Hard Evidence

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?'