Hard Evidence (3 page)

'A lot of times.'

'And?'

Bonner shrugged. 'Nothing. She only wanted to
talk to you. They assumed it was personal.' He
paused, licked a hint of his tongue on the top of
his lip. 'You know?'

Delaney held his gaze. 'No.'

'So you've no idea what she wanted?'

'How could I? I never spoke to her.'

'Maybe she was worried about something?'

'Looks like she had good reason.' Delaney
glanced through the open door, watching as Kate
tilted Jackie's head slightly to one side, examining
the clogged blood that had seeped thickly from
each nostril. She gently laid her head down, picked
up a micro-cassette recorder and clicked it to
record.

Delaney turned away and walked across to the
open window. Ignoring the unspoken criticism as
he fired up another cigarette, exhaling lazy smoke
into the hot night, the nicotine spiking into his
blood and sparking pictures in his mind.

A woman in her early thirties sprawled on the
hard floor of a petrol station. Her dark hair
matted with blood. Blood trickling from both
nostrils. A shotgun blast, shattering the plate-glass
window. Delaney started as Bonner spoke.

'Those things can kill you, you know?'

Delaney took a long pull and exhaled. 'Good.'
He flicked the fag end through the window,
watching it spiral down and bounce on the
pavement below in a tiny shower of sparks. He
turned back to Bonner. 'Get on the phone. I want
Billy Martin found and brought in.'

'Who's he? Her pimp?'

'Yes, he's her pimp. Or was her pimp,
sometimes. Billy Martin . . . he's her brother.'

'The boy's uncle you were talking about?'

'Not the one he's with, no. That's Russell
Martin. He's just a drug-dealer.'

'Nice family.'

Delaney gave him a sharp look. 'You don't
know anything about her, Bonner.'

'You do, though?'

'I'm going to find out. I can promise you that.'

Kate Walker came through from the bedroom
and Delaney turned to her. 'Anything?'

'Early days, I need to do the post.'

Delaney picked up on her hesitant manner.
'Something, though?'

'I'd say she died somewhere between twelve
o'clock this afternoon and say four o'clock.'

Bonner laughed drily. 'She could have had
twenty punters in that time. Can't you be a bit
more specific?'

Kate turned cold eyes on him. 'Not unless you
see a grandfather clock stopped somewhere round
here giving us a big clue.'

Delaney glared at her. 'Why don't you save the
attitude and just tell us what we want to know
when we want to know it for a change?'

'Like?'

'Like how she died.'

'I won't know for sure till the post. But I'd say
asphyxiation.'

'How?'

'She was gagged. The sex toy. Her nostrils were
clotted with blood. She couldn't breathe. She
would have been in great pain.'

Delaney looked over at the window.

'She was tied up. She was badly beaten and she
was scared. Terrified for her life, most likely.'

Delaney looked back at her.

'And she vomited. She couldn't clear her mouth
and choked to death on it.'

'She drowned in her own vomit. You're saying
that's what killed her?'

'I'm saying that's what I think she died from.'

Delaney nodded, conceding. 'And the cuts, the
mutilation? Was that before or after she died?'

'My opinion?'

'Your opinion.'

'She was dead before she was cut or stabbed. If
her heart was still pumping when she was cut, that
room back there would have looked like a charnel
house.'

'It looked pretty unpleasant.'

'Trust me, if she was alive when she was cut, her
blood would have literally sprayed the walls.'

Delaney nodded, relieved in some way. 'That's
something, I guess.'

'It's not much, but yes, it is something.'

Bonner shook his head. 'What's the point, then?
What kind of sick guy—'

Kate cut him off. 'I don't think it was just one
guy.'

Delaney looked at her. 'Go on?'

'I think there were at least two of them.'

'I think you're right.'

'You know what, Delaney? That's made my
day.'

Bonner looked at them both. 'Am I missing something
here?'

Kate looked at Bonner, unimpressed. 'She was
tied up with coat-hanger wire, Sergeant. I can't see
one man being strong enough to do that on his
own. The wire is too stiff. He'd have needed help
to hold her down.'

'But if she was into bondage? That kind of
kinky play.'

'These guys weren't playing at anything. She's
dead. That's how serious they were.'

'But if she was already dead when they tied her
up? Like when they cut her.'

'No. The ligatures on her wrists and ankles
indicate that she was still alive. The blood was still
pumping.'

Delaney looked at her, his own blood pumping
in his ears now.

'You think they meant to kill her?'

'Who knows? I guess that's your job to find
out.'

Bonner shook his head. 'So we've got a pair of
fucking sex freaks out there?'

Delaney nodded towards Kate, a sardonic smile
twitching the corner of his mouth. 'Watch your
language, Bonner, there's a lady present. But I
don't think so anyway. Not in the normal sense.'

'What's normal to you, Inspector?'

Delaney looked into her cool green eyes. 'Sexual
sadists. Killers with this kind of twist. They don't
usually mutilate the face. You ever seen that
before?'

Kate's eyes gave nothing away. 'People are
capable of absolutely anything. You should have
learned that by now, Detective Inspector, if nothing
else.'

If an Englishman's home was his castle, what was
an Irishman's? Delaney's was no castle, that was
for sure. A scruffy studio flat in Tufnell Park. A
small kitchen and sitting room with a bedroom to
one side. The place hadn't been decorated for
twenty years. A brown sofa, a G-Plan sideboard, a
dusty carpet of faded red and green swirls. In the
corner a TV and DVD player. A shelf with a few
old, well-thumbed paperbacks. He closed the door
behind him, contemplating the difference between
where he lived and where Jackie Malone had died.
Not a great deal. Jackie Malone had a different
house somewhere, of course; she had a whole
other life. She came home from her two-room
working flat to a life. At least she used to. Delaney
looked around at what he came home to and
almost envied her her cold shelf in the morgue. A
flashing light on his answering machine caught his
attention. He looked at it for a moment or two
and crossed to the sideboard.

He flipped over a glass, picked up a bottle of
whiskey and poured himself a shot. Desperate
measures. Desperate times. He toasted himself mentally
and slid the burning shot down his throat.
Then took another.

Some people drink to forget. Some people drink
to be funnier, to be more confident, to socialise.
Delaney drank to kill the fluttering butterflies of
thought that exploded into his brain every
morning when he woke up. Every day for the last
four years. Since he cradled his wife's head in his
useless arms and watched the light die in her eyes.
The light die in his whole world.

He poured himself another measure and looked
again at the flashing light on his answering
machine.

He pushed the button and listened as the
machine rewound to the voice of the dead.

'Delaney, it's Jackie Malone. I need to speak to
you. Call me. You've got my number.'

Click. Swallow.

'Delaney, it's Jackie again. I really need to speak
to you. Just call me.'

Click.

'It's me. Where are you, Delaney?'

Delaney took another swallow as he listened to
the desperation in her voice. Not a question he
was sure he could have answered.
What have you
done, Jackie? What have you let them do?

Click.

Delaney was reaching forward to turn the
machine off when another voice spoke and he held
his hand back. The voice of a seven-year-old girl
with just a hint of Irish in it, enough of a familiar
hint to break his heart all over again.

'Daddy, it's Siobhan. When are you going to
come round? We miss you. Bye.'

He ran a hand through his hair and sighed as
the machine clicked again. 'It's Jackie again,
Cowboy. Don't tell me you've gone all bashful on
me? We need to speak. This concerns you. I'll be
in all day. Call me or come round. You know
where.'

Click. Click. Click.

The machine clunked to a stop. It was an
antique now and he knew he should have replaced
it, but it had his wife's voice on it and Delaney
called himself daily just to hear it. He pushed the
message button and another dead woman's voice
filled the room, filled his life all over again, but it
would never fill the hole right in the middle of
him.

'This is Sinead. Jack and I aren't here right now.
This is an answerphone and I'm sure you know by
now what to do when you hear the beep, so go
ahead and do it.'

Delaney sat back on the sofa and shook his head
gently. She was wrong. He had absolutely no idea
what to do. He tipped the bottle and poured
himself half a tumbler. Some memories he wanted
to keep, no matter how much whiskey he drank,
and some he wanted to destroy. These images he
used alcohol to try and kill, but it only helped fuel
his nightmares. A petrol station at night, the cold
striplights spilling across the forecourt. The transit
van, its back doors open like the maw of an evil
creature. A man running, dressed in black, leaping
in as the van pulled away. The faint smoke leaking
from the barrels of the shotgun, sulphurous and
yellow.

Delaney stood up and lurched to the sink in the
corner of the room and threw up, the sour
whiskey burning his throat as he gasped for
breath. He ran cold water, cupping it in his hand
and splashing it over his head. He filled a glass and
drained it, then picked up a mouthwash bottle
from the shelf above the sink and gargled. He
looked up into the mirror but couldn't meet his
own gaze; he walked to the cabinet by the door
and picked up the keys to his old Saab.

The night was still warm and Delaney kept his
window open as he drove, the thick air blowing
his hair flat to his head and slapping him awake.
The white lines in the middle of the road and the
fat, jaundiced street lights flashed past him as in a
dream, and Delaney had to shake his head now
and again to clear his thoughts, to focus on the
road. The wail of a horn and the screech of brakes
barely registered as he swerved to avoid an
oncoming taxi and continued to drive.

He pulled the car to an untidy stop in a pleasant
suburban street north of Hampstead station. A
few miles from Delaney's impersonal little flat and
a million light years from his own world.

He looked at his eyes in the rear-view mirror
and ran the back of his hand over them, as though
to squeeze the hurt from them. He shook his head
sharply and combed his fingers through his
tangled hair, took a swallow from a bottle of
water tossed earlier on to the passenger seat and
opened the car door.

He looked up at the house for a long moment.
A bay-fronted Victorian terrace, set back from the
road, with a neat front lawn and a gravel path
leading up to the oak door with stained-glass
panels. Thin tendrils of honeyed light spilled from
the gaps in the curtains.

Delaney closed the slightly creaking wooden
gate behind him and walked along the path,
stepped into the narrow porch and rang the bell.
Musical chimes filled the warm air, and from
somewhere Delaney dug up a smile as the door
was opened. The light spilled out and caught his
eyes, revealing a warmth beyond the door that lay
hidden like bluebells under a foot of snow.

'Hello, Wendy.'

'Jack. Have you any idea what the time is?'

'None at all.'

'It's gone midnight! We've been worried about
you. Come on, come in.' Delaney nodded gratefully
and followed her through the door.
Following like Alice down a rabbit hole into a
whole different world.

Wendy closed the door behind him. Thirty-seven,
six inches shorter than Delaney. Attractive,
polished, dirty-blonde hair and pale blue eyes.
Worried eyes. She moved forward and stood on
tiptoe to kiss Delaney on the cheek and then held
her palm to where her lips had been.

'You need a shave.'

Delaney nodded, and Wendy took her hand
away, suddenly self-conscious. 'Come through to
the lounge.'

Delaney followed her, his heavy feet soundless
on the plush carpeting. It was a family home.
Pictures on the wall, a faint smell of polish in the
air, photographs, a cluttered piano, thick, comfortable
furniture, a worn but expensive rug on
the floor. Delaney sat on the edge of a fashionably
battered leather sofa and smiled apologetically. 'I
didn't want to be a nuisance . . .'

'It's all right, Jack. Really it is. Especially today,
your wedding anniversary. We've been really
worried about you.'

'I meant to call, you know.'

Wendy looked at him, the sympathy a physical
presence in her eyes. 'Where've you been?'

Delaney considered the question, not sure he
had an answer, and just shrugged.

'God, you look terrible. Can I get you a drink?'

'Not for me. Where's Roger?'

A moment's pause and a flicker of something
replacing the sympathy in her eyes.

'He's gone to Dublin for the weekend. Golf trip
with the lads.'

'Is Siobhan in bed?'

'And where else would she be at this time of
night?' Wendy laughed suddenly. A silky laugh,
rich, a purr in there somewhere. 'God, Jack, what
are we going to do with you?'

'If I was a horse you could probably shoot me.'
He smiled up at her. 'You're a good woman,
Wendy.'

'Why don't you go up and see her?'

'She'll be asleep.'

Wendy shook her head. 'She'll have heard the
car. She's been just as worried about you as I have.
More. She's been waiting all day to see you,
desperate to show you her First Holy Communion
dress.'

'God, her First Communion. When is that?'

'Saturday. It's a lovely dress.'

'I bet she looks a picture in it.'

'A princess.'

'I'll go up and see her then.' He stood up and
Wendy put her palm against his cheek again.

'We all miss her.'

He nodded and looked at a silver-framed photo
that stood on the mantelpiece. His wife's eyes
smiling at a future she couldn't see.

Delaney pushed his daughter's bedroom door
open. It was another world again to him, a
different universe. A world of pastel lights and
pastel colours. A kingdom of teddy bears and
soft dolls. The world of his dark-haired, bright-eyed
seven-year-old daughter. She had her
mother's blue eyes, like parts of her soul gifted.
She smiled up at him as he came into the room.

'Hello, Cowboy.'

'Hello, Partner. Give me a kiss.' He swooped
her up in his arms as she launched herself from the
trampoline of her bed.

'I want a story.'

Delaney put her back on the bed with another
kiss. 'It's very late, poppet.'

'Please.'

He couldn't resist those eyes. 'All right. Just a
quick one.'

'With guns and drugs and murdered women.'

'Not tonight.'

'All right then. One of your fairy stories.'
Siobhan smiled grudgingly, pretending to be
disappointed.

Delaney laughed for the first time in that terrible
day and sat down beside her on the bed as she
snuggled into the warmth of its cartooned covers.

'Once upon a very long time ago, in the year of
our lunch of green cabbage and bacon, lived a
humble woodcutter's son. He lived deep, deep in
the ancient forest and had been born with a
curse. He was a great artist. That is, he would
have been if it hadn't been for his hands. His
mind was filled with many beautiful pictures that
he longed to paint, but whenever he put his
simple brush to canvas his hand twitched and
went out of control.'

'Why?'

'Why indeed? That's the question of all
questions, and if we can answer that then we can
answer everything.'

'But why did his hands twitch?'

'Ah, you see, a wicked witch had cursed him at
birth. So whenever he tried to paint a picture, the
result was quite diabolical and everyone laughed
at him. One day he became so despondent that he
decided to set out and find a cure for his problem.
Now everybody in the ancient forest knew that the
only person able to solve such a problem for him
was the old hermit who lived on top of the hill in
a cave. And so the humble woodcutter's son went
to visit him.'

'What did he say?'

'Well, the old hermit was very sympathetic.
Which made a pleasant change and soon gave him
hope. In fact he gave him a strange mushroom,
telling him to eat it and gaze into his pond. This
the woodcutter's son did, and as he looked, the
vision of a beautiful girl appeared to him. The
hermit told him that all he had to do was make
the girl fall in love with him and the curse would
be lifted.'

'What was her name? The beautiful girl?'

'Her name was Estrella, the Princess Estrella,
and she was quite the most beautiful girl he had
ever seen.'

'And did he marry her?'

'Well, he set off to the castle singing with joy
and expectation. When he arrived and was shown
in to the princess, he could hardly contain his
happiness. The princess, though, when she heard
of his mission, well, she burst into silver peals of
laughter, and waved her hands as she cast a spell
and shrank him to the dimensions of a frog. She
then placed him in his own little glass jar on a
shelf next to all the other young men who had had
similar ideas and were similarly contained.'

Siobhan blinked her eyes sleepily.

'Why did she do that?'

'Well you see, the princess was really the wicked
witch's daughter all along. The humble woodcutter's
son still loved her, though, and wasn't
altogether too unhappy because he could still look
at her through the jar.'

Siobhan couldn't keep her eyes open and
mumbled as she turned her head on the pillow,
'What a nasty thing to do.'

Delaney stroked a soothing hand on her hair.
His other hand holding her tiny one, gripping
tight.

'And anyway, that wasn't a very good story.
What about the happy ending? What about his
pictures?'

'They can't all have happy endings.'

'Why not?'

'It's time you went to sleep, young lady. We
can't have princesses with bags under their eyes,
can we?'

'I'm not sure I want to be a princess any more.'

'We don't get to choose who we are, darling.'

He kissed her gently on the forehead as she
closed her eyes and drifted into sleep. He watched
her for a moment or two longer, for as long as he
could bear, and then closed her bedroom door
behind him and went downstairs.

'How is she?'

Delaney smiled sadly at Wendy. 'She's fine. She
looks more like her mother every day.'

'Is she asleep?'

'Dropped off like a log.'

'I'm glad you came by. She'd have been really
disappointed if you hadn't.'

'It's the job, Wendy. You know how it is.'

'I know how you are. You don't have to do it all
on your own, Jack.'

'I guess we all do what we can.'

'She misses you.'

'I'll get the flat soon and she can come and live
with me when I do. You know that.'