Hard Evidence

• About the Author
  
• Title Page
  
• Copyright Page
  
• Dedication
  
• Epigraphs
  
• Chapter 1
  
• Chapter 2
  
• Chapter 3
  
• Chapter 4
  
• Chapter 5
  
• Chapter 6
  
• Chapter 7
  
• Chapter 8
  
• Chapter 9
  
• Chapter 10
  
• Chapter 11
  
• Chapter 12
  
• Chapter 13
  
• Chapter 14
  
• Chapter 15
  
• Chapter 16
  
• Chapter 17
  
• Chapter 18
  
• Chapter 19
  
• Chapter 20
  
• Chapter 21
  
• Chapter 22
  
• Chapter 23
  
• Chapter 24
  
• Chapter 25
  
• Chapter 26
  
• Chapter 27
  
• Chapter 28
  
• Chapter 29
  
• Chapter 30
  
• Chapter 31
  
• Chapter 32
  
• Chapter 33
  
• Acknowledgements
  
• ALSO AVAILABLE IN ARROW
  
  • Flesh and Blood
    
  • The Babes in the Wood
    
  • Triptych
    
• From Random House
  

HARD
EVIDENCE

For the last ten years Mark Pearson has worked as
a full-time television scriptwriter on a variety of
shows for the BBC and ITV, including
Doctors,
Holby City
and
The Bill
. He lives on the north
coast of Norfolk.
Hard Evidence
is his first novel
and he is currently writing
Blood Line
, the second
book in the Jack Delaney series, which will be
published by Arrow Books in August 2009.

MARK PEARSON

This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

ISBN 9781409035572

Version 1.0

www.randomhouse.co.uk

Published by Arrow Books 2008

2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

Copyright © Mark Pearson 2008

Mark Pearson has asserted his right under the Copyright,
Designs and Patents Act 1998 to be identified as the
author of this work

This electronic book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

First published in Great Britain in 2008 by
Arrow Books
Random House, 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road,
London SW1V 2SA

www.rbooks.co.uk

Addresses for companies within The Random House Group
Limited can be found at: www.randomhouse.co.uk/offices.htm

The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009

A CIP catalogue record for this book
is available from the British Library

ISBN: 9781409035572

Version 1.0

For Lynn with love

In 2004/2005 police figures indicated there had
been 1,028 child abductions in England and
Wales. That's three children a day. Or night.
Abducted. Every eight hours a child is stolen in the
UK.

BT press release

Each year in the UK more than 40,000 children
under the age of 16 are reported missing – and
after two weeks 1,300 children will still not have
returned home.

BT Media Centre

Night-time on the river, twenty-five miles west of
London. Kevin Norrell, a foul-breathed and acne-scarred
man, hooded and sweating, pulled hard on
the oars, really getting into it now. Years of
steroid abuse had given him strength, if not
wisdom, and his blades flashed across the dark
ridges of the windblown river like scalpels slicing
through mercury. He grunted as they dipped into
the water and pulled the boat upwards and
forward. In the cloudless sky above, the moon
hung full and fat, the sickly colour of a dying man.
The colour of Billy Martin's yellowing face, in
fact, as he lay huddled in the corner of the small
skiff. His hands were bound with twisted coat-hanger
wire, his mouth was pulled into a painful
rictus by a gag made from his own shirt.
Trembling, he pulled his legs protectively in
towards himself.

'For God's sake keep still!' A hooded man at the
other end of the boat, holding a video camera.

Kevin Norrell pulled unconcerned on the oars,
not missing a beat. He didn't know or care who
the huddled man was; he was paid for his muscle,
not his brains. Billy Martin cared about something,
though. You could see it in his rat-like eyes
as they flicked from side to side like a warning
finger.

'Never work with bloody amateurs.' The
hooded man with the camera again. 'This isn't a
steadicam, you know.'

Billy Martin twisted his face and managed to
move the gag a little. 'You think you're scaring
me? You're not. Who do you think you're dealing
with here?'

'With you, dear boy. We're dealing with you.
We're washing you away. Like a blot, like a stain.'

'I've got insurance.'

'You had insurance. I'm afraid the policy has
recently been cancelled.' He nodded to Kevin
Norrell, who reluctantly laid down his oars and
gripped Billy Martin's shoulders. Martin tried to
shake loose, but Norrell's muscles bunched and
his fingers dug into the struggling man's shoulders
like mechanical claws and held him powerless.

'You can't do this.'

'But we can,' said the hooded man; he pointed
the camera and nodded encouragingly. 'Good.
Let's see the fear.'

Kevin pulled Billy Martin upright; he was
screaming with pure terror now, desperately
trying to escape the huge man's grip. But Kevin
lifted him up, his feet twisting uselessly in the air,
then threw him into the river as easily as passing a
basketball and with the casual indifference of a
refuse collector emptying a dustbin.

Billy Martin's scream rang in the night air like a
steam alarm as he crashed into the cold water, his
arms burning as he strained against the wire
holding him, desperately trying to stay afloat, and
failing.

The second man nodded again, zooming in for a
tight shot as the rocking boat steadied itself, and
called out encouragement to Billy Martin.

'That's it. Wriggle like an eel, splash out with
your legs.'

Billy Martin's screams gurgled and faded as he
sank beneath the water. The ripples gradually died
away, the boat was still and the river was peaceful
once more. The cameraman nodded to the rower,
as if to praise a child, but the smile didn't reach his
eyes. Eyes which were as cold as the water that
had suddenly filled Billy Martin's lungs.

'Shame we couldn't get crocodiles,' he said after
a moment.

If Kevin Norrell had any idea what the man was
talking about, it certainly didn't register on his
face.

The football. The cricket. The state of English
sport in general. The bird off
Emmerdale
getting
her tits out for some lads' magazine. They'd
banned smoking, they'd be banning alcohol in
pubs next, something else to thank the Californians
for, no doubt, like the Atkins diet and
low-carb beer, and the bloody Mormons who
banged on your door with the sincerity and charm
of house-to-house insurance salesmen, or cockroaches.

Jack Delaney let the conversation wash over
him as he downed a shot of whiskey with a quick,
practised flick of his wrist.

He was sitting on a cracked leather stool at the
wooden counter of the Roebuck, a scruffy north
London pub. A big mirror behind the bar, with
thirty-odd bottles of spirit in front, bouncing
different-coloured lights off it like a Christmas tree
for alcoholics.

Delaney picked up his pint glass and let a sip of
creamy Guinness soothe his throat if not his soul;
even the door-to-door Mormons couldn't sell him
that, even if he had been in the market. No new
soul for Jack Delaney today; just the old, sin-spotted
black thing at the heart of him. Forgive
him, Father, for he had sinned. If women looked
at him, which they did often, they'd try to guess
his age and reckon it to be around the late thirties.
He had dark hair, dark eyes, and if they got to
know him they would get to see that dark soul.
Mostly he didn't let them get to know him.

Delaney held his whiskey glass out and nodded
with a wink at the barmaid. 'Evaporation.'

The barmaid took his glass, smiling but with no
real hope behind it. She poured a generous shot of
Bushmills and placed it in front of him.

'Cheers, Tricia.'

'Any chance of getting a drink here!' A large
man, a few inches over Delaney's six one, but
carrying weight, and drunk. Delaney gave him a
glance, dismissed him and returned to the solace
of his Guinness.

'The fuck you looking at?'

'Minding my own business here.'

'You seem to be minding my fucking business.
And you' – to the barmaid – 'get me a fucking
lager.'

Delaney sighed and flashed her a sympathetic
smile.

'Sorry about this.'

The big man's eyes widened; he shook his head,
disbelieving.

'You got a problem or something, you fucking
Irish fucker?'

Delaney debated discussing the delicate beauty
of the English language, but instead stood up from
his stool, picked up an empty bottle and smashed
it against the bar. Then kicked hard, very hard,
with the side of his foot into the larger man's knee.
The man grunted with surprise and blinked. He
swayed back, and Delaney flashed his left hand on
to his throat, grabbing his windpipe and holding
him rigid. Then he moved the jagged edge of the
broken bottle towards the drunken man's now
terrified eyes.

'If you wanted to dance, you should have asked
nicer.'

'Please.'

'Too late for please.'

Delaney's hand tightened on the bottle, his hard
eyes telling the fat man the really horrible nature
of his mistake.

A hand tapped Delaney's shoulder and he
turned round to see a smiling man in his thirties.
Dirty-blond hair, brown eyes, five ten. He clearly
worked out, the muscles tensing in his arms as he
balanced on the balls of his feet like a boxer, ready
to move.

'Let him go.'

The man dipped a hand into his smart leather
jacket and fished out his warrant card, which he
showed round the room like a warning. Nobody
paid him much attention; a fight in the Roebuck
was as unusual a sight as a G string in a pole-dancing
club.

'Police. Detective Sergeant Bonner. Why don't
we all calm it down?'

Those who had been watching turned back to
their beers, losing interest.

Delaney stepped back and put the broken bottle
on the bar. Bonner leaned in to the shell-shocked
drunk, who had fallen to his knees and wet
himself.

'I'd fuck off if I were you.'

The man needed no second telling and limped as
quickly as he could to the door. Bonner nodded at
Delaney.

'Cowboy.'

'Sergeant.'

Bonner spun the broken bottle on the counter.

'Irish party games?'

'Something like that.'

'You're going to have to come with me, I'm
afraid.'

'Ah, Jesus. Come off it, Eddie.'

'Out of my hands.'

'Don't tell me it's that prick Hadden again.
What are you doing, Sergeant Bonner, kissing arse
and running errands for that slag now?'

'It's not about the missing cocaine.'

What the fuck is it about then?'

'Jackie Malone.'

Delaney was genuinely puzzled. 'What are you
on about?'

'She's been making a nuisance of herself asking
for you.'

'So? Since when do the wants of a brass like her
send the Met's finest out on errands?'

Bonner gave him a flat look. 'Since the brass got
rubbed.'

Delaney sighed, picked up his jacket and walked
with Bonner to the door, Tricia giving him a
grateful but nervous smile as he passed. Bonner
opened the door.

'Would you have used the bottle?'

'Who knows? I try to live in the present.'

Bonner shook his head. 'You know your
trouble, Delaney?'

'Yeah.'

And he did.