by Mark Pearson
Jack Delaney was nine years old. He was walking back from school alone. His best friend Rory had been off sick with measles and he was forbidden to visit him. Jack was okay with that. He had seen kids with the measles right enough and he could do without them. He'd catch up with Rory when he was well.
Like Jack, Rory was big for his age, bigger even than Jack. Everyone said when he grew up he'd either be a policeman or professional wrestler. It was their joke. What Rory wanted to do when he grew up was be a carpenter like his da. Heck, his ma always joked, sure enough he could just pick the trees out of the ground, he'd have no need for lumberjacks for his raw materials. Rory took it in good humour, you had to keep the women on your side.
Jack agreed with him on that one. He didn't know what he wanted to do when he grew up, though. They talked about it often enough but he couldn't fix himself on anything. Fireman one week. A soldier a few years back before the Troubles had flared up in earnest. Sometimes he secretly dreamed of being a priest. Jack could see himself standing up there in the pulpit, holding everybody in awe as he railed and castigated. He was not so hot at the academics, however, and he saw how the black crows knew everything about everything, and that must take an awful lot of book studying and the like.
He bent down to pick up a pebble form the path. He threw the stone high in the air to clatter down on the salt-crusted stones on the beach below, when he heard the cry. And he recognised the voice.
He rushed down the path and around the corner. And there, sure enough, was Liam Corrigan, his cousin. Liam was a couple of years younger than Jack, a few inches shorter, and was surrounded by four older boys with mischief on their faces and sticks in their hands. Jack could see that Liam had tears in his eyes and a small trickle of blood running down his nose.
Jack knew the other boys. All MacWhites. All trouble. Like the family had always been. Jack turned to the eldest. 'Brave of you to be taking on the one boy.'
Barry MacWhite looked at Jack and grinned, strolling over to him. 'You want to join in, do you? Do you want some of—'
But he never finished the sentence as Jack had smashed his fist furiously and suddenly into the older boy's nose. The boy dropped squealing to his knees, Jack snatched the stick from his hand and turned to the three remaining MacWhites.
'Come on then, ya gobshites.'
He waved the stick in front of him and pushed Liam towards the road. 'Get out of here, Liam.'
And as his young cousin ran off the road for help, Delaney turned and faced the others, an anger beyond his years burning in his eyes and the other youths circled him as warily as a pack of dogs would approach a wounded wolf.
Had help not arrived when it did, things might have gone a lot worse for Jack than it did. But that was just the first time he ended up in hospital because of his cousin Liam. On that occasion it was for a fractured wrist. On the second occasion it was for something far more serious.
'He's coming round.'
Jack heard the voice and tried to open his eyes. He felt as if he had been run over by a herd of cattle. Every muscle in his body ached. But most of all there was a stabbing pain in his side.
'God bless you, Jack. You've done a marvellous thing.'
Jack blinked his eyes and could just about make out his aunt looking down at him, smiling gratefully.
'Is he going to be all right?' he asked.
'Yes, Jack,' his aunt said, taking his hand and patting it. 'He's going to be just grand. You both are.'
The fact that she crossed herself immediately after saying it might have given others cause for concern, but Jack Delaney was sixteen years old and invincible.
'You've saved his life, Jack. You've saved his life,' cried his aunt, bursting into tears.
Jack shrugged. 'Sure, it was only a kidney.'
A hospital trolley laden with pills and syringes and God knows what else clattered past his bed and Delaney cursed silently. The thin tendrils of sleep that were clinging to him were severed by the sound. He was awake now, he was in pain, and he was going to have to deal with it.
He leaned his head further up the pillow and groaned, the last few images of his dreams lingering in his consciousness. Why had he been dreaming about his cousin Liam? Why had he been remembering those incidents? It wasn't just being in hospital. Delaney groaned again and raised himself to sit up in bed. He ran his good right hand over his bandaged shoulder and strapped-up left arm and grimaced. Who was he kidding? He knew exactly why he was thinking about Liam. He threw back the covers and slid his legs to the floor. Standing up and wincing at the pain in his shoulder, he looked at the clock. Way past time. The pain forgotten as he picked up his clothes from the chair beside his bed.
As an alarm bell sounded, Kate and Sally ran concerned down the corridor and into his room.
Kate couldn't believe her eyes. 'Bloody, stupid, bloody man!'
'Where's he gone?'
'I don't know, Sally. You're the detective. Where do men with no brain cells go?' Kate snapped.
Sally shrugged. 'Paddington Green?'
Kate glared at her. 'Yeah, not funny.'
They went back outside and Kate stopped one of two nurses who were hurrying down the corridor. 'What's going on?'
'A prisoner's escaped from the secure room.'
Kate sighed. 'Don't tell me – Kevin Norrell.'
The nurse nodded. 'The officer who was guarding them is seriously hurt.'
'And the other prisoner here? The one with the broken jaw?'
The nurse looked at Kate, shocked, as if she could hardly believe the words that were coming out of her mouth. 'He's dead.'
Sally took Kate's arm. 'You don't think Jack's busted Norrell loose?'
Kate shook her head, her voice trembling with anger and fear. 'I don't know, Sally. Let's find the stupid man.'
Melanie Jones sat at her desk writing on her computer. She read what she had just written and then highlighted and deleted it. It was all garbage. This was supposed to be her big break and what did she have to show for it? They had a guy in custody who they figured was good for the murders, but she had listened to his voice at the police's request and she couldn't be sure it was the man who had telephoned her. She had no idea what Delaney had been doing with his comments about deformed genitalia in his press statement either. She had dealt with the police enough times to know that they didn't release that kind of detail. If she didn't know better, she would have said he was deliberately trying to rile the murderer. But if he was already in custody, what was the point? She thought ironically about the title of the book she had in mind. Intimate Conversations With a Serial Killer. Some intimacy! She'd exchanged about ten words with the man. And the main part of the book, looking at the investigation through the eyes of the lead detective, had gone tits up as well. The suspect had been arrested by plain clothes and not only had Jack Delaney been taken off the case it looked like he had been taken out for good. Some nutter, probably an ex-girlfriend and good luck to her, had shot him and left him in intensive care in South Hampstead Hospital. Be just her luck if he died on her as well. So much for the New York office and the dream job. She had seen herself as a modern-day Truman Capote; as it was she was turning into more of a Lois Lane. Everything happened when she wasn't there, and her Superman turned out to be an Irish drunk whose IQ was no higher than her shoe size.
'Shit,' she said aloud, for the thirtieth time that day. And then the phone rang.
She picked it up, suppressing a yawn. 'Melanie Jones, Sky News.'
The lilting brogue on the other end of the line jolted the yawn into oblivion.
'Roses are crap, me darlin'. Violets are shit. Sit on me face, and wriggle a bit.'
'Delaney?'
'Ah no, sad to hear he's not well.'
'Who is this?'
There was laugher on the other end of the line and the accent changed to English. 'Well now, it's not Santa's little helper. But I could be your lucky charm.'
And Melanie recognised the voice, belatedly hitting
the record button built into her digital phone system.
'I'm listening.'
'www.truecrimeways.com.'
'What's that?'
'The password is Whitechapel and your birthday.'
'But what is it?'
The line went dead and Melanie was left listening to a single persistent tone. She blinked for a moment as though mesmerised and then hung up the phone, her fingers flashing across her keyboard with more enthusiasm than she had had all morning.
Delaney winced, held his side and leaned against the wall of the visitors' centre. He put a cigarette in his mouth and searched through his pockets for a box of matches. He twisted his hand to the other pocket and picked out the box with his fingertips. He pulled the box open with his teeth and managed to get a match out. But how he was going to strike it he had absolutely no idea.
'Jack Delaney!'
He looked across and cursed as he saw Kate Walker and Sally Cartwright bearing down on him. Great, he thought, double tagged.
'What the hell do you think you're doing?'
'I'm trying to have a cigarette, Kate.'
Kate glared at him. 'I thought you'd given up?'
'I did. I'm very good at giving up. I do it all the time.'
'You should be in bed, boss,' Sally said, taking the box of matches off him and lighting his cigarette.
Kate shook her head, resigned. 'You realise Norrell has escaped.'
'Yeah, I know.'
'It's not safe for you, Jack.'
'He's not going to do anything to me.'
'How can you be so sure?'
'I just know.' Delaney drew deep on his cigarette. 'Sally, I need you to drive me.'
Kate sneered. 'Are you mad? You're not going anywhere.'
'I have to.'
'For God's sake, Sally, talk some sense into him.'
'Where do you want to go?' Sally asked.
'I'll tell you in the car.'
Kate stepped between them. 'No, if anybody is driving you it will be me.'
Delaney looked across at Sally, then shrugged with a little smile and kissed Kate full on the lips, who was too startled to back away. 'No, I've got another job for you to do.'
'What?'
'There's a man in intensive care. I saw him on my way out and recognised him. He was shot on Hampstead Heath last night. Near where we found the first victim.'
'I thought the latest theory was it was a Jack the Ripper copycat, killing prostitutes.'
'Maybe we were supposed to think that. He was shot in the same area with a tranquilliser rifle. I don't believe in coincidences, Kate. Check it out, find out if it's the same tranquillising drug.'
'What does it mean if it is?'
Delaney ground his cigarette under his heel. 'I have absolutely no idea.'
He turned to Sally. 'Come on, Constable, you can drive.'
Sally shrugged helplessly at Kate and followed him to the car.
*
George Napier hung up the telephone. He was far from pleased. Serious crimes had just released Ashley Bradley on police bail. On top of that Kevin Norrell had escaped from the police guard at the South Hampstead Hospital. And if that wasn't enough, Delaney had gone walkabout too. Napier opened the bottom drawer of his desk cabinet and pulled out a bottle of milk of magnesia. He had just taken a healthy swig, when Diane Campbell walked into the room. Why couldn't she keep a damn leash on her Irish bloody inspector? he'd like to know. Was it too much to ask?
Diane read his expression and nodded, at the bottle. 'Ulcer?
Napier grimaced. 'Indigestion.'
'It's going to get a lot worse.'
'What are you talking about?'
Diane picked up the TV remote control from Napier's desk, pointed it at the large television in the corner of the room and turned it on. Melanie Jones's picture-perfect face filled the screen.
'Sky News is now exclusively able to reveal a gruesome new development in the murders of two sex workers. One was found on Hampstead Heath three days ago and the second found murdered in a flat in Camden Town. Sky News understands that horrific details concerning the murders lead police to believe they are dealing with a Jack the Ripper copycat killer. Sky News has been given exclusive access to scene-of-the-crime photographs and forensic details that show that there is no coincidence. In a further development, the suspect the police were holding in connection with these killings has now been released.'
Diane Campbell pushed the mute button cutting off the sound as the television now flashed up pictures of the two dead women.
'How the hell did they get hold of this, Diane?'
'The killer told them, sir.'
'Why?'
'Clearly he didn't think he was getting the recognition he deserved.'
'Get that reporter in here. And where the fuck is Delaney?'
It wasn't the first time Chief Inspector Diane Campbell had heard that question, but it was the first time she had ever heard George Napier swear.
Sally pulled the car to a stop outside a betting shop on the Kilburn High Road. It was called Right Bet and was either in danger of going bust or the owners felt it didn't do to advertise wealth.
Delaney struggled to get the seat belt out of its socket and Sally leaned across. 'Let me.'
She pushed the button and his seat belt snapped back. Delaney rubbed his sore shoulder. 'It would be a lot easier if I didn't wear the fricking thing in the first place. I'm in enough pain as it is, you know.'
Sally smiled at him. 'Clunk click, every trip.'
'Just wait here.' Delaney opened the car door.
'You sure you don't want me with you?'
'Quite sure.'
Delaney got out of the car and walked to the shop, kicking aside an empty tin of Special Brew as he entered. It was a small shop. No customers. Sheets of paper posted around the room with the various horse and dog race meets covered on them. In the corner was a small television showing dogs running at Brough Park in Newcastle. Behind the counter was a large, bored-looking, bald man in his forties with a barrel of a beer belly and, in defiance of the regulations, a lit fag dangling from his lips. He looked up from his copy of Sunday Sport.
'Help you?'
'Is Liam in?'
'And who wants him?'
Delaney looked over his shoulder at the empty shop behind him then back at the man again. 'That would be me.' The large man opened his mouth to say something but Delaney didn't have the energy for it. 'Just tell him it's Jack Delaney.'
The man grunted and disappeared through the door to his left.
Delaney looked up at the television screen. A brindled greyhound carrying the number seven won the race. Delaney's lucky number.
'Jack Delaney, you Irish motherfucker!'
Delaney turned round to see his cousin grinning at him. He may have been smaller than Delaney at age seven, now he was four inches taller and good few stones heavier. And all of it muscle. He threw open the hatch and grappled Delaney in a bear hug.