Hard Evidence

Delaney looked around the small, beautifully constructed church with its sweeping stone pillars and exquisite carvings, its Renaissance paintings and heart-breaking realistic statuary, and felt the weight not of the presence of God, but of his own ever-present guilt.

He closed his eyes in silent thought for a moment or two, lost in unbearable memories. So lost that he didn't notice the figure slide quickly into the pew next to him and press something into the side of his ribs.

Startled, he opened his eyes to see Sally sitting beside him. He looked down as she pulled back the mobile phone with which she had just prodded him.

'You trying to give me a heart attack?'

'I thought you were asleep.'

Delaney looked at her, and then laughed. His voice echoing around the small church like a rude intrusion. 'Christ, Sally. I think you just put ten years on my life.'

Sally looked around, shocked. 'Don't, sir.'

'Don't what?'

'Blaspheme.'

'Blasphemy is the least of my problems.'

'Still, sir. You know. In a church.'

'Don't tell me you're a Catholic too?'

'Church of Scotland, sir.'

Delaney looked at her, surprised. 'I didn't know you were Scottish.'

'On my dad's side. I grew up in north-west London. Went to church there. St John's. Run by an ex-padre, reminds me a lot of you.'

'How?'

'He could be an irreligious bastard at times too, sir. And he liked a drop of whisky.'

Delaney laughed again, gently this time. 'Well, I do thank God for you, Sally, that's all I say.'

Sally looked at him, suddenly serious. 'What are you going to do?'

'What I do best.'

'What's that?'

'Fuck things up regally.'

Sally took his hand. 'That's rubbish, sir. You're the best detective on the squad.'

'And who says that?'

'You do.'

Delaney smiled.

'And so do I.'

Delaney looked at her. 'How long have you been a detective constable?'

'Maybe it's just a week. But it's long enough to know the truth when I see it.'

Delaney patted her hand gratefully. 'So what have you got for me?'

'My dismissal, probably.' She reached into the inside pocket of her jacket and pulled out a sheet of paper.

'My best guess is that the woman who called you about the DVD was Karen Richardson. A prostitute who used to work with Jackie Malone. They were busted together in a massage parlour out in Cricklewood some years back.'

'You got an address?'

'I'm working on it.'

'I need to know where she is, Sally. It's really important.'

Sally sighed, frustrated. 'I'm doing the best I can, but it's very hard with everyone watching me. I'm just a constable. They catch me…'

'I know. You're putting your career on the line for me, and I'm grateful.'

Sally shook her head. 'I'm just doing what I signed up to do. You're not the bad guy, boss.'

'I'm glad someone believes me.'

'You've still got a lot of friends on the force.'

Delaney took the piece of paper. 'Nobody else knows about her?'

Sally shook her head. 'But Bonner-'

Delaney interrupted her sharply. 'You didn't tell him this?'

'No.'

Delaney nodded, relieved. 'Good.'

'But he wants to help.'

'What did he say to you?'

'Just that, that he wants to help.'

'You told him you were meeting me?'

'No, but I guess he worked out you might get in touch with one of us.'

Delaney took her shoulders, looking into her eyes so she could see how serious he was. 'This stays between you and me for now. Okay?'

'Of course, sir.'

'And don't call me sir. If I get back on to the force after this little lot, I'll be lucky to be a uniformed constable.'

'He said that if you got in touch, he wants to see you.' She paused. 'I don't think you should do it. I don't think he can be trusted.'

'Oh, I think he can be trusted all right.' Delaney smiled, but it had all the warmth of a dead man's hand. He took out his phone and hit Bonner's number on speed dial.

30.

Bill Hoskins walked over to the gas ring he kept in his maintenance hut, flicked a match to light the gas and put the kettle on. Some minutes later, he was settled in his armchair with a mug of tea, some Rich Tea biscuits and a book. He was reading The Moonstone by WiIkie Collins. It was a long book, longer than most he read, but he loved a good mystery and he liked to take a page or two on his tea breaks.

A short while later, his tea finished, the book lay flapping open in his lap. In the summer heat he had gently nodded off to sleep. He was awakened by the sound of the door opening.

'Hello?'

He squinted into the bright sunlight spilling into the room and he could tell that it wasn't the attractive young lady who had come to see him earlier in the day, as he'd hoped, but someone entirely different. He sighed, irritated. 'What do you want?'

As the shot rang out, he had his answer. He opened his mouth to protest, but the words died with his breath on his lips. He slumped back in his chair, the book falling to the floor. Bill Hoskins never would get to find out who had stolen the Moonstone. He'd taken his last page.

Kate sat nervously in her car, parked on a double yellow line. She looked at her watch and drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. Further down the street she could see a traffic officer slowly walking along the line of illegally parked cars. Where was Delaney? And what the hell was she doing anyway? She was a forensic pathologist, for goodness' sake, not Tonto to Jack Delaney's Lone Ranger. What was she doing running around London trying to find a murderer?

The traffic officer looked across pointedly at Kate and she swore under her breath and turned the engine over, pulling back into the traffic just as Delaney came out of the church carrying a small overnight bag. She stopped, ignoring the angry honks from behind, and leaned over to open the door for him. The traffic officer watched as Delaney opened the boot of the car and put his bag inside. He closed the boot and walked slowly forward. The officer's gaze was lingering a little too long for Kate's comfort.

'For God's sake get in, Jack. That copper's looking at you.'

Jack got into the car, pulling the door closed behind him. 'He's just Traffic.'

'He might well be, but your face has been all over the place.'

Kate floored the accelerator and headed into Oxford Street. 'Where to?'

'Angel.'

'What's there?'

'Eddie Bonner. I just spoke to him.'

Kate looked across, concerned. 'Do you think that's particularly wise after what I just told you about the caretaker's statement?'

Delaney shrugged. 'I guess we'll find out.'

Head north from King's Cross towards Holloway, up a long, busy hill lined with scruffy warehouses and aluminium-roofed offices, and after about half a mile or so you get to Angel tube station. Turn right and you are in Islington proper, if proper is the word. Delaney could remember when the area was in two halves. On one side of the divide lived the poor and on the other the rich, like a line had been drawn across the road. That had all changed now, since the late eighties and early nineties, from the Angel tube station all the way down the main road past the King's Head and beyond was the world of the chic and the sleek. Designer pubs crammed in with trendy restaurants and bistros. Chain bars that catered to the nouveaux hoorays, like the Slug and Lettuce, All Bar One and the Pitcher and Piano, had replaced the old Islington that Delaney remembered. Not that he didn't still have a drink in the King's Head when he got a chance, where you were as likely to share a pint with an Irish fiddle player as with a long-haired drug dealer with dreams of rock stardom that had long since crashed and burned. There was something about the untouched nature of the place that Delaney took to, and if it was an affectation that they still rang up the sales on an old-fashioned till with the amounts demanded in l.s.d. – the currency, not the drug – then it was a small price to pay for a little defiance amidst the ravages of progress.