Hard Evidence (17 page)

Delaney shook his thoughts away with a
covering smile. 'Any word on Billy Martin?'

'Absolute zip. But we're scouring every dive,
brothel and bar from Wembley Park to Bethnal
Green. He'll turn up sooner or later.'

'He usually does.'

'What are they charging Morgan with?'

Delaney shrugged. 'Whatever it is, he isn't going
to be out for a good long while.'

'And his sister?'

Delaney shook his head. 'Shouldn't think they'll
charge her with anything.' He picked his jacket up
from the back of his chair. 'Come on. You're with
me. You can drive.'

'What's on?'

'I've got a meet with one of London's genuine
scumbags.'

'A grass?'

'My bank manager.'

Delaney used to joke that he liked both kinds of
music, country and western. It was an old joke,
but that didn't bother him. It was how he'd got his
nickname, Cowboy, and the music playing in his
car as he pulled to the side of the street would
have made Johnny Cash smile in his grave. The
latest in a long line of southern belles with a voice
of pure sunshine. Some man was going to do her
right by doing her wrong and that was just the
way she liked it. Oh yeah, baby, that's the way she
likes it. So much for women's liberation, thought
Delaney, eat your heart out, Tammy Wynette. He
flicked the music off and opened his car door,
turning to Bonner. 'I won't be long. If I'm not out
in ten minutes, come in and shoot the bastard.'

'You know, boss, sometimes I don't think you
show the proper respect for the capitalist system
we are sworn to protect and serve.'

'Make that five minutes.'

*

Chief Superintendent Walker sat back in the
padded leather chair in his plush office, which
was neat and spotless. The paintings on the wall
were not prints and the brandy in the decanter
sitting on his walnut cabinet was not from a
supermarket at just over ten pounds a litre. He
smiled as DC Sally Cartwright responded to his
summons and entered the room. He looked at her
appraisingly. She could be sitting behind the
reception desk of a top London advertising
agency, or modelling bikinis, or singing banal pop
songs; instead she had come to work for the
police force. His police force. Maybe she expected
her healthy good looks to curry favour, and
maybe they did. In the cut and thrust of police
work on the factory floor, as it were, they might
serve her very well. But Chief Superintendent
Walker couldn't care less what she looked like.
She was a police officer and that was that. One of
his pieces to move about the board. He glared
angrily at the file she held in her hand.

'Do you have a boyfriend, Detective Constable
Cartwright?'

'Sir?' Her smile fading.

'Somebody on the force? Somebody to chat to
on refs. Someone to sneak off with. Have a crafty
fag, a quick kiss, a fumble in the corridor.'

She shook her head, puzzled. 'No, sir.'

'What the bloody hell kept you with this then?'

He snatched the file from her hands. She blinked
nervously. 'Records, sir.'

Walker waved a dismissive hand. 'Go.' Sally
walked slowly back to the door. 'And where the
blue bloody hell is Delaney?'

She shrugged apologetically at him and closed
the door behind her.

Walker drummed his manicured fingers on the
polished mahogany of his desk, his eyes hardening
as he read the report that the detective constable
had just delivered.

Jasper Harrington was in his early thirties. As
polished as the pine desk he sat behind. Which
was to say, if you were to take a penknife and
scratch beneath the surface, you wouldn't find a
great deal of character in either. In truth
Harrington looked a lot like Richard Hadden, and
if Delaney hadn't disliked him before he met him,
he certainly did now.

'Thirty thousand pounds really is quite a large
sum of money to carry around on your person.'

'I'll be all right. I have a police escort.'

Harrington flicked a small condescending smile.
'If you could tell me what you need the cash for?
I'm sure the bank could arrange proceedings in a
far safer manner for you and your capital.'

Harrington had a large stack of bundled
twenty-pound notes on the desk in front of him.
Delaney gestured at the cash. 'Is this the bank's
money?'

'Technically not. But we still have a duty of
responsibility.'

Delaney held his hand out. 'A duty which you
have fulfilled. By getting the money out and
returning it to me.'

The manager still hesitated. 'Things can be done
far more safely electronically now.'

'It's not a loan, is it?'

'No, sir.'

Delaney stood up and opened a small overnight
bag he had brought with him. The look in his eye
made Jasper Harrington sit back a little too
sharply for his normal studied poise.

'If it had been a loan you'd have every right to
keep me here, filling in forms, asking endless
questions,' Delaney said as he started filling the
bag with the stacks of notes.

'Naturally we need to take certain steps . . .'

'But this isn't your money. It's my money. And
what I do with it is my business. Not your business,
not the bank's business. My business. We
clear on that now?'

Harrington nodded, swallowing nervously. His
throat had suddenly gone very dry. As a bank
manager he wasn't used to dealing with dangerous,
violent men, but he could see that that was
what he was dealing with right now.

Delaney walked out, pulling the door shut
quietly behind him.

Harrington took a moment or two to recover
his composure, and then picked up the phone,
punching in some numbers quickly.

*

Delaney walked up to his car, where Bonner was
snapping his fingers to the rhythmic rapping of a
white English teenager singing about slapping his
bitches around. Delaney leaned in through the
window and turned it off.

'What have I told you about my radio?'

'Jeez, Cowboy, if I had to listen to one more
song about a lonely trucker missing his sweetheart
Mary-Jane-Jo-Bobbi I'd have ended up cutting my
wrists.'

'Touch it again and you won't need to bother.'

'Had a couple of calls whilst you were sorting
out your pension in there.'

'Good for you.'

'You want the good news or the bad news?'

'No such thing as good news, Bonner.'

'We've found Billy Martin.'

Delaney slid in to the passenger seat and threw
the sergeant a knowing look. 'You see.'

'Out near Henley.'

'Only he isn't going to tell us a thing? Right?'

'Right.'

'Somebody beat us to him and made sure of it.'

'What's that, Irish intuition?'

'Call it a stab in the dark.' He reached over and
pushed the preset button on his radio, and Kenny
Rogers' smooth voice flowed out like a twentyyear-old
single malt.

'Are we going to Henley, then?'

'We're going to Wigmore Street first.'

'What's there?'

'Nothing you need to know about.' Delaney
held the bag close to his chest as Bonner pulled out
into the traffic.

The same river that had earlier swallowed him
into her cold depths in the dead of night had
disgorged Billy, tiring perhaps of his company, as
did all who had spent more than a little time with
him in life. But in the full brightness of day, that
river was a different thing. The air was busy with
the sounds of tourists, of wildlife, of oarsmen
stroking in their skiffs and sculls, of powered craft
chugging softly through the water, of gentle lovers
strolling and laughing far in the distance on the
footpath. The banks seemed closer together by
day, and the masonry of the bridge ahead was a
soft grey, not a forbidding black. The sunlight
sparkled on the surface of the water like the flash
of revelation. The depths below were soothing,
inviting. On a day such as this, when the relentless
sun burned like an all-cleansing fire, the human
spirit looked back to its past and would slip into
the water to be reborn. Born again in the cool,
ancient water as a beautiful creature of supple
movement and flight.

But the thing that lay on the bank would never
go swimming again, would never dart and shimmer
in the cool water, and, truth to tell, had never
been considered beautiful.

Delaney pushed roughly through a crowd of
morbid onlookers and ducked under the yellow
police tape, wincing as his neck muscles objected.
He walked over to the group of officers processing
the scene, followed by an amused Bonner.

'You're getting old, Cowboy.'

'Every day.' He was surprised to see Kate
Walker in attendance. Henley was out in the
sticks, and although her accent blended into the
background as smoothly as a cucumber slice in a
crust-trimmed sandwich, she was a town girl
work-wise. Strictly city limits.

'Bit out of your jurisdiction isn't it, Dr Walker?'

'I was asked.' Kate turned her attention back to
the thing that had washed up on the shallow bank.
The time in the water had not been kind to Billy
Martin. His corpse was bloated with gas and his
skin was loose and grey; a rough stroke would
slough that skin straight off the body.

'Lucky for us he was carrying ID. His mother
wouldn't recognise him.'

Delaney watched, feeling neither pity nor loss,
as Kate carefully tilted the head to one side. Billy
Martin was the kind of person Delaney joined the
police force to hurt. Not physically hurt, but in
every other way he could. To stop him and to stop
his kind. He was a pimp, a rapist, a trader in other
people's misery, and Delaney wouldn't have
thrown him a rope of piss to save him from
drowning. What he did feel as he looked down on
Billy Martin's aborted body was disappointment.
His death was linked to his sister Jackie Malone's
death, Delaney was sure of it, and now whatever
secrets Billy Martin had to tell were beyond his
powers of persuasion to extract. Delaney dealt
with the living; it was up to Kate Walker now to
probe Martin's inner recesses and find, if any,
what secrets the bloated corpse might conceal.

'What have you got?'

Kate looked back up at Delaney, squinting still
in the bright sunlight. 'He was tied up with coat-hanger
wire. Hands and feet. Then dumped in the
water.'

'Alive?'

Kate nodded grimly. 'For a while.'

'They say drowning is one of the better ways to
die.'

'Not like this. He must have been terrified out of
his wits.'

'Billy Martin didn't have a lot of those.'

'You knew him?'

'He's Jackie Malone's brother. Her maiden name
was Martin.'

'What happened to her husband?'

'He died of a heroin overdose eight months after
they got married and six months after she fell
pregnant.'

'Not a lucky family.'

'Never were. Can you make a guess at what
time it happened?'

'Judging by the state of his skin and the time he
was found, I would say he's been in the water a
few days. Roughly about the time of the Malone
murder. Can't be more specific, I'm afraid.'

'Anything else you can tell me now?'

Kate nodded towards one of the forensic officers.
'He had a quarter of an ounce of cocaine on him.
Kept sweet in a waterproof plastic container.'

'Convenient.'

'Yeah.'

Delaney took in the dark lustre of her hair, the
brilliant flash of emerald from her eyes, the way
she almost always had a hint of a smile dancing on
her lips, then he caught himself and looked down
again at Billy Martin's grossly disfigured face.

'Thanks, Kate.' A dismissal. He walked over to
speak to the Scene of Crime Officers, feeling her
gaze on his back but not turning round.

Half a mile or so upriver from where the body of
Billy Martin was found was an old ivy-covered
brick pub called the Saracen's Head. Bonner, at
the bar, scowled as Delaney fed the jukebox some
more coins and punched buttons. It was an old-fashioned
country pub. The kind that had a large
fireplace and bowls of water and nibbles for dogs.
A pub with history, with original oak beams and
warm brick walls, and photos of the Victorian
forebears of local people who still used the place.
A half-a-yard-of-ale glass hung on the wall, and
the stone flags on the floor in front of the bar were
worn smooth and slightly concave by the countless
pairs of feet that had walked across them over
the passing centuries.

It had tradition and heritage, everything Bonner
hated in a pub, Delaney surmised, judging by the
look on his face as he joined him at the bar.
Bonner took his change from a twenty-something
barman who had the same enthusiasm for his
work as a duck has for orange sauce, then handed
Delaney his pint, his frown deepening as the sound
of a Dixie Chick, regretting losing her virginity to
someone named Earl, started playing in the
background.

Delaney took a swallow of his ale. 'Jesus, Eddie,
what is this shit?'

'They call it Old Peculier for a reason, boss. It's
supposed to taste like that. I thought you'd like it.'
He smiled, taking a pull on his own cold pint of
lager.

Delaney put his glass back on the counter,
wiping his lips as Kate Walker came in through
the front door and walked over to them. She
smiled tentatively at Delaney. 'Hot out there.'

'It is.'

'Thought I'd join you for a drink, if it's not a
problem?'

Bonner moved a bar stool across for her. 'Of
course it isn't.'

Kate flashed a quick smile at the young barman,
who had suddenly become more interested in his
job. 'Vodka and tonic, please.'

The barman nodded enthusiastically and took
down a glass. Kate looked across at Delaney
and arched an eyebrow. 'Anything for you,
Inspector?'

Delaney gestured at his glass of ale. 'I'll trade
this for a whisky, please.'

Kate looked over at Bonner. 'Sergeant?'

'I'm fine with this, thanks.'

The barman lifted a hefty whisky glass to the
optic, but Kate stopped him before he could pour.
'The good stuff, and make it a double.'

He nodded and poured out a large shot of
Glenmorangie and put the glass on the bar.

Kate gestured. 'Scottish whisky all right with
you?'

Delaney picked up the glass. 'We live in
troubled times, Dr Walker. So needs must when
the Devil drives.'

'It's Kate. Please.'

Delaney swirled the whisky around the glass,
the sun lighting it to a sparkling tawny gold. He
held it up to Kate. '
Slainte
.'

'What does that mean exactly?'

Delaney considered for a moment. 'That I'm
probably living in the wrong country.'

Kate clinked her glass against his and drained
her vodka and tonic in one. 'I have to go.'

Delaney looked surprised. 'You just got here.'

'Just for a quick one, it's so damn hot out there.
And besides, I'm driving. Got a date with Billy
Martin waiting for me back in the office.'

'Be careful. He's got a reputation,' said Bonner.

Kate looked pointedly at Delaney. 'Haven't they
all?'

Delaney almost smiled. 'Drive carefully.' He
watched her as she walked to the door. There was
definitely an animal litheness in her movement, a
sensuality that wasn't lost on him or on the young
barman, who was watching her leave with open
admiration. Delaney glared at him and he turned
back quickly to polishing beer glasses. Delaney
took another sip of his whisky and had to concede
to himself that he liked it. A day for surprises all
round.

Bonner leaned forward, interrupting his
thoughts. 'So, Billy Martin, what do you reckon,
boss?'

Delaney shrugged. 'He's not going to win any
more beauty contests.'

'He was a piece of work. No doubt about that.
Seems he upset the wrong people this time.'

'I want you to go back to Jackie Malone's flat.
Canvass her neighbours again. See if he had been
there on the day she was killed.'

'You reckon she was murdered because of him?'

'Some people just get in the way, don't they?
They're in the wrong place at the wrong time.'

Delaney watched through the pub window as
Kate climbed into her open-topped BMW. The
music changed, the Cowboy Junkies singing 'Blue
Moon', and he was back in another place, another
time.

Sinead turned the dial on the radio, twiddling it
with mock annoyance.

'How many times have I told you not to fiddle
with the radio?'

Delaney's wife laughed; it was a musical laugh,
full of sunlight and joy. 'Just because you like that
rubbish doesn't mean the rest of the world should
suffer.'

'I should wash your mouth out with carbolic
soap, young lady.'

Delaney spun the wheel, turning in to the forecourt
of the petrol station. The adverts finished
and the Cowboy Junkies started to play. 'Blue
Moon'. One of Delaney's favourites. 'Now you
can't tell me that isn't proper music.'

His wife laughed again. 'I can't tell you anything,
Jack. I've learned that much by now.'

Delaney got out of the car, popped open the
petrol tank and was reaching for the fuel nozzle
when the plate-glass window of the shop
exploded. Delaney instinctively raised his arm to
protect his eyes from the storm of flying glass. His
wife's scream carried over the sound of the
shotgun blast and two men came out of the shop.
Thick-set men dressed in black with balaclavas
covering their heads, shotguns held at waist level,
sweeping the forecourt in front of them.

They shouted at Delaney, their shotguns trained
on him, but he couldn't hear them, and he
watched frozen for a moment until his wife
screamed at him and her words finally registered.

'For Christ's sake, Jack, get in the car.'

And he did so, watching as a transit van drove
across the forecourt with its back doors open. One
of the men jumped in and the other ran to catch
up. Delaney turned the key in the ignition and
gunned the engine, not listening as his wife
shouted at him, putting the car in gear and
screeching after them, swerving to avoid an
incoming car.

The second man jumped into the van, half
falling back with the motion and landing with a
bone-jarring crash on his knees, but a hand to the
inside wall of the van steadied him and he brought
his shotgun round to bear on the pursuing car.
Sinead screamed again, and the sound ripped into
Delaney's consciousness like a dousing of ice-cold
water as he realised what he was doing. But it was
too late. The shotgun blasted, and Delaney's
windscreen exploded, the car spinning out of control
as the screaming blended with the screeching
of brakes and the crumpling of metal . . . and
a curtain of blood and black descended over
Delaney's eyes, over his life.

Delaney jolted awake from sleep, back in his flat,
and it was night-time. Four years had passed, and
there was not one single night since when he had
not woken from the same nightmare. Only this
time it was different. This time when he turned at
the sound of his wife's musical laugh, it wasn't her
eyes that he saw sparkling back at him, but Kate
Walker's. Kate Walker's slender alabaster throat,
her ebony hair, the blood red of her lips and the
green brilliance of her eyes. Her lips parted and
her hot, moist breath brushed over him like a
velvet kiss.

He ran a hand across his forehead and it was
wet with sweat, his sheets rumpled. He wasn't
sure what it was he was feeling, but it was only
partly guilt.

He reached over to the bottle that stood on his
bedside cabinet, poured himself a measure of
whiskey and swallowed fast. If it was a fever he
had, then the medicine he was taking wouldn't
provide a cure, but he took another swallow and
hoped that the burn of the alcohol would do its
job and keep the dreams from him at least. But it
never had yet, and in truth he wasn't sure that he
wanted them kept away any more.