Blood Work (29 page)

Liam opened the fridge and pulled out a couple of
tins of lager. Foster's, thankfully, not Special Brew,
and handed one to his cousin.

Delaney awkwardly pulled the tab and took a
couple of grateful swallows. He hadn't realised how
thirsty he was.

'So, what can I do for you, big man?'

'I need a piece, Liam.'

'I see.' His cousin nodded seriously and gestured at
his bandaged shoulder. 'This got anything to do with
the fancy dress outfit?'

'Yup. I want to repay the compliment.'

'I'd advise you make a better job of it if you do.'

'Count on that.'

Liam smiled, not doubting it. 'And what makes
you think your law-abiding cousin would have access
to unlicensed and unauthorised firearms?'

'Just get me a piece, Liam.'

Liam considered for a moment and then stood up.
'Anything for you, Jack. You know that.'

He stood up and moved the fridge to one side,
pulled up a loose floorboard, rummaged beneath and
pulled out a cloth-wrapped package, which he
handed to Delaney.

'Ammunition in there. You want to tell me what
you need it for?'

'Nope.'

'You want any help with it?'

Delaney held up the bundle. 'Just this.'

Liam laughed. 'What are you going to do, stick it
down your trousers? Jesus, man, you'll be back in
casualty with your cock shot off, and what'll I tell
your daughter then? Hang on. I'll get you a holster.'

Delaney nodded gratefully. His cousin had a point.

Kate Walker tapped on Diane Campbell's office,
walked in and shut the door behind her. She wasn't
surprised to see the superintendent standing by the
open window smoking a cigarette. Jack Delaney and
Diane Campbell could support a tobacco plantation
between them.

'Hi, Kate.'

'Diane.'

'Want to tell me where Jack Delaney is?'

'Believe me, if I knew I'd be more than happy to
tell you.'

'Why do we put up with him?'

'God's punishment for a previous life.'

'Now I
do
believe you have spent too much time
with him.' She tossed her cigarette out of the window
and walked across the room as Kate opened her
shoulder bag. 'What have you got for me?'

Kate pulled out two photos and a sheet of paper
which she handed to the superintendent.

'Both female victims had the same puncture wound
to the neck. A very forceful puncture wound made, I
believe, by a tranquilliser gun or rifle.'

Diane had picked up on what Kate had said. 'What
do you mean by "the female victims"?'

Kate pointed at the paper she had given Diane.
'Last night a man was shot on Hampstead Heath.
Again it looks like with a tranquilliser dart. He had a
near fatal dose of the stuff in him. He was lucky to
survive the night.'

'Does he have any idea who did it?'

'He's not speaking yet.'

'But he's going to make it?'

'Yeah, he's going to make it.'

Diane's forehead creased as she looked back at the
photos. 'So, you're saying this is the same killer.
What's the connection? Mr James Collins the surgical
registrar is not exactly a female prostitute, is he?'

'Not unless my seven years of medical training
missed something very important.'

'So what the hell is going on?'

But if Dr Walker had any answers to that they
certainly weren't showing on her face.

Jimmy Skinner rubbed his eyes. He was used to
staring at a computer monitor for hours, but that was
playing poker. Wading through reports was a
different matter. Plus, he reckoned he was wasting his
time. Paddington Green were in charge of the case
now. But the killer was still at large, the public were
at risk, and at times like this all hands were called to
the deck. It just wasn't the deck he would have
preferred.

He flicked on and read the inventory of what had
been found in the second victim's apartment. All the
videos and DVDs were sex videos. As were the
magazines. No
Home & Country
, no
Good
Housekeeping
, not even a Delia Smith cookery book.
He lived on his own and never ever cooked and even
he had a copy of her summer cookery book. For this
working girl the property was clearly just that: a
workplace. She lived elsewhere, he'd bet on it like he
was holding a royal flush.

He made himself a cup of coffee and went through
the copies of the paperwork again. There were about
twelve shoeboxes' worth of them, mostly receipts for
items all paid for by cash, and letters from prospective
or satisfied clients. There were no phone bills
as there was no landline to the property, she
obviously only took bookings on her mobile.

As he rubbed his tired eyes an hour later he realised
one receipt didn't match all the others. A vet's bill. It
was the one thing that didn't have a connection with
anything in the flat. Suddenly energised he picked up
the phone and got the directory service to connect
him directly with the office named on the receipt.

A short while after that and Jimmy hung up the
phone, picked up his coat and was hurrying out the
door. The vet had confirmed the receipt was
regarding surgical work done on a Siamese cat, but
the name didn't match the one Jimmy had given him.
The vet refused to give out the name and address
unless he saw some identification. His premises were
in Mornington Crescent off the Hampstead Road.
Jimmy stood up and pulled his jacket off the back of
the chair when Diane Campbell came in and leaned
against the door frame.

'You got something?'

Skinner nodded. 'Got a lead on the second victim.'

'Good. Looks like we might have the name of the
first, too.'

'How come?'

'Her mother's made contact. At least she thinks it's
her daughter.'

'Thinks?'

'She hasn't seen her since she was fifteen years old.'

'Family row?'

'The father was abusing her.'

'What's her name?'

'When she left home she was called Maureen
Carey. But no such name is flagging on our
databases.'

'Working girl?' Jimmy shrugged. 'Likely not using
her real name.'

Campbell nodded in agreement and stood aside for
Skinner to leave. 'Keep me posted.'

'You got it.'

Sally pulled her car to a stop by the McDonald's on
the corner of Shaftesbury Avenue and Dean Street,
ignoring the angry honking from furious motorists
behind her.

'Are you sure you don't want me to come with you,
sir?'

'Quite sure, Sally, thanks.'

'You going to be back in time for a drink tonight?'

'I thought you had a hot date?

'Hardly that, sir. Just dinner with Michael Hill. But
a few of us are going to the Pig first. You wouldn't be
a gooseberry.'

'I'll think about it.'

Sally put her hand on his arm as he reached across
for the door handle. 'I want to help, sir. Whatever it
is you know I've got your back.'

Delaney nodded and quickly opened the door before
she could press the matter. This was something he had
to take care of himself and it was way past time.

It was a typically grey, wet and windy late-autumn
day in Soho as Delaney walked up Dean Street,
pulling his jacket as best he could around him. Since
dislocating his shoulder and then being shot he was
certainly feeling the cold a lot more. Christ, I'm
getting old, he thought. Maybe he should do a Kate
Walker, get out of the madness of it all while he still
had a chance. The thought of Kate made him smile
almost, took a little of the chill off his bones. To
think he had almost let her get away again. And for
what? For the fear he wouldn't be able to change?
That he would carry the past around with him like a
hunchback unable to straighten himself? Well, today
was the day for all that to be put in the past once and
for all. If Delaney was a sickness then Kate Walker
was his cure. She would take the curve from his spine
and make him walk tall again. But first he had
business to attend to. The man who was responsible
for his wife's death, who had put the weight on his
back in the first place, the man who was responsible
for Delaney being shot, for the murder of Derek
Watters, for the attack on Kevin Norrell. The man
responsible for all that was going to look in his eyes
today. That man was going to look in his cold,
brown eyes and regret he had ever heard the name
Jack Delaney. Today was the day for drawing a line.

A crowd of loudly smug media types spilled out of
the Groucho Club as he passed, knocking into him
and making him wince as his shoulder jarred. Any
other day he would have had words, but today he
kept his head down. The pieces of the puzzle were
finally coming together and Delaney had no time for
petty distractions.

He looked at his watch. Two o'clock. He used his
less damaged shoulder to push a door open and
walked into one of the new breed of bars that had
sprung up in the area. All polished wood and chrome
and bright lights. Might as well be drinking in an
IKEA store, he reckoned, but today he hardly
registered it. He ordered a large whisky straight up
and downed it one. He ordered another and held out
his hand looking at the slight tremble in his fingers.
He put it down to his injuries. His nervous system
was shot to pieces, that's all it was.

He finished his second drink and left the pub,
crossing over the street fifty yards further up the road
and heading down a narrow cul-de-sac, at the end of
which was a small club called Hot Totty. It didn't open
until the late afternoon, but Delaney waited for a
moment or two and then taking a deep breath he
pulled a balaclava over his head, pushed the door open
and went inside. A thin man in his mid-twenties was
behind the counter of a small bar refilling the spirit
optics. He called over his shoulder as he heard the
door.

'We're not open.'

'I've not come for a lap dance.'

The man turned round and nearly dropped the
bottle of whisky he was holding. Delaney was
pointing a gun straight at him.

'Hey, I just work here.'

'Is he in the back?'

The barman nodded nervously.

'You got a good memory, son?'

The barman considered it for a bit not sure what
he was supposed to say. 'No, sir.'

Delaney jerked his thumb at the door behind him.
'Get out then. You want to stay alive, keep it that
way.'

The man held his hands up, nodding and scuttling
out of the door like a scorpion on a hot skillet.

Delaney thought about Mickey Ryan as he
watched the barman scurry away. There wasn't a
detective in the Met who hadn't come up against him
in one way or another. But he was the original Teflon
man, nothing stuck to him. Witnesses were silenced,
detectives were bought off, blackmailed or terrorised.
He was a brutal, vicious, successful, self-made man.
A shining example of everything Thatcher's Britain
had created.

Delaney took off the balaclava. He didn't care if
Mickey Ryan saw him. In fact he wanted him to
know who was putting him in the ground.

He walked to the back of the small auditorium,
past the stage and the pole, not even registering the
slightly sour smell of body oil that tainted the air like
a cheap perfume.

It wasn't hard to find Ryan's office. He pushed the
door open holding the gun forward and walked in. It
was a windowless room, but glowed with opulence.
Rich carpeting, Tiffany-style lamps, artwork on the
walls. His dead wife's brother-in-law would fit right
in here, Delaney thought. Mickey Ryan was sitting
behind a large desk typing on a laptop. He looked up,
bored.

'What do you want, Delaney?'

Delaney gestured at the cubic man who stood not
far from his boss.

'Put your hands up, Nigel.'

The man glared at him. 'My name's not fucking
Nigel.'

'Just do what he says, Pete.'

The man raised his hands, glaring venomously at
Delaney.

Delaney turned back to the man behind the desk.
'Tell him to stop staring at me, Mickey. I might just
wet myself.'

'What the fuck do you want, Delaney?'

'You know what I want.'

'I'm the fucking oracle of Delphi, am I now?'

'No, you're a two-bit slag who has made good on
other people's misery for far too long. And now it's
time to pay the rent.'

Ryan laughed out loud. 'Do you hear this guy,
Pete? He should be on the fucking telly.' His smile
died. 'After what happened to Norrell and that
prison guard, you should have taken the hint,
Delaney. Nobody fucks with me and walks away.'

'That a fact?' Delaney moved the gun forward
aiming at his forehead.

'You had the balls, Irishman, you'd have done it
already. Your wife was in the wrong place at the wrong
time, that's all. If someone hadn't interfered she'd still
be alive today, wouldn't she? That's down to you.'

Delaney's finger tightened on the trigger as he put
his left hand on his right shoulder. 'You should have
killed me when you had the chance.'

'Yeah, well, can't get the staff, isn't that what they
say? But I've got a better man on the case now.'

Delaney smiled unimpressed. 'Who, Nigel here?'

'No,' said Mickey Ryan. 'Him.' And pointed
behind Delaney.

Delaney couldn't stop himself from turning round
as he felt a presence behind him, and reacted unable
to conceal the surprise at who he saw.

'Liam?'

'Sorry, Jack.' And his cousin hit Delaney on the
side of the head with a narrow leather cosh.

He dropped to the floor like a hanged man with
the noose cut.

Jimmy Skinner rang the bell for a third time. There
was still no answer. He looked around him then
picked up the door ram he had brought with him just
in case, and smashed the door open. A Siamese cat
screamed at him and went howling and hissing past
his legs, nearly knocking him over. He guessed the
operation it had had, whatever it was, had been a
success.