Hard Evidence (18 page)

Bonner had spent the morning speaking to Jackie
Malone's neighbours, even though he knew it was
a waste of his time. He had better things to be
doing on a Saturday, and true to his prognosis he
had nothing new to report. It was the land of the
three wise monkeys. Nobody saw anything,
nobody heard anything and nobody was saying
nothing to nobody. Bonner had left the next-door
neighbour on the right-hand side until last. The
top flat. The same set-up.

He sat uncomfortably on the wooden kitchen
chair, squirming a little, trying to get his buttocks
comfortable as the hard ridge in the centre of the
chair bit between them. He watched as Melissa
poured him a cup of tea. Her real name was Karen
Stuple but she felt the name Melissa sounded
sexier. Bonner didn't think she looked like a
Melissa, or a Karen come to that; to him she was
more of an Ingrid or a Tonya. She was from
Germanic stock and it showed, with long,
powerful legs and a decidedly Teutonic chest. She
was the kind of woman the poet Betjeman would
have enjoyed watching play tennis or riding about
town on her bicycle. Bonner looked at her legs,
balanced on four-inch spiked heels and encased in
black stockings and suspenders, then upwards
from her creamy muscled thighs to her generous
upper body, moulded by a lacy basque into
something almost cartoonish. Jessica Rabbit meets
Betty Boop. The loose green cardigan on top did
little to detract from her sexiness, Bonner thought,
nor the thick red lipstick or the sunshine-yellow
hair. Bonner liked his women to look like women,
and with Melissa there was very little doubt. If her
hair colour came from a bottle and her chest from
a plastic surgeon's shopping list, he didn't mind
at all. It just showed she cared more about her
appearance than other women, and that was a
trait that Bonner thoroughly approved of.

Today, though, he was focusing on business, or
trying to. He had his notebook open on his lap
and his pen in his hand.

'Come on, love, she's dead. Not a pleasant
death.'

Melissa shivered. 'I heard.'

'Or Billy Martin's.'

'What's happened to that prick, then?' She put
two mugs of tea on the table and sat opposite him.
Bonner watched distracted as she placed a
cigarette between her ruby-red lips and fired it up,
her lip muscles twitching and the cigarette doing a
lazy circular dance as she drew deeply. Her chest
swelled as she inhaled and Bonner had to flick his
eyes away from her cleavage. The heat wave was
showing no signs of abating and a small drop of
sweat was running slowly down her right breast.

'I said what happened to him, then?'

Bonner blinked and looked up at her face. 'He
went for a bit of a swim. Didn't wear his lifebelt.'

Melissa sucked in more smoke, her cheeks
hollowing and her lips pouting. She let the smoke
slip forth in a lazy stream, and Bonner almost
sighed along with her.

'Good,' she said finally, and Bonner nodded in
agreement. Billy Martin's passing from the world
was universally unmourned, but he still had a
job to do, and the sooner he got business out of
the way, the sooner he could attend to other
matters. He nodded to the smoke-stained wall to
his left.

'Jackie Malone. You telling me you didn't hear
anything?'

'I already told your uniforms. Nothing at all.'

Bonner gave her his policeman's look. 'You told
them nothing or you told them you heard
nothing?'

'You've got my statement. I didn't hear a thing.'

'She was murdered right next door, for goodness'
sake.'

'I wasn't listening. I'm a working girl, remember.
I have to concentrate.'

'So you didn't notice anything out of the ordinary?
You didn't hear anything unusual?'

'She was a specialist, wasn't she, Eddie? It was
all unusual there.' She threw him a knowing look,
half amused, half challenging. 'Wasn't it?'

Bonner closed his notebook. He was only going
through the motions anyway. The woman didn't
know anything, that much was clear.

'What about her son? Where did Andy go, do
you know that?'

Melissa looked at her watch and blew out
another stream of smoke. 'Who knows with that
one? Thirteen years old going on thirty. He's
probably with his other uncle, travelling. He was
never here much, you already know that. You
spoke to his uncle?'

'We're looking for him.'

Melissa shrugged. 'I wish I could help, love, but
I didn't hear or see a thing.' She ground out her
cigarette in a small plate on the table and drained
her mug of tea. 'That the official business over
with, is it?'

'For now.'

'Right.' She stood up and took off her cardigan.
Her voice suddenly uncompromisingly authoritarian.
'Get next door then and get on your knees.'

She reached behind her to pick up an
improbable-looking object with straps and
buckles from the kitchen table. Bonner nodded,
the dry tip of his tongue nervously licking the
corner of his lips.

Sometimes he really loved his job.

*

Later that afternoon, Delaney ground his cigarette
stub with a quick flick of his shoe and watched as
a police van pulled to a stop in the car park
outside White City police station. The back doors
swung open and a couple of uniformed officers
climbed down, leading a middle-aged man
between them. In his forties, he was dressed in
filthy black jeans, with beads, bangles and long
greasy hair. Half hippy, half Hell's Angel, more
metal in his face than God or nature ever intended.
Jackie Malone's elder brother. He scowled as he
saw Delaney lounging against the wall and spat on
the ground.

'Might have known.'

Delaney walked over to the officers. 'I'll have a
quick word with him, thanks, guys.'

'All yours.'

'There was no sign of the boy?'

One of the uniformed men shook his head. 'We
asked around too. Nobody has seen him for a long
time.'

'Okay.'

The officers walked away, rubbing their hands
as if to clean off the taint of Russell Martin.

'What do you want, Delaney?'

Delaney pushed the man against the wall and
wasn't gentle about it.

'Suppose you tell me where the boy is, for a
start?'

Martin struggled angrily. 'And suppose I tell
you to go stick your head in a pig?'

Delaney kneed him quickly in the groin; he
doubled over in pain but Delaney hauled him up
by his throat and leaned in close.

'You fuck with me, Russell, and I'll make your
eyeballs bleed. Do you know what I am saying to
you?'

Russell Martin looked away and Delaney
slapped him as hard as he could, open-palmed
against the side of his head.

'Do you know what I am saying to you?'

Martin grunted and rubbed his head. 'I've got
rights.'

'You've got the right to remain silent. But you
exercise that right and I'll spoil you for your
girlfriend. You fuck with me, you piece of pikey
shite, and I'll spoil you for any woman.'

'What do you want from me?'

'I want to know where Andy is.'

'I don't know where he is. I haven't seen him for
weeks.'

Delaney slapped him again on the side of the
head. 'I'm telling you, don't fuck around with
me.'

Martin was nearly in tears. 'I don't know where
he is. I swear.'

'I don't care what you swear; you lie to me and
you'll live to regret it.'

'I've been on the road for four months and he
wasn't with me the last couple. He came back to
his mum, that's all I know.'

'You spoken to her lately. Or your brother?'

Martin shook his head, 'I heard what happened
to them, but it's got nothing to do with me.'

'Who has it got to do with, then?'

He shrugged. 'I don't know. We weren't exactly
close.'

Delaney curled his lip, genuinely disgusted.
'You're a real piece of shite, you know that.'

Martin shook his head angrily. 'I know what I
am and I know what they were. This has got
nothing to do with me.'

Delaney leaned in angrily again. 'It's got
everything to do with your nephew right now.'

Martin flinched back and shook his head. 'I
wouldn't do anything to hurt the boy.'

'That's right. You're a regular Mary Poppins,
aren't you?'

'I don't know where he is, Delaney. It's the
truth.'

Delaney looked at him for a long moment. 'You
wouldn't know the truth if it fucked you in the
arse.' He gave him a rough shove towards the
road. 'Stay where I can find you.'

Russell staggered and caught his balance. 'Yeah,
right.'

'I mean it. Don't make me come looking for
you.'

Martin hurried away out of the car park
entrance without looking back. Delaney palmed a
cigarette into his mouth and lit it, a dark look in
his eyes as he drew the soothing smoke in and
watched Jackie Malone's brother scurry away. He
took a couple more drags and then walked across
the car park, heading towards the road.

Pacing about on the deep-pile carpet of his office
on the second floor, Chief Superintendent Walker
was talking on his mobile phone, and he was far
from happy.

'I don't care what your problems are. I told you
I'm dealing with it.' He walked over to the
window and looked out, anger sparking in his eyes
like an electrical storm as he saw the person they
were discussing heading out of the car park.

'I told you I'd take care of it, so just let me do
my job!' He snapped the phone shut.

Kate threaded through the crowd of off-duty
police already packing the Pig and Whistle at five
o'clock, and made her way to the bar. Delaney
was sitting on a stool in the corner, nursing a pint
of Guinness, watching Sally Cartwright beat Bob
Wilkinson at darts but not really paying any
attention. His thoughts were elsewhere. Kate took
a penny out of her pocket and slid it along the bar
counter in front of Delaney. He picked it up and
looked at it.

'If they were that easy to get rid of, I'd gladly
give them to you.'

Kate nodded at his glass. 'That doesn't solve
anything.'

'It does if you drink it.'

Kate laughed and Delaney decided he liked the
sound. He'd decided that a long time back, of
course, but he was beginning to admit it to
himself.

Kate smiled at him. 'When you're right, you're
right. Same again?'

'My turn.' Delaney gestured at the barmaid.
'Large vodka and tonic, please.'

'I've still got a bit of work to do. I can't be
drunk.'

'You work with dead people. What can it hurt
if you slip with your scalpel?'

Kate looked across at him. 'You are joking?'

'I am.'

Kate hesitated. 'It's just paperwork.'

Delaney looked at her thoughtfully. 'So twice in
as many days. You following me?'

'I just dropped some files off and I saw you
heading here.' She shrugged. 'I've had a hell of a
day, and what do they say about misery loving
company?'

Delaney laughed unexpectedly. 'You like to say
it as it is, don't you?'

'Not a lot of call for subtlety in my job.'

'I suppose not.'

Delaney looked at her again as he took another
sip of his drink. 'On Monday night, at Jackie
Malone's flat . . .'

'Yes?'

'I was rude to you. I'm sorry.'

'There's no need to apologise.'

'I was in a bad mood. I'd spent the day at
Northfields cemetery. It was our wedding
anniversary.'

'I heard about your wife. I'm sorry.'

It was Delaney's turn to shake his head. 'I just
wanted you to know.'

The barmaid handed Delaney the vodka and
he held it out to Kate. 'So, is work over for the
day?'

Kate looked at the drink and then levelled her
sparkling eyes at him as she took the glass. 'Does
this mean we're friends now, Jack?'

'I don't have friends. People don't like me.'

'People change.'

'Like hell they do.'

Again the laugh from Kate, and Delaney
suddenly realised he had to be careful.

Kate looked at him, her smile smoothing into a
serious line as she bit her lower lip. 'I haven't
spoken to my uncle on a personal basis since I was
nine years old.'

Delaney looked at her wide-open eyes and could
feel the blood pumping in his heart. Maybe it was
adrenalin kicking in, fight or flight. He came to a
decision. He clinked his glass against hers.

'I think I'd like to be your friend, Kate.'

Her smile was a thousand watts now.

Delaney found that he was enjoying Kate Walker's
company. The first time since the death of his wife
that he had enjoyed a woman's company so much.
Kate glanced at her watch and Delaney felt guilty
at the disappointment he felt.

'Running out on me again?'

'Time's up, I'm afraid.'

'Oh?'

'Got to give a speech at my old university. Then
dinner with a friend.'

'A male friend?'

Kate looked at him curiously. 'Lady friend. A
doctor. She's trying to persuade me to go and work
for her.'

'Are you considering it?'

Kate shrugged. 'I kind of like my work.'

'Queen of the Dead?'

'Something like that. Not quite as glamorous.'

Delaney looked at her, puzzled. 'As who?'

'It was a literary reference.'

Delaney smiled. 'I read
The Beano
as a kid.'

Kate laughed. 'Your dumb-cop act doesn't fool
me you know.'

'You think I've got hidden depths?'

'I reckon you're a regular walking city of
Atlantis.'

Delaney laughed again. 'You sure you're not a
psychiatrist?'

Kate shook her head and looked at him appraisingly.
'I like working with my hands too much.'

'And you're good at your job.'

Kate leaned in, her voice a little husky. 'So I've
been told.'

Delaney looked at her and felt himself becoming
lost in her eyes. Imagining what would happen if
he just leaned across and kissed her. Wondering if
her lips tasted as good as they looked, as good as
they sounded. Then he caught himself and sat
back, looking at his watch.

'You best get along to your dinner.'

Kate reacted to the shift in his tone. 'I could
cancel it. You look like you could do with some
company.'

'No, you get along, Kate. I'll be okay.'

Kate stood up, leaning over him, and for a
moment he knew she was about to kiss him on the
cheek, just a farewell kiss, but Delaney realised it
would be more than that. He could feel it and his
cheek burned; he wanted it, he wanted more than
that, but he hated himself for it. Kate took a
breath, straightened up and painted on a smile as
Delaney raised his glass and took a defensive drink.

'I'll see you later, Jack.'

Delaney nodded. 'Yeah.'

'Thanks for the drink.'

He watched as she walked out of the pub.
Wanting to call her back but keeping his silence.
He thought there was an almost imperceptibly
more exaggerated swish to her hips as she walked
away, and if there was, he realised that it was all
for his benefit, and suddenly he felt even more
confused. The blood was pumping in his ears again
and he had to loosen his tie as he swallowed
another measure of his drink. He drained the glass
and shook the thoughts away; he already had
enough in his life to feel guilty about. He gestured
at the barman, and soon his glass, at least, was full.

The pub got even busier with the relief coming
off shift, and Jack Delaney joined in with the usual
meaningless banter as he sank a couple of pints,
but in truth it washed over him, his mind elsewhere.
After half an hour or so he made his
farewells and left.

Back at his flat, he closed the door behind him,
checking his post on the mat, picking up a number
of bills, junk mail and a small padded envelope
with his name and address on it, written in crude
block letters. He tossed the mail on a small table
and walked through to his lounge. The evening
sun was streaming through the windows, still hot,
still bright. He pulled the heavy curtains shut.
Taking off his jacket and starting to sweat as the
room became even more like a sauna. He opened
the padded envelope and pulled out a DVD. He
loosened his tie, walked over to the DVD player
and took out the DVD that was in it,
Sin Sisters
,
replacing it with the new, unlabelled disc. He
poured himself a large glass of whiskey and
pushed play.

White noise and static hissed on the screen for a
moment or two and then cleared. Delaney sat
back in his chair to watch.

On screen was a static shot, filmed with a good-quality
camera. A Victorian front room. Thick
curtains drawn over lace nets on the windows, a
small gap throwing a golden shaft of diffuse
sunlight into the room. A piano with old photos in
silver frames on top of it; the floor plain dark
wood but polished so it shone, with a single faded
rug. Dark furniture in the background, a display
case on thin sculpted legs, a sideboard with broad
gothic doors. A jardinière stand with a white
ceramic pot on it, but no flowers.

And music playing. 'Pie Jesu'. Delaney's eyes
watched motionless, the flickering light of the
television dancing and reflecting in his pupils as he
took another dispassionate swallow of whiskey.

A young girl walked into shot. She was around
nine years old and you could see she was nervous.
She walked slowly towards the camera wearing a
simple white dress with ribbons in her long dark
hair. She stopped and knelt down like a supplicant,
opening her mouth into an oval.

A dark-suited figure moved in front of her.

*

Saturday morning. The twenty-eighth day in a
row without rain in London, and the capital was
looking set to break heat records for the month.

A television studio is a world without a ceiling,
but that didn't make it any cooler. It is a place of
wires and cables and chaos; and like any other
universe it has its own laws, its own morality, its
own little gods.

In the director's room a number of monitors
showed a group of primary school children of
about nine or ten years of age. They were singing
'All Things Bright and Beautiful'. Alex Moffett, in
his late thirties and prematurely balding, took off
his designer glasses and paused the tape.

'Okay, Caroline, that's fine. Cue up the bishop
for me.'

Caroline, a perky media school graduate in her
twenties, with short bleached hair teased into
spikes, combat boots, a tartan skirt and a T-shirt
with 'The Dog's Bollocks' hand-written across her
front, shuffled a box of tapes and shrugged
apologetically. She flicked through the box again
and shook her head.

'The bishop's back in the office. The runner
should have brought it up by now.'

Moffett glared at her.

'What is it I always say?'

Caroline looked at her boss's angry face. A little
amused, a little scared if truth be known, although
Moffett wasn't a scary-looking man.

'Never work with bloody amateurs.'

'Never work with bloody amateurs, that's
exactly bloody right. Christ, I need a drink.'

Caroline looked a little taken aback as Moffett
stood up and slipped into his jacket.

'Alex, we record in one hour!'

'I have been producing this show for five bloody
years, sweetheart. I know what our sodding schedule
is.'

'Of course.'

Caroline smiled, placating, and turned back to
her monitor. Moffett muttered under his breath
and headed for reception. He didn't even
acknowledge the nod from the security guard who
sat behind the desk, just pushed the big green
button to the side of the doors and headed out to
the car park.

He scowled dismissively at a huddle of studio
employees who stood at the kerb of the road that
ran parallel to the studios, blowing smoke and
gossiping. If gossip was currency in the TV
industry, then everyone was a millionaire. If you
weren't sticking a knife in someone else's back,
then you had no business being there. Moffett
headed past them further down the road and
pulled out his mobile phone, punching in a
number with frustrated urgency.

'It's Alexander. What's happening?'

He listened, teasing a hanging nail on the corner
of this thumb between his teeth, then shook his
head, unhappy.

'I don't like it.' He sighed, his temper rising like
a needle on a thermostat. 'Sod your bloody golf
game. I'm shooting Jesus' bloody sunbeams in
forty-five sodding minutes! I tell you, I'm beginning
to get very nervous here, so do something
about it or I will.'

He listened for a moment or two longer and his
shoulders sagged.

'I'll see you later.'

He clicked his phone off but didn't head back
to the studio. He stood a while longer, worrying
at his hangnail. Finally he tore it loose, gasping
with pain as it ripped into the quick and a bright
spot of blood appeared. He sucked it, tasting the
iron and copper, and grimaced. He didn't like
omens.

Delaney was also uncomfortable that Saturday
morning. Five days since the anniversary of his
wife's death, and he was at his sister-in-law's
again, perched on the edge of her sofa like a
distressed seagull on a wall. He fitted a finger
under his collar and pulled it out to cool his neck.
He would have loosened his tie but he knew that
if he did, busy female hands would seize it and
tighten it even more uncomfortably. The truth was
that Delaney had never been a suit-and-tie man.

He looked across as the lounge door flew open
in an explosion of anarchic energy. Siobhan,
dressed for her First Holy Communion, came
bursting into the room like a human cannonball,
the happiness and innocence shining from her eyes
like a beacon.

'What do you think of the dress?'

Wendy followed her in. 'Siobhan. Be careful.
Watch your hair.'

'You look a picture, darling. Daddy's sweetheart.'
Siobhan clambered into his arms and he hugged
her.

'Everything all right, Jack?'

Delaney found a smile and nodded at Wendy.
She held her hand out to Siobhan. 'Come on then.
We'd best be getting on. Can't be late for the big
day, can we?'

'They'll make a convert of you yet, Wendy.'

Wendy shook her head. 'I may be a hypocrite,
Jack. But not that big a one.'

Delaney stood up and took his daughter's other
hand.

'Come on, darling. Let's get your membership
card to the biggest club in the world.'

The Church of St Joseph was old. Dating back to
the Norman Conquest, it had history in its very
bones. High vaulted arches crossing above the
nave. Stained glass filling every window. Dark
wooden pews worn smooth over the years by
countless people sitting and praying. Around the
church were the fourteen pictures of the Stations
of the Cross. Behind the altar a tall crucifix. The
agonies of Christ captured in brutal realism. Blood
trickling from the crown of thorns, a gash in His
side where a Roman soldier had been ordered to
put Him to early death so as not to spoil the
Sabbath rituals. His hands and feet stained with
dried blood as it pooled around the hard iron of
the nails that had been hammered through His
tender flesh and bone.

Delaney sat in one of the forward pews. He ran
a finger under the collar of his shirt again and tried
to get comfortable on the hard wooden bench. He
stretched his legs out and crossed them. Wendy sat
beside him and dug him in the ribs. He nodded
apologetically and sat up straighter.

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned
. He didn't
say the words aloud but they echoed in his head as
if he had shouted them to ring in the rafters of the
ancient church.

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned
.

At the back of the church, in an upstairs gallery,
Mrs Henderson, a kind-faced, mild-mannered
lady of fifty-two, sat at the organ and positioned
her feet on the pedals. She turned the sheet music,
placed her hands on the keyboard and began to
play. Sweet music filled the air. The music of
celebration and worship. The music of ritual,
thought Delaney, as the sound carried him back to
his own childhood. To another church in another
country and another time.

Jack could feel the blood pumping in his veins as
he knelt in front of the altar, waiting for Father
O'Connell to return. He shifted uncomfortably,
the cold stone painful on his sore bare knees.

Jack Delaney was an altar boy, the youngest of
a group of five or six boys from the village who
came to church every Saturday morning to
practise. The other boys had been sent home half
an hour or so ago and Jack had been ordered to
wait on his knees and think about his sins. Jack
did think about his sins. He thought about them a
lot. Especially the one thing he had done and
could never take back, no matter how hard he
prayed to go back in time and undo it. That was
why he hardened his heart to what was going to
come. Whatever it was, he deserved it.

Jack could hear movement in the vestry and
clenched his hand into a fist to stop it from
trembling. He had sinned and now he had to face
the consequences.

Father O'Connell was a man capable of great
anger. You only had to listen to his old-fashioned
sermons on a Sunday morning to know that. He
was very clear on what he despised, and what he
thought of sin and sinners and what should become
of them. And Jack was a sinner right enough. His
father swore that he was born to sin as a duck was
born to water. And his father should know.

He looked up as a shadow fell on the polished
floor in front of him and he heard the soft swish
of a black cassock. Father O'Connell was not
particularly tall, but to a kneeling ten-year-old
his five foot ten gave him Olympian proportions,
while his rough white beard and sore red eyes lent
him the look of an Old Testament prophet of
doom. Jack shivered despite himself. He was
usually afraid of no one, would front up to much
bigger kids in the school playground if they
messed with him, but Father O'Connell had a
reputation. He liked to hurt boys. He kept a strap
in his vestry and none of the parents in the area
objected if he used it to keep their unruly children
in line. And there were rumours.

'Jack. What are we to do with you?' The priest's
booming voice echoed around the stone walls of
the church, rich with disappointment.