Hard Evidence (20 page)

Bonner nodded with a sly smile. 'I'd be lying if I
said we didn't.'

'It's a frame. I don't know why. But someone
has put me in it. Think about it.'

Bonner shook his head again. 'Not my job,
Cowboy. I'm just a policeman, and only a sergeant
at that. I don't get paid to think.'

Delaney grunted. 'Cheers, mate.'

'I'm not your friend, Delaney. I never was. I
work with you. End of story.' He met Delaney's
eyes in the mirror. 'That is, I used to work with
you.'

Bonner turned his attention back to the traffic
and Delaney slumped against the side of the car.
He hoped Kate Walker would be careful who she
spoke to. One of his colleagues had set him up.
They had killed more than once, and to Delaney it
was perfectly clear that they would happily kill
again.

Siobhan screamed. High-pitched and terrified. She
yelled again and Wendy laughed as she pushed the
swing higher. 'Don't stop!' Siobhan loved to go as
high as she could. She loved it and was terrified by
it at the same time. She remembered last year
when her dad had taken her to an amusement
park. She couldn't get enough of some of the rides.
Ones that went high in the air and crashed to the
ground. Ones that whirled like gigantic whisks,
spinning and wheeling and turning and dipping.
She'd laughed, screamed herself hoarse on that
day. Her dad had paid for her to go on the rides
time and time again, but wouldn't go on them
himself, even though she and Wendy had teased
him mercilessly. He claimed he had an inner ear
problem which meant he couldn't go on spinning
rides. Siobhan laughed as she remembered it.

Across the park, a tall man in a dark raincoat
sat on a bench and watched as her aunt swung the
little girl higher and higher. The man took a long,
thin cigar from a case and lit it, the flame from his
silver lighter flaring his pupils to pinpricks and
flashing the blue of his eyes. He watched Siobhan
as she swung higher, her excited, terrified screams
loud in the hot evening air. And he smiled.

Delaney looked out of the side window at the
traffic speeding past. People hurrying home to
their Saturday tea. Hundreds of different lives
locked in the bubbles of their own cars. Their own
worlds. He thought of the tens of thousands of
faces he must have seen through the lens of a car
windscreen over the years. Commuters returning
home. Sales executives knocking off early. Office
workers keen to make happy hour at their local.
Nurses, teachers, civil servants, account clerks and
shop assistants, bank managers and chemists.
People who could work nine to five and switch off
with the clock. People who could go home to
normal families and normal lives. Something that
Delaney couldn't do. He sometimes wondered
what his life would have been like if he had
become an accountant or a solicitor instead of a
policeman. His wife would probably still be alive,
he knew that. They'd be living in a nice house in a
suburb somewhere outside of London, sitting on
the green belt with the country on his doorstep. A
wife at home with him and their children, kicking
a football in the garden and getting told off for
spoiling the vegetable patch. But Delaney wasn't
a solicitor, and his wife wasn't alive and complaining
about broken tomato plants. She was
dead. Delaney looked away from the window and
a cold calm came over him.

Bonner swung the wheel, turning the car off the
main street into a suburban cut-through, and as he
did so, Delaney leaned forward, held his hands out
and quickly looped them over Bonner's head,
pulling the chain of the cuffs tightly into his neck.

Bonner swerved and fought to keep control of
the car. His voice a painful rasp. 'Jesus, Jack.
What are you doing? You want to get us killed?
Jack?'

But Delaney didn't answer. He flexed the powerful
muscles in his forearms and pulled harder.
Bonner started choking, unable to speak. He held
his hands to his throat, trying to prise Delaney's
fingers loose, and as his legs jerked
uncontrollably, his foot stamped down on the
accelerator and the car swerved off the road,
mounted the pavement and smashed headlong
into a lamppost. Bonner flew forward, Delaney
dragged behind as the airbag exploded in the
sergeant's face and the gurgling stopped.

Delaney unhooked his cuffed hands from Bonner's
neck and whispered in his ear, 'Nothing personal.'

He awkwardly manoeuvred his hands into
Bonner's jacket pocket and pulled out the key for
the cuffs. He had just slipped them off his wrists
when the wrecked front passenger door was
wrenched open and a large, muscular man in a
tracksuit leaned in.

'Are you guys all right?'

Delaney nodded, catching his breath. 'I think so,
but if you've got a mobile, could you call an
ambulance?'

Delaney opened the back door and climbed out.

The large man gave him a puzzled look as he
fumbled in his pocket for his phone. 'Jesus. What
happened here? You drove straight into that
lamppost.'

Delaney held out his warrant card. 'It was an
accident, the steering went.'

The man nodded towards Bonner. 'Is he
okay?'

'He'll be fine. The airbag knocked him out.'

'You're both lucky to be alive.'

'Tell me about it.'

The jogger pulled out his mobile phone and
punched in the call. 'Ambulance, please. There's
been an accident.'

He described what had happened and their
location, but when he turned back to speak to
Delaney, he was gone.

Bonner groaned and opened his eyes, and looked
around him. As his memory came painfully back,
he blinked up at the large man, who finished his
call and smiled down at him reassuringly.

'You're going to be all right. I've called an
ambulance.'

'The guy who was with me?'

The man shrugged. 'He was here a moment ago.
He's probably gone to get help.'

Bonner groaned again and shifted in his seat,
releasing the seatbelt and wincing at the pain that
ran from his shoulder to his waist and exploded in
his head with each movement.

'You'd probably best try not to move. Wait for
the ambulance.'

Bonner slumped back, resigned, surveying the
wreckage and damning Delaney to all kinds of
Irish hell.

Bill Hoskins sat back in his battered wing-backed
armchair, which was almost as old as he was. He
stirred some sugar into his tea, the spoon clinking
as it hit the sides of his enamel mug. He picked up
a remote control and turned the volume up on the
television set. The news was on and the public
were being warned that a serving detective in the
Metropolitan Police had violently resisted arrest
and was on the run. The reporter went on to
report that Jack Delaney was wanted for questioning
in a series of murders including that of
Jackie Malone, a prostitute who was found slain
and mutilated in her flat last Monday.

The picture of Jack Delaney flashed on the
screen and Bill shook his head. Something about
the murder and the time and the date didn't seem
right. He put down his mug of tea, then levered
himself out of his chair, his old knees creaking
almost as loudly as the wooden floor as he walked
across to the door.

Sergeant Bonner came back into interview room
one, pulled out a chair and sat down awkwardly,
wincing with pain. His face looked like he'd just
gone nine rounds with Mike Tyson and his ribs
hurt like hell. He put a file on the long wooden
table and then leaned back, looking into the eyes
of the man sitting opposite him. Bill Hoskins was
in his late sixties and had a crumpled, colourless
face that matched the creases in his shirt and his
faded grey jacket. He scowled at Bonner.

'I thought you were getting me a cup of tea.'

'They ran out.'

Hoskins sniffed, unimpressed. 'Right.'

'Let's go over it again.'

'Do we have to?'

Bonner glared at him and Hoskins nodded,
resigned.

'You were there in your capacity as caretaker all
day long. You could swear to that?'

'I don't have to swear. I told you, didn't I? I
don't lie.'

'We never get any liars in here, Mr Hoskins.
Funny thing, that. A police station and we get all
sorts in. Rapists, burglars, murderers, arsonists,
racists . . . No liars, though.'

'I am none of those things, and I was there all
day.'

Bonner glanced down at a sheet of paper in his
hand. 'Ten o'clock in the morning to seven o'clock
at night.'

'That's what I said. And—'

Bonner held up a hand to stop him. 'Yeah, yeah,
I know. I want you to look at a photograph for me
now.'

'All right.'

Bonner slid a photo across the table.

Hoskins picked it up and nodded. 'That's him.
Regular visitor he was. Sometimes he was carrying
flowers, sometimes a bottle, you know what I
mean?'

'I can imagine. And you're prepared to swear in
court you saw him on the day in question?'

'He came in just before twelve o'clock.'

'What time did he leave?'

'About six o'clock that same evening.'

'You're sure about that. That's a very long time
for this kind of visit.'

'Not for him it wasn't. He was a regular.'

'I want you to think very carefully. You could
definitely swear to it in court?'

'I'd swear to it on my life.'

Bonner's eyes glinted as he nodded pointedly.
'So he didn't leave any time between twelve and
three o'clock?'

'I told you. He came in and he didn't leave. I
was there all day.'

Bonner closed the file. 'Thank you, Mr Hoskins.
You've been very helpful.'

'I can go now?'

Bonner nodded. 'We'll be in touch.'

'And about bleeding time.' He stood up awkwardly
and walked to the door.

Bonner leaned across the table and picked up
the photo, studying it with a troubled expression
in his eyes. But the eyes that looked back at him
from the photo weren't troubled at all. The eyes of
Jack Delaney almost seemed to be smiling.

Kate Walker sat at the bar of the Holly Bush in
Hampstead, sipping on a Bloody Mary and letting
the noisy chat of the other customers wash over
her. She swirled the drink in her hand. The Holly
Bush had their own secret recipe for Bloody Marys
and always put a splash of red wine in to finish it
off, lending sinister authenticity to the drink. She
took another sip and steadied her breathing,
trying to order the wild thoughts that were
dancing in her brain. It made no sense to her. The
preliminary examination of Moffett had been
fairly straightforward. As she had told Diane
Campbell, there was no way of telling whether it
was a genuine suicide. There had certainly been no
indications of a struggle or resistance, and she
couldn't see the autopsy throwing up any contradictory
information. That was straightforward.
What wasn't straightforward was how Jack
Delaney fitted into it all. Although Campbell had
told Kate very little, she had spoken to the other
officers there and was shocked at what she heard.
They were accusing him not only of murder, but
also of blackmail, stealing evidence, selling drugs
and profiting from paedophile pornography.
There was very little in this world that was certain,
she knew that, but she was certain that Delaney
was innocent of the charges. She absolutely knew
it. What she didn't know was what to do about
it. She understood it wasn't safe to talk to his
colleagues from what he said on the phone. So
who was she supposed to talk about it to? Maybe
it was time to swallow her pride and talk to her
uncle, as Bob Wilkinson had hinted she should.
He would know what to do. There must be
protocols. She finished her drink and stood up.
She'd speak to him tomorrow.

*

Wendy sat on the sofa, her knees together, her
arms wrapped protectively around herself. The
television played the theme tune for
Casualty
and
Wendy snatched the remote control up to switch it
off. She'd had enough misery for one day. It had
been some time since the police had left and she
still felt a bag of nerves. She worried a fingernail
between her teeth and sighed. Siobhan hadn't
understood why the policemen had been there; she
hadn't understood why her daddy wasn't with
them, where he had gone after her First Holy
Communion, and Wendy didn't have the words to
explain. She couldn't believe Jack had been
arrested for murder. She couldn't believe he was
on the run.

The phone rang and Wendy jumped. She took a
moment or two to settle her breathing and
answered it.

'Hello.'

'It's Jack.'

'Jack, for God's sake, where are you?'

'It doesn't matter.'

'Of course it matters. I've had a house full of
detectives questioning me, questioning Siobhan.'

'Is she all right?'

'She's upstairs sleeping.'

'I want to talk to her.'

'And what are you going to say to her?'

She could hear his frustration on the other end
of the line. 'For Christ's sake . . . I don't know,
Wendy.'

'Exactly. So let her sleep.'

'Everything is going to be okay. Tell her that.'
'How?'

'I don't know how. But tell her it will.'

'Should you be talking on your phone? Can't
they trace it?'

'It's a personal mobile, they don't know anything
about it.'

Wendy nodded, taking a deep breath. 'Did you
do it?'

'You think me capable of murder?'

Wendy sighed again, blinking the tears out of her
eyes. 'Yes, Jack, I do.'

It was light outside as the sun sank slowly in the
west, and although it had been far hotter during
the heart of the day, the heat still hung heavy in
the air. Inside Kate's hallway, however, it was cool
and dark. The doors leading to the kitchen and the
dining room and the lounge were all closed, and
the stained-glass window on the front door was
darkly coloured. The floor was laid with original
Victorian tiles, a geometric mosaic in red, green
and cream. A spilling of light through the stained
glass spattered ruby colours on the hall floor like
a splash of old blood. But in the corners and the
depths it was dark.

Kate walked up to the front door, jangling her
keys through to the right one, and slipped it into
the keyhole. With a practised flick of her wrist she
turned the key in the lock and opened the door.
She was about to step inside when she felt a cold
trickle run up her spine. She turned back to the
road behind her and checked the approach to the
house. She had had a feeling she was being
watched ever since she left the pub, and even
though the road was deserted she couldn't shake
the feeling off. She was a medical doctor not a
clinical psychologist, but given the circumstances,
she knew that a certain amount of paranoia was
justified.

She shivered slightly and turned back, bending
over to pick up the mail that was scattered on the
doormat. She straightened up and closed the door,
distracted as she flicked through the envelopes,
then a movement caught her eye and she looked
up, her heart hammering in her chest as she saw a
large man step out from behind the coat stand.
Her knees buckled and she screamed in genuine
terror.