you sure this is what you want?'
Delaney nodded, not meeting her eye. 'Thanks.'
Kate pa
used, then smiled and ran her fingers gently through his hair. 'If you need anything, you know where I am.'
She walked back to the door and Delaney called after her. 'Kate.'
She turned back, surprised. 'Yes.'
'Thanks.'
'Sure.'
And she left.
The nurse was a small, dark-haired woman in her early twenties with delicate, almost Oriental features. Her hands were small too, delicate again, but precise. She moved a pillow under the woman's head. The woman's eyes were closed, her breathing operated by an artificial respirator. The mechanical pumps making an obscene sound. Her body was invaded by tubes and wires, and the beat of the heart monitor sent out a contrapuntal and discordant rhythm to the respirator. She was living in form only.
Delaney stood at the bottom of the bed as the nurse finished adjusting the pillow so that the woman's dark hair fanned out neatly on it. There was no twitch beneath her eyelids, no smile tugging at the corner of her lips, and there never would be again. She was dead. All it needed was for Delaney to let them turn the machine off.
The consultant was sympathetic. 'If there was any hope at all, I would advise against it, of course, but the brain stem has suffered too much damage. To all intents and purposes she is already dead.'
Delaney looked at him for a long moment, scared to ask the question but needing to know the answer. 'And the baby?'
The consultant shook his head sadly. 'I'm sorry.'
Delaney's head nodded downward as he gave permission. He couldn't hold back the tears any longer. As the obscenity of the pump ceased and the heart monitor line became still, his world went dark.
The small nurse passed him with a sympathetic look, and he wanted to reach out and hold her. To beg her to do the same for him. To pull his plug, because he couldn't bear it. He couldn't live with his wife's death, and what was more, he didn't want to. But he didn't do anything. He was powerless. Impotent. Wasted. All he could do was stand there and sob.
Delaney lay curled, almost foetus-like, on the sofa, his head twitching as in his dreams he looked down once again on the face of his wife. He could almost hear her heart slowing and stopping, the blood lying still in her veins, her breath sighing to a close, and tears fell from his eyes all over again.
Kate sat gently beside him and put her arms around him, cradling him like a child. Delaney awoke, the memories clinging to him like a physical presence, a thick cobweb of pain. Kate murmured reassurance and Delaney held her as though a hurricane might blow him away if he didn't. Kate looked into his eyes and touched a finger to his lips.