Hard Evidence

by Mark Pearson

  'Come to bed.' She took his hand and stood up, and Jack didn't even hesitate as he let her lead him from the room.

  29.

  Kate stood under the shower. The pressure was turned to maximum but she didn't have the water as hot as she normally did. In fact there was a lot about her this morning that wasn't normal. For one thing, she was smiling quietly to herself, and for another, as she soaped her body with a sponge it was more of a caress than a scrub. She hummed as she poured shampoo into her hand and worked it through her thick tresses of hair.

  She rinsed the soap clear and sang too. It was the first time she had sung in the shower for a long time. She bit her lower lip a little guiltily as flashes of memory came back.

  'Tell me, Jack. Talk to me.' Low, breathless, husky.

  'Dig your nails in. I want to taste blood.'

  'Pleasure and pain, Detective Inspector. Very Catholic.'

  Delaney laughed, looking into her eyes, at the mischief sparking within them. 'I want to remember the moment.'

  And Kate dug her nails into his buttocks, pulling him deeper into her. 'Oh, you'll remember. I'll make sure of that.'

  And she set about keeping her promise.

  The water pooled at Kate's feet as she leaned into the jet and caught her breath. Just remembering the night before made her hot and bothered again. Hot and bothered in the nicest possible way, and Kate shook her head at herself. Delaney was on the run. He was a wanted man. Wanted for murder. This was certainly not the time to be getting involved, or the man to be getting involved with.

  She wrapped her robe around her as she walked into the kitchen and put the large enamel kettle on the range to boil; then, smiling playfully, she slipped the robe off again and walked into her bedroom.

  'Time to go to work, Jack.'

  But Delaney already had.

  Kate sighed; she should have known better.

  DC Sally Cartwright was having a bad Sunday morning. Jack Delaney doing a runner meant no one was getting a day off any time soon. She sat at her desk in the CID room with her head reeling. She couldn't believe that Delaney had been arrested and was now somewhere on the loose. Maybe she hadn't been on the force long enough to develop what Bob Wilkinson called his infallible gut instinct for slags, but she knew one thing for sure, and that was that Jack Delaney was no slag. She drank her coffee thoughtfully as Bob, perched on the edge of her desk, leaned in.

  'I'd watch your back if I were you, Sally.'

  'Why?'

  'Because people reckon you were close to him.'

  Sally shook her head, shocked. 'What are you saying?'

  'Just rumours. He has got a reputation, you know.'

  'For Christ's sake, Bob, he's old enough to be my dad.'

  Wilkinson laughed. 'From what I've heard, most of the women on the relief would've been banging him like a drum.'

  'Well he wasn't banging me, and this isn't funny, Bob.'

  Wilkinson nodded seriously. 'I know.'

  'What are we going to do?'

  Wilkinson shrugged. 'Who was it said there's something rotten in the state of Denmark?'

  'Hans Christian Andersen?'

  'Whoever it was. Something in this whole set-up stinks.'Wilkinson looked across as Bonner walked in at the end of the room, his face a picture of bruised pride and even more bruised flesh. 'And that slag's not so squeaky either.'

  'You don't trust him?'

  'Put it this way, love, You turn your back on him, you'd best be wearing iron knickers, you know what I'm saying?'

  'I thought he was quite close to the inspector.'

  'Trust me. The only thing that slag is close to is his own right hand.' He looked at Sally pointedly. 'He'd fuck his own grandmother and her postman if he thought there was something in it for him.'

  Bob stood up and finished his coffee. 'I'd better get back. Like I said, just watch your back.'

  Sally turned back to her paperwork but couldn't concentrate. She went across to open the window; the heat in the office was unbearable. She leant a little into the cool breeze as it blew through the open window, running her hand around her neck, wiping a damp palm on her skirt.

  'Hot, isn't it?'

  Sally turned back, startled and flustered, to see Bonner standing right next to her.

  'Yeah.'

  He leaned in and spoke quietly. 'You heard anything from Jack?'

  Sally shook her head.

  'The damn fool. What's he playing at?'

  Sally looked at the bruising spoiling Bonner's normal good looks. 'I'm guessing you're not too happy with him?'

  Bonner ran a hand over his face. 'I don't blame him for this.'

  'You don't?'

  Bonner shrugged. 'Maybe a little. But I would have let him go if he'd asked. He didn't need to kill us both to do it.'

  'You'd have let him go?'

  Bonner nodded, his face a picture of sincerity. 'Murder. It's not Jack's style, for Christ's sake. He's been fitted up.'

  'It's what a lot of us think.'

  'We're going to have to stick together, Sally. He needs our help.'

  Sally shook her head. 'What can we do?'

  Bonner stood up straighter as Diane Campbell walked into the room, her face thunderous. He lowered his voice. 'I'll let you know. But if he gets in touch, tell him I want to see him.'

  'Bonner. My office, now,' Campbell barked at him.

  Sally watched as Bonner walked across to Campbell's office. As he closed the door she pulled out her mobile phone and looked at a text message. She stood for a moment or two in indecision, then, making her mind up, snatched her jacket off the back of her chair and hurried out of the office.

  Kate was sitting at her desk, trying to work but unable to concentrate, when her mobile rang. She snatched it up and frowned angrily at the withheld number, then answered it. 'Kate Walker?'

  'Kate, it's Delaney.'

  'Jack, where the hell did you go?'

  'Sorry.'

  'Sorry? For Christ's sake, do you know how I felt?'

  'I didn't want you to get involved.'

  'And you thought fucking me was the best way to achieve that, did you?'

  'It wasn't like that.'

  'Then what was it like? I had to check my bedside cabinet to see you hadn't left a couple of twenty-pound notes behind.'

  'Kate . . .'

  'My name's not Jackie Malone, you know.'

  'I didn't want you getting hurt.'

  Kate snorted angrily. 'Good job!'

  'It's your career. You can't afford to be associated with me. Not right now. I just wanted to do the right thing.'

  'Then don't patronise me, Jack. I want to help.' There was long pause and Kate could hear Delaney breathing, thinking.

  'Okay.'

  'Okay? Is that it?'

  'Yeah, Okay.'

  Kate smiled. Damn the man.

  Half an hour later, Kate was looking out of a wooden-framed window on to a picture of English tranquillity. Lush green grass, sedate willows lining ordered and well-tended gravel paths. Somewhere a fountain tinkled and Kate could imagine the cool water in the air, giving gentle relief from the relentless sun. In the centre of the park was a small lake with a semicircle of trees behind it, and splashing on the water was a family of moorhens. It was a beautiful spot to spend eternity, she thought.

  She turned back to the caretaker who looked after the cemetery. 'It's a lovely place, Mr Hoskins.'

  The caretaker nodded. 'I try and keep it nice.'

  'You do it very well.'

  'People don't get the respect they deserve in life, do they?'

  Kate shook her head in agreement. 'Not often. Not in this world.'

  'So when they die and come here, I like to think they all get respect. At least they do from me.'

  'And Jack Delaney's grateful for it?'

  'He always brings fresh flowers. Always leaves a little something in the donations box. He doesn't think anyone sees, but I do. I see everything.'

  'I can imagine.'


  'I don't spend it on myself. Now and again I buy flowers for them as don't get any visitors.'

  'That's good of you.'

  He grimaced. 'Yeah, well, no one's going to be putting any flowers on my grave, miss.'

  Kate gave him a small smile. 'You're absolutely certain of the date?'

  'Positive. I never forget a date. It goes with the job really. Spend all my day looking at them.'

  Kate nodded gratefully. If Delaney was here grieving for his dead wife all day long, then he couldn't have been in Ladbroke Grove murdering a prostitute. 'I might need you to make a statement later.'

  'I've already done that.'

  Kate looked back at him, surprised. 'I'm sorry?'

  'At the nick. One of your sergeants, he's got my written statement.'

  'Which one?'

  'Can't remember his name, arrogant little cockerel.'

  Kate nodded again gratefully, pretty sure who he was referring to.

  Outside in her car, Kate hesitated for a moment, flipping her mobile phone round in her hand. She watched as a young couple came and placed a bunch of flowers by a small memorial marker, then made a decision. She thumbed the number in quickly and set her jaw firmly as the call was answered.

  'Superintendent Walker, please.'

  There are all kinds of secret places in London. Buildings hidden away in the labyrinths of old cul-de-sacs and dead ends that lie moments away from the main thoroughfares. The Church of Saint Mary is one such place. A small gothic church, with its own walled garden, set back at the top end of a cul-de-sac just a stone's throw from the middle of Oxford Street, but, as the morning services had finished, it was as quiet now as a building can be in London.

  The sun still beat down, as relentless as it had been all summer. Dazzling the pavements with light and melting the tarmac of the roads, so that the tarry smell hung in the air like a modern-day smog. But inside the church it was cool. As cool as a mountain stream and a menthol cigarette. As cool as a Martini served dirty in a New York cocktail bar. But still Delaney sweated, and it wasn't the fact that he was wearing his leather jacket that moistened his neck and sent small beads of perspiration running from his broad forehead to drip into his eyes and along his nose. It was the church itself. He tasted the sweet saltiness of his own sweat and dragged his coat sleeve across his brow. Ever since he was a child, churches had unsettled him. He had a rational mind, but he nonetheless felt a tangible presence whenever he was in a church. He didn't think it was God. In Delaney's opinion, God was just as likely to be in a hotel bedroom, or a supermarket, or a bowling alley as in a church. Given the amount of horror perpetrated on a daily basis in His name, it was perhaps more likely that He wouldn't be in a church, or a mosque, or a synagogue.

  Delaney looked around the small, beautifully constructed church with its sweeping stone pillars and exquisite carvings, its Renaissance paintings and heart-breaking realistic statuary, and felt the weight not of the presence of God, but of his own ever-present guilt.

  He closed his eyes in silent thought for a moment or two, lost in unbearable memories. So lost that he didn't notice the figure slide quickly into the pew next to him and press something into the side of his ribs.

  Startled, he opened his eyes to see Sally sitting beside him. He looked down as she pulled back the mobile phone with which she had just prodded him.

  'You trying to give me a heart attack?'

  'I thought you were asleep.'

  Delaney looked at her, and then laughed. His voice echoing around the small church like a rude intrusion. 'Christ, Sally. I think you just put ten years on my life.'

  Sally looked around, shocked. 'Don't, sir.'

  'Don't what?'

  'Blaspheme.'

  'Blasphemy is the least of my problems.'

  'Still, sir. You know. In a church.'

  'Don't tell me you're a Catholic too?'

  'Church of Scotland, sir.'

  Delaney looked at her, surprised. 'I didn't know you were Scottish.'

  'On my dad's side. I grew up in north-west London. Went to church there. St John's. Run by an ex-padre, reminds me a lot of you.'

  'How?'

  'He could be an irreligious bastard at times too, sir. And he liked a drop of whisky.'

  Delaney laughed again, gently this time. 'Well, I do thank God for you, Sally, that's all I say.'

  Sally looked at him, suddenly serious. 'What are you going to do?'

  'What I do best.'

  'What's that?'

  'Fuck things up regally.'

  Sally took his hand. 'That's rubbish, sir. You're the best detective on the squad.'

  'And who says that?'

  'You do.'

  Delaney smiled.

  'And so do I.'

  Delaney looked at her. 'How long have you been a detective constable?'

  'Maybe it's just a week. But it's long enough to know the truth when I see it.'

  Delaney patted her hand gratefully. 'So what have you got for me?'

  'My dismissal, probably.' She reached into the inside pocket of her jacket and pulled out a sheet of paper.

  'My best guess is that the woman who called you about the DVD was Karen Richardson. A prostitute who used to work with Jackie Malone. They were busted together in a massage parlour out in Cricklewood some years back.'

  'You got an address?'

  'I'm working on it.'

  'I need to know where she is, Sally. It's really important.'

  Sally sighed, frustrated. 'I'm doing the best I can, but it's very hard with everyone watching me. I'm just a constable. They catch me . . .'

  'I know. You're putting your career on the line for me, and I'm grateful.'

  Sally shook her head. 'I'm just doing what I signed up to do. You're not the bad guy, boss.'

  'I'm glad someone believes me.'

  'You've still got a lot of friends on the force.'

  Delaney took the piece of paper. 'Nobody else knows about her?'

  Sally shook her head. 'But Bonner—'

  Delaney interrupted her sharply. 'You didn't tell him this?'

  'No.'

  Delaney nodded, relieved. 'Good.'

  'But he wants to help.'

  'What did he say to you?'

  'Just that, that he wants to help.'

  'You told him you were meeting me?'

  'No, but I guess he worked out you might get in touch with one of us.'

  Delaney took her shoulders, looking into her eyes so she could see how serious he was. 'This stays between you and me for now. Okay?'

  'Of course, sir.'

  'And don't call me sir. If I get back on to the force after this little lot, I'll be lucky to be a uniformed constable.'

  'He said that if you got in touch, he wants to see you.' She paused. 'I don't think you should do it. I don't think he can be trusted.'

  'Oh, I think he can be trusted all right.' Delaney smiled, but it had all the warmth of a dead man's hand. He took out his phone and hit Bonner's number on speed dial.

  30.

  Bill Hoskins walked over to the gas ring he kept in his maintenance hut, flicked a match to light the gas and put the kettle on. Some minutes later, he was settled in his armchair with a mug of tea, some Rich Tea biscuits and a book. He was reading The Moonstone by WiIkie Collins. It was a long book, longer than most he read, but he loved a good mystery and he liked to take a page or two on his tea breaks.

  A short while later, his tea finished, the book lay flapping open in his lap. In the summer heat he had gently nodded off to sleep. He was awakened by the sound of the door opening.

  'Hello?'

  He squinted into the bright sunlight spilling into the room and he could tell that it wasn't the attractive young lady who had come to see him earlier in the day, as he'd hoped, but someone entirely different. He sighed, irritated. 'What do you want?'

  As the shot rang out, he had his answer. He opened his mouth to protest, but the words died with his breath on his lips. He slumped back in h
is chair, the book falling to the floor. Bill Hoskins never would get to find out who had stolen the Moonstone. He'd taken his last page.

  Kate sat nervously in her car, parked on a double yellow line. She looked at her watch and drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. Further down the street she could see a traffic officer slowly walking along the line of illegally parked cars. Where was Delaney? And what the hell was she doing anyway? She was a forensic pathologist, for goodness' sake, not Tonto to Jack Delaney's Lone Ranger. What was she doing running around London trying to find a murderer?

  The traffic officer looked across pointedly at Kate and she swore under her breath and turned the engine over, pulling back into the traffic just as Delaney came out of the church carrying a small overnight bag. She stopped, ignoring the angry honks from behind, and leaned over to open the door for him. The traffic officer watched as Delaney opened the boot of the car and put his bag inside. He closed the boot and walked slowly forward. The officer's gaze was lingering a little too long for Kate's comfort.

  'For God's sake get in, Jack. That copper's looking at you.'

  Jack got into the car, pulling the door closed behind him. 'He's just Traffic.'

  'He might well be, but your face has been all over the place.'

  Kate floored the accelerator and headed into Oxford Street. 'Where to?'

  'Angel.'

  'What's there?'

  'Eddie Bonner. I just spoke to him.'

  Kate looked across, concerned. 'Do you think that's particularly wise after what I just told you about the caretaker's statement?'

  Delaney shrugged. 'I guess we'll find out.'

  Head north from King's Cross towards Holloway, up a long, busy hill lined with scruffy warehouses and aluminium-roofed offices, and after about half a mile or so you get to Angel tube station. Turn right and you are in Islington proper, if proper is the word. Delaney could remember when the area was in two halves. On one side of the divide lived the poor and on the other the rich, like a line had been drawn across the road. That had all changed now, since the late eighties and early nineties, from the Angel tube station all the way down the main road past the King's Head and beyond was the world of the chic and the sleek. Designer pubs crammed in with trendy restaurants and bistros. Chain bars that catered to the nouveaux hoorays, like the Slug and Lettuce, All Bar One and the Pitcher and Piano, had replaced the old Islington that Delaney remembered. Not that he didn't still have a drink in the King's Head when he got a chance, where you were as likely to share a pint with an Irish fiddle player as with a long-haired drug dealer with dreams of rock stardom that had long since crashed and burned. There was something about the untouched nature of the place that Delaney took to, and if it was an affectation that they still rang up the sales on an old-fashioned till with the amounts demanded in l.s.d. – the currency, not the drug – then it was a small price to pay for a little defiance amidst the ravages of progress.