Blood Work (25 page)

'And what does that mean?'

'It means we don't know who owns the development
company.'

'And there's no way of finding out?'

'None that I'm capable of.'

'How then?'

'I don't know, Jack. These guys are probably
operating outside the law. This is your area of
expertise. You deal with it.'

The line went dead. Delaney closed his phone and
cursed. He may not know who was behind what
happened, yet. But at least now he had motive and
that was a start. He flicked the intercom switch on
and listened to Ashley Bradley flatly denying any
involvement in the murders. As he watched him, and
listened to him speak, Delaney thought he was an
unlikely candidate for a serial killer. But then he was
also aware that they didn't always hunt alone. Yes,
sometimes they had an accomplice, someone who
had graduated up from flashing at cantankerous
nurses and filming the undergarments of unwary
shoppers at shopping malls. But, if the smart-suited
and career-enhanced coppers interviewing the
suspect had asked for his opinion, he would have
said that Ashley Bradley wasn't involved at all.
He could read people, that was his talent above all
else. And, although he had thought, when he first
saw the photos Bradley had on his wall, that he had
made a big mistake in letting him pass them on the
stairs, listening to him now he didn't think he had.
They had the wrong man. He'd put money on it.

Upstairs, Kate Walker was sitting in Jack Delaney's
office, at his desk, and drinking a cup of coffee from
his mug. If someone had told her this morning she
would be doing that she would have thought them
mad. At the moment though she didn't have time for
introspection. She was looking at the preliminary
report from Dr Patrick Neally, her colleague who had
attended the murder scene earlier that day. She had
asked her assistant to email it through. Strictly
speaking she should have gone to him first, but she
didn't have the time for professional niceties. And, in
any case, she was working out her notice, so she
thought, stuff it! She also had the photographs and
notes from the scene of crime, which she was leaving
till last. The report didn't make for good reading.
Whoever had done this to another person was
beyond reason. The mutilation was sickening even to
her, who had seen enough horror over her years as a
forensic pathologist to despair of the human race
entirely. This was a degree of magnitude more
gruesome than anything she had ever seen.

But it was to get worse.

Delaney was walking down the front staircase, heading
for the exit to the car park. He needed a cigarette.
Actually he needed a drink. Not needed it, he
rationalised, but wanted it. When did want become
need? he wondered. When you had no control over
your desires? Well, that was something he always
had. Not like the sad bastard being interviewed right
now.

What Delaney needed to do was think, and the
quick spikes of nicotine in his blood helped him do
that. He was fumbling in the right-hand pocket of his
leather jacket for his cigarettes when George Napier
walked up to him, a smile on his face, Diane
Campbell right behind him, not smiling at all.

'Delaney.'

Delaney's heart sank. Napier smiling. Not a good
sign. 'Guv.' He nodded at Diane, who raised her
eyebrows back. 'Ma'am.'

'Good work today, Delaney. Nipped him in the
bud.'

'Sir?'

'Bradley.'

'I don't think we should get ahead of ourselves, sir.'

'Now is not the time to piss on your own parade,
Delaney.'

'I'm sorry?'

'We have a press conference set up. We want you
to make the statement.'

'Aren't we jumping the gun a little?'

'Not at all. The press are going to be all over the
serial killer aspect. Sky News have held off until now,
but as we have the perpetrator in custody they have
asked for first bite of the cherry.'

'How did they know we have someone in custody?'

'Are you deliberately being obtuse, man?'

Delaney smiled at Diane. 'Must be my Irish
upbringing, sir.'

'I've been in contact with her to control what goes
on the news. We made a deal. I, for one, honour my
deals.'

'And if he's not the killer?'

'Of course he's the killer. He's got pictures of the
two women hanging on his wall, and we have him
exposing himself on the heath right by one of dead
victims.'

'All we have him for, sir, with respect, is just that.
Flashing his johnson at medical workers and sticking
his zoom lens up the skirts of happy shoppers.'
Delaney turned to his line boss. 'Can you talk some
sense into the man?'

'Maybe we should let Delaney interview him first,
sir,' she said quickly.

Napier goggled at her. 'And while he's doing that,
Paddington Green take the credit for our collar? I
don't think so.'

He looked at his watch. 'We're set up outside.'

Delaney shrugged and put a cigarette in his mouth.
Napier snatched it out and handed it to Diane
Campbell. 'Can't you keep a bloody leash on him,
Diane?'

'He needs castrating, sir, if you ask me. But I trust
his instincts.'

Napier thrust a sheet of paper into Delaney's
hands. 'Just smile at the pretty reporter and read the
statement, Delaney. Think you can manage that?'

'Not sure, sir. Not one for multitasking. Maybe the
chief inspector should do it.'

'And maybe I should remind you that there is a
complaint against you, Delaney?'

'And I'm sure Detective Constable Cartwright will
tell you that I merely defended myself.'

'Just play ball with me, Delaney. And I'll play ball
with you. This is a team here, and what counts is we
get results. You clear on that?'

'Sir.'

He thrust the sheet of paper into Delaney's hands.
'Then put one on the scoreboard for White City and
read the bloody statement.'

In the CID room, Jimmy Skinner called for hush,
even though nobody was talking and turned the
volume up on the television mounted on the wall. Sky
News was playing, with the breaking news banner
ticker-taping along the bottom –
man arrested in
connection with two recent murders
. Delaney was
facing the camera, looking as happy to be there as a
pig in a pork-pie shop. The camera cut back to
Melanie Jones who had her serious face on.

'Detective Inspector Delaney. I understand you
have been responsible for the arrest of a suspect in
two particularly gruesome killings. The first on South
Hampstead Heath yesterday, and the second discovered
this morning in a rented flat in Camden
Town?'

'A man is helping us with our inquiries.'

'One man responsible for both murders? So we are
looking at a serial killer here?'

'If I could just read out the prepared statement?'

'Of course.'

Delaney looked at the camera. ' "We can confirm
that a man has been arrested this afternoon and is
being questioned here at White City police station in
relation to the unlawful killings of two women. These
women have not as yet been identified and we would
urge anyone who knows them to contact the police as
soon as possible." '

The pictures taken from Ashley Bradley's bedroom
wall of the two dead women flashed up on the
television screen.

In the CID room Kate looked at the photographs
as they appeared on the screen. She couldn't see why
Jack Delaney had thought that one of them was her.
But with a wig on, and wearing her scarf, perhaps it
was an easy mistake to make. The women in the
photos looked young, confident and full of life. She
hadn't as yet looked at the scene-of-crime photos
from the Camden flat. She looked at the screen as the
camera shot cut back to Melanie Jones.

'What can you tell us about the man in custody,
Detective Inspector?'

Delaney looked down at the piece of paper that his
boss had given him. There was no more to the statement
and he had been told not to answer any
questions.

'There is nothing I can add to my statement about
the man in custody. However, we do believe that the
man responsible for these crimes has very low self-esteem.
He also has an uncontrollable anger towards
women and we think this is down to a very serious
form of penis envy.'

Melanie Jones reacted, smiled a little as she
recovered herself. 'I beg your pardon?'

Delaney looked at her, deadpan. 'We believe that
he feels himself to be extremely inadequate in the eyes
of women, and that this is down to some kind of
genital deformity.'

Behind the camera Delaney could see that George
Napier was absolutely fuming. He'd better watch his
stress levels, he thought, he was a heart attack looking
to happen. He could see Melanie Jones was about
to ask another question but he held his hand up.

'I am sorry but that is all the information I am able
to give at this juncture. Once again, I would urge
anyone who has any information about these women
to come forward.'

The images of the two women appeared on the
television screen once more.

Delaney headed back to the building. Napier
would have followed after him but Melanie Jones
approached him and he stopped to try and fight some
of the forest fire Delaney had started.

In the CID office Jimmy Skinner grinned at the television
screen. 'Way to go, Jack.' He winked at Sally
Cartwright. 'Looks like you might need a new partner.'

Kate looked across at him. 'I'm assuming he made
all that up?'

'The bit about the deformed wing-wang? I doubt
that was in the script.'

'Why did he say it then?'

'The killer is fucking around with Delaney.
Sending him messages. I guess he thought he would
send one back.'

'Is that wise?'

Skinner laughed out loud. 'Wise? This is Jack
Delaney we're talking about. He's not famous for
having the wisdom of Solomon.'

Delaney gave the custody sergeant a quick, grateful
nod as he opened the door to the holding cell. He
stepped inside and the sergeant closed it behind him.
He looked down at Ashley Bradley who was sitting
on the bed holding his head in his hands.

'You got anything to tell me, Ashley?'

'Who are you?

'I'm the sugarplum fucking fairy. Now answer my
question.'

Ashley Bradley shook his head nervously. 'I have
no idea what you're talking about.'

'You don't know who I am?'

Bradley shrugged.

'I'm Jack Delaney. Detective Inspector Delaney.
That make matters clearer for you?'

'You've come to let me out?'

Delaney barked a short, humourless laugh. 'Now
why in the name of all that's fucking holy would you
think that?'

'Because I haven't done anything wrong.'

'We caught you filming up the skirt of some
woman with no knickers on, you twink.'

Bradley sat up, more animated now. 'Are you
saying she wasn't wearing anything?'

Delaney sighed. 'You want to stick with the
programme here, son.'

'I want that tape back. That's my property. It's
legal to film people in public places, I looked it up on
the Internet.'

Delaney glared at him, his voice ratcheting up a
few decibels. 'Up her fucking skirt isn't considered
a public place, you sick dipstick.'

He crossed over to Ashley who flinched back
against the wall. 'What the hell is the mirror and the
buckle about?'

Bradley shook his head. 'I don't know what you're
talking about.'

Delaney looked in his eyes. Could see the fear and
the confusion, but couldn't see any guile. In truth, he
hadn't expected to. He turned back to the door and
rapped on it for the custody sergeant to let him out.

'Wait a minute.'

Delaney could hear the desperation in his voice and
turned back half hopeful. 'Yes?'

'About that tape . . .'

'What about it?'

'If you could get it back for me, I'd make it worth
your while.'

Delaney slammed the door on him.

The curly-haired man was sitting at his usual table in
the White Horse again. Nursing a pint of Guinness.
He took a sip and spilled some as he put the glass
back down on the table, his hand was shaking so
much with anger. The barman picked up the remote
control and changed the channel from Sky News to
Sky Sports.

He took another sip of his pint. The Irish beer
was far too bitter for his taste but he drank it
anyway. That clown Delaney had just made a big
mistake. He was helping the guy after all. And, all
right, he might have teased him a little with a
practical joke. But he'd been helping him. Leaving
him clues. Getting that retroussé-nosed reporter to
put her candy-coloured lips to good use. Delaney
should have been orgasming by now. He should
have been coming in his fucking detective trousers
for the help he was giving to him and his career.
Instead he was dicking about on national television.
Deformed genitalia! He'd give him deformed
genitalia. He looked at the woman who was standing
at the bar sipping on a bottle of Gold Label. Her
thin shoulder showed bone, but her arms had
muscle on them, like a female javelin thrower, with
just as strong a grip. In her thirties with ancient eyes
and buttocks that had been kissed by more bricks
than a stonemason's trowel, he reckoned. He
watched as she took another gulp of her Gold Label.
Strong barley wine, proof against the elements.
Probably proof against any leakage in her mouth
from a poorly fitting condom too, he thought. Gold
Label, it was like Domestos, killed ninety-nine point
nine per cent of all germs dead.

He could relate to that.

Detective Inspector Jack Delaney was a germ.

*

Kate hesitated for a moment before opening the envelope
containing the scene-of-crime photographs.
Something Jack had said niggled at her. There was
something she was sure they ought to be seeing, something
right before their eyes. She opened the envelope
and spilled the black-and-white photographs on to her
desk. One slid to the back of the desk. She picked it up.
It was a close-up of part of the woman's neck and it
showed the same deep puncture wound as the first
victim had.