Hard Evidence (4 page)

'It's not a house she needs. It's a home.'

'I know.'

'It's time to move on.'

'Don't, Wendy. Please . . . just don't.'

'It's been four years.'

'So people keep telling me.' It was true, but it
was just numbers, it didn't mean anything to him.

'It's what she would have wanted.'

Delaney shook his head.

'You've got to put it behind you, Jack. For her
sake. For Siobhan's sake. For your sake.'

Delaney stood up. 'It's late, Wendy. I'd better
get home.'

'Why don't you stay over?'

Delaney looked at the slight flush that had crept
over her cheek like she'd just been softly kissed,
and the wetness in her eyes that came from more
than grief.

'I can't.'

'Siobhan would love to see you in the morning.'

'I've got things I need to do.'

'You're welcome any time, you know that?' He
met her gaze, and she could not hold it, her eyes
sliding away.

'It means a lot to me, Wendy.'

She looked up and smiled, the moment passed,
shaking her head at him. 'Jack, you look like shit.
Get some sleep. Get some decent food. Take care
of yourself, for Christ's sake.'

Delaney laughed again. The blasphemy sat as
prettily on her lips as a robin perched on a statue
of the Pope.

'You're a good woman, Wendy.'

'Not always.'

And Delaney pulled her into a hug. The kind of
hug that a man gives his wife's sister.

Tuesday morning. The sun was still low in the sky
but it was hot. Hot enough to put a shimmer in
the air and raise tempers to boiling point.

The Waterhill estate was less of a carbuncle and
more of an open sore on the architectural face of
north London. Urban decay as installation art writ
large. A breeding ground for fear, for degradation
and for violence. Where hope was a word that had
no meaning whatsoever and murder was as familiar
as the rain, the graffiti and the burnt-out wrecks of
cars that dotted the estate like the statuary of stately
homes. It was not an attractive place.

Howard Morgan had never been mistaken for
attractive either, even before the burn scar running
from neck to eye and forehead that had so
disfigured one side of his face. He was in his
forties, heavily built and heavily muscled. His
dark hair was greasy and long to his collar, his
jeans were oil-stained and filthy from working in
his garage. There was a brute, animal intelligence
in his eyes, eyes that flickered like sparking coals
in a kicked-over fire, and there was intent also.
Murderous intent.

Morgan had his thick arm wrapped around the
pale and slender neck of a terrified, bespectacled
man in his late thirties, and was bellowing into his
face.

'You tell me where she is!'

The man could barely manage a gurgle, his consciousness
slipping from him like thick blood
oozing from a slow wound.

'Get off him.'

Sally Cartwright came running up the road and
flicked out her asp, the twenty-first century's telescopic
version of the truncheon. She wielded it
with poorly disguised pleasure as she shouted at
Howard Morgan. Morgan released his grip long
enough to push Sally away, and as he did so, the
bespectacled man tried to escape, but Morgan was
too quick, ramming the man's head hard against
the brick wall behind him. He stepped back and
the man slumped to his knees with a low gurgle
and then fell to the ground unconscious. Sally
caught her balance and moved forward holding
her asp high, ready to strike.

Sally's colleague PC Bob Wilkinson came
gasping up to join her. He was in his early fifties
and had several thousand more miles on the beat
behind him, and it showed. It was clear in the
shortness of his breath and the cynicism in his
eyes. He held his asp warily forward, and moved
to block Morgan's getaway. But Morgan,
breathing as heavy as Bob Wilkinson, backed into
the wall, making no move to run.

Sally thumbed the send button on her police
radio.

'Foxtrot Alpha from forty-eight.'

Bob Wilkinson meanwhile stared at Howard
Morgan, the asp in his hand twitching like a hazel
rod finding water.

'What's your name?'

Confusion rippled across Morgan's face as he
stood against the wall, trembling, though not with
anger any more.

'Is he going to be all right?'

Bob knelt and put his hand to the injured man's
neck as Sally's radio crackled.

'Go ahead, Sally.'

'Ambulance urgently, please. Waterhill estate.
IC1 male. Head injuries.' She thumbed the radio
off and glared at Morgan. 'What's your name, sir!'

Morgan snapped his head back to meet Sally's
focused stare as the unconscious man groaned
slightly and moved. Bob held his arm.

'Please try not to move. You may have
concussion.'

Morgan looked at Sally, taking in her presence
for the first time. 'My name's Morgan.'

'Morgan who?'

'Howard Morgan.'

'Howard Morgan, I am arresting you . . .'

She stopped as Bob stood up and pulled her to
one side.

'Hang on a minute, Sally.'

'What's up?'

'You know who that is.' He nodded at the
prostrate man, the distaste sitting on his lips like
sour wine.

'No. What difference does it make?'

'That's Philip Greville.'

Sally's radio crackled again, 'Forty-eight from
Foxtrot Alpha. Ambulance on way.'

Sally shook her head, puzzled. 'Who's Philip
Greville?'

'The worst kind of slag, that's who.'

'Meaning?'

'Meaning he's on the sex offenders list. Kids.'

Sally nodded, taking it in.

'He was outed last week in the local papers.
People know who he is. They know
what
he is.'

Sally nodded over to Morgan. 'Doesn't give
them the right to assault him. Are you saying we
shouldn't arrest Morgan?'

'Of course I'm not. I'm just saying we should
find out what's going on first.'

Morgan came to life again, pointing at Greville
and shouting at Sally.

'He's got my daughter.'

Sally held up a soothing hand. 'All right, sir. Try
and keep calm.'

'Make him say where my Jenny is.' Morgan
couldn't hold back the tears and he didn't even
try. 'You make him tell.'

*

South-west of the Waterhill estate, the White City
police station squatted powerfully under the
Westway flyover, sprawling in every direction like
a concrete fortress. Crime didn't pay, unless you
were an architect, it seemed.

Delaney turned in to the car park and pulled his
ageing Saab 900 to a halt, the handbrake creaking
as he levered it upwards. His knees creaked in
almost harmonic sympathy as he levered himself
out of the car. He yawned expansively. Too many
late nights were writing cheques his body could no
longer cash. He'd been up since five thirty this
morning but he might as well have stayed in bed
for all the progress he had made on Jackie
Malone's murder. They were no further forward
and he wasn't relishing the thought of Kate
Walker's uncle, the superintendent, demanding an
update, demanding progress. As soon as he heard
the dead woman had been asking for Delaney he'd
be on his back, no doubt getting him taken off
the case, and Delaney didn't want that. Superintendent
Walker had made it quite clear he had
little time for Delaney and would be quite happy
to see him bounced out of the force.

The trouble was, Delaney didn't have anything
to give him, Jackie Malone was part of the
criminal underworld and people like Jack Delaney
just weren't welcome there, even when they were
trying to find the killer of one of their own. He
had spent the best part of the morning talking to
the streetwalkers who worked the area near Jackie
Malone's flat. Not too pleased to be roused from
sleep and letting him know it. No one knew a
thing. No one heard a thing. No one saw a thing.
Life on Mars, Jack thought ironically; what about
life on fucking Earth?

He walked through the entrance doors and
sketched a wave at the desk sergeant, Dave
'Slimline' Patterson, a five-foot-ten rugby-playing
barrel of a man in his late thirties who, rumour
had it, lived in fear of his wife, who was five foot
nothing but came from Aberystwyth.

Patterson grimaced sympathetically at Delaney.
'Thought you weren't due in till this afternoon?'

'So did I. Walker wants all noses to the grindstone.'

'Up his arse more like.'

Delaney laughed in agreement and keyed the
numbers into the security pad, then walked
through the doors and headed up the stairs to the
CID briefing room. He groaned inwardly as he
looked up to see the man he had just been cursing
coming down them.

Superintendent Charles Walker was a handsome
man in his early fifties. A hard face made interesting
by a jagged scar on his left cheek. He wore the
scar like he wore his full dress uniform, with pride
stepping over into arrogance. He claimed it came
from his early days in the army, though Delaney
had his doubts; there were any number of coppers
he knew who'd like to meet the man in a dark
alley some night, but not to give him a blow job.

'Delaney. Any word on this murdered
prostitute?'

Delaney shook his head. 'I think the preferred
media-friendly term is sex worker, sir.'

'The media can kiss my backside, Delaney.'

'Sir.' Delaney nodded drily, all too aware that
the superintendent courted the media like a C-list
celebrity. Charles Walker was a political copper
and always had been; crime statistics were
stepping stones to promotion for him, nothing
more, nothing less. And he did everything he could
to put himself in a good light with the media.

'I want all eyes on this missing girl. It's why
you've been called back in. The dead tart is not
priority. We clear on that?'

'Sir.'

'Seems you had some kind of history with the
woman.'

'Professional, sir.'

Walker looked at him, the doubt and distaste all
too clear in his expression. 'Your reputation is
well known, Detective Inspector; let's not enhance
it any. Just focus on the missing girl.'

'Sir.'

'And do that goddam tie up. You look a disgrace,
man.'

The superintendent gave a dismissive flick of his
head and carried on down the stairs. Delaney
momentarily considered giving him what Dirty
Harry would have called a five-point suppository,
but unfortunately they didn't have metal badges in
the Met, and he wouldn't want to give Walker the
pleasure. Instead he curled his lip, kept his counsel
and headed up to the briefing room, where the
sound of laughter and loud chat did nothing to
improve his mood or the state of his aching head.

Mornings in police briefing rooms were pretty
much the same the world over, and this one could
just as easily have been a staff room in a school, or
a conference room in a big department store, or a
hotel where sales executives had been summoned
for a training session. The same amount of boredom,
ego, petty jostling, cheap jokes, flirtations
and bad coffee. The only thing different with the
police was the stakes.

Jackie Malone's picture was pinned to the left of
the noticeboard, but taking centre stage was Jenny
Morgan. Live kids in jeopardy clearly took precedence
over dead prostitutes; fact of life – and
death. Delaney could see the sense but couldn't
drag his gaze away from Jackie's photo. Her eyes
seemed to look straight at him like Kitchener's
finger, unremitting with blame. He finally looked
across to the photo of the young girl.

Jenny Morgan's photo showed the face of a
pretty, if solemn, twelve-year-old. Her hair and
eyes were as dark as her father's and she stared out
defiantly at the world.

Delaney couldn't stop himself from yawning,
and covered his mouth as he watched Bonner
speaking with DC Sally Cartwright, who had
finished her morning's beat in uniform and was
now officially on her first day with CID. She had
changed into a smart charcoal-grey suit and
wouldn't have looked out of place in an estate
agent's. He was not at all surprised that Bonner
was paying her far more attention than her older
ex-colleague. Bob Wilkinson could be a regal pain
in the backside, Delaney knew that, but he liked
his honesty and his straightforwardness, and most
important of all he trusted his instincts. An old-fashioned
copper. If Bob Wilkinson said someone
was dodgy then you could bet your defunct Irish
punt that they were.

The whisper of bored conversation came to a
halt as Delaney's immediate boss walked into the
room. Chief Inspector Diane Campbell was in her
forties, she wore her bobbed hair like a helmet and
her make-up like an act of war. She snapped a
critical look at Bonner, whose schoolboy smile slid
quickly off his face like a fried egg off a greasy
plate.

'What have we got, Bonner?'

'Jenny Morgan, ma'am. She's been missing since
after school yesterday. That's nineteen hours.'

'And it's only just been reported?'

'That's right, ma'am. This morning. Her father.
Single parent.'

'Why did he take so long?'

'We're looking into it. But from what the relief
told me, he's not the sharpest pencil in the case.'

Campbell looked across at Delaney. 'So I
gather. The father, Howard Morgan. Has he been
charged for the assault on Greville?'

Bonner shook his head. 'Not yet.'

'Good. Because there are potential political
implications here.'

'Ma'am?'

'Somebody leaked the information about
Greville to the press; we're all being looked at
here.'

'Maybe it's not us that should be looked at.'

'Try and persuade Greville not to pursue, for the
moment at least. I gather he wasn't seriously
injured?'

Delaney coughed and spoke up, his voice
hoarse. 'No. And to be honest, he's not my top
priority at the moment.'

'If we do have a top priority, it's what I tell you
it is. We all clear on that?'

Bonner smiled. 'Pellucid, ma'am.'

'Shut it, Sergeant.'

'Ma'am.'

'Delaney. I want the father, Howard Morgan,
on TV as soon as possible, and I don't want any
confusion over the issues involved here. We clear?'

Delaney nodded. 'Pellucid, ma'am.'

A hint of a smile almost twitched Campbell's
lips but she managed to contain it.

'Apologies to those of you who were about to
go off shift. But the super wants all hands to the
pump until that little girl is found. Anyone got a
problem with that?'

No one did. She looked over at Delaney again.
'Keep me posted.' She moved briskly from the
room and Delaney moved to the front, taking
charge of the meeting.

'You heard what she said. Time is critical here.
We've already lost nearly a day because of her
father; let's not lose any more. I'm going to talk to
Morgan. Meanwhile, I want background checks. I
want to know everything about him, and I want to
know everything about his daughter. School
friends, boyfriends, hobbies, clubs, the lot. DC
Cartwright, you're with me.'

'Sir.'

Her face lit up a little at being called DC for the
first time. Delaney pointed at DI Jimmy Skinner, a
tall, thin, pale-faced man in his thirties who spent
every hour he could find playing internet poker.
'Jimmy, I want you to speak to Greville.'