Hard Evidence (6 page)

'We hope so.' Sally had a soothing voice, like
soft honey. Delaney found himself thinking that
she'd probably make a good mother some day;
Howard Morgan was just like a child in a lot of
ways.

'Sometimes people use their computers like
diaries, Mr Morgan,' she said. 'They write things
in them.'

'I don't know. She never showed me.'

'It might help us find her.'

'Take it then. I just want her home. She should
be home.'

Delaney considered Morgan for a moment or
two but could see nothing in his eyes that he
hadn't already seen in his own. The thought didn't
reassure him.

There are all sorts of places where the dispossessed
and the helpless of London gather. Abandoned
warehouses, filthy underpasses, old churchyards
tucked away in shameful Victorian decay right in
the heart of the city, although the city, of course,
has no heart. Bob Wilkinson knew that for a fact.
This was a city that killed people. Literally. You
could kill a person with a building as easily as you
could with an axe – he didn't know who said that,
but he agreed with the sentiment. Bob would have
liked to take an axe to some of the people he had
to deal with in his job on a daily basis. He
watched as Bonner sniffed disdainfully and looked
down at the inert body of a young girl. They were
in an underpass, a late-night drop-in for the
substance- and alcohol-abusers who had nowhere
else to go. In the winter it would probably kill
them, but in the summer it kept them out of the
rain and out of the noses of late-night theatregoers
on Shaftesbury Avenue. Didn't keep them
out of Bonner's nose, though, and it was a smell he
clearly didn't much care for.

He toed the young girl roughly with his shoe,
looking at the picture of Jenny Morgan that he
held in his hand.

'Easy, Sergeant.' Bob's disapproval was clear in
his voice, but Bonner ignored him and kicked the
sleeping girl again.

'Wakey, wakey.'

The young girl turned her head and blinked
angrily up at Bonner.

'Why don't you fuck off?'

It wasn't Jenny. Bonner nodded at her and put
the photo back in his pocket.

'All right, princess. Back to your beauty sleep.'

Bonner and Wilkinson walked on through the
subway that led from the hospital to where their
car was parked. The girl called after them.

'Hang on, copper, you got any change?'

'Yeah,' Bonner called back and carried on
walking.

Bob looked at him and shook his head. 'You're
a piece of work, you know that.'

'That's a piece of work, Sergeant, to you.'
Bonner grinned.

'And you can kiss my arse,' Wilkinson muttered,
not quietly.

Bonner pretended he hadn't heard it. 'We
haven't got time to fuck about, Bob. That little girl
needs to be found; it's about getting the job done
quickly.'

'I bet your girlfriend loves that approach.'

'My women love everything about me.'

'Course they do, sir.'

Bonner strode quickly up the subway stairs as
Wilkinson followed behind, thanking Christ on a
bicycle that he was getting out of the job soon.

Delaney looked around Jenny Morgan's room. It
was sparse, neat. No posters of boy bands on the
wall. No pink furry ponies or glittering costume
jewellery. No Keep Out signs. No notebooks with
doodles on the cover and I heart this or I heart
that. No photos of horses, or best mates hugging
each other in photo booths designed for passport
pictures. No jewellery boxes or musical boxes or
clothes strewn on the floor. No books lined up
carefully or artlessly on shelves, no CD player or
DVD player. Just a bed, a couple of cupboards
and a rug arranged neatly on the floor. It could
have been a hostel room, or a nun's room.
Nothing to show it was the bedroom of a twelve-year-old
girl. On a desk that stood in front of a
small window overlooking her father's yard was
a small laptop computer.

Delaney opened the cupboards and looked
through the drawers. Clothes, old birthday cards.
Project folders from school. But no letters, no
diaries, no real clue to the missing girl's personality.
Maybe she didn't have one. Maybe she was as
blank a canvas as her bedroom seemed to be.

He turned on the computer. As he expected, her
desktop was clear. No documents or pictures left
carelessly, everything ordered into its proper
folder, its proper file. He heard voices from
downstairs, switched the computer off and picked
it up, looking around the room to see if he had
missed anything.

He hadn't.

Downstairs, Sally was talking to Jake Morgan,
Howard Morgan's older brother. He was in his
late forties, as heavily built and dark-browed as
his sibling but a few inches taller, and the oil stains
on his face looked as ingrained as a tattoo. He was
wearing a filthy T-shirt under a pair of dungarees,
his massive arms hung loosely by his sides, and as
Delaney looked at the slack expression on his face,
the tune of duelling banjos ran unavoidably
through his mind.

Jake frowned as he looked at what Delaney was
holding. 'What you got there? That's Jenny's.' His
voice was slow, as if framing the simple words was
an effort for him, but Delaney could hear the
menace in it.

'We need to find Jenny, Jake. You know that's
why we're here.' Sally smiled pleasantly at the
large man. 'This is Detective Inspector Delaney.
We need to take her computer to see if it can help
us find her.'

Jake turned nervously to his brother. 'We didn't
steal it, did we, Howard?'

Morgan looked guiltily at Delaney. 'We didn't
steal it.'

'We're not bothered where the computer came
from originally, just what Jenny might have
written in there.'

'Someone gave it us for a job.'

'It's okay, Howard.' Sally smiled again and
Delaney found himself thinking she should get a
job as a model: the smiling face of the Metropolitan
Police. Something he'd certainly never
qualify for.

'I need you and your brother to go over everything
you remember, Jake,' he said. 'Everything
about yesterday, about the last time you saw
Jenny.'

Jake nodded, his agitation showing in the way
he clenched his fists. The cloth of the T-shirt
straining at the biceps and making the tattoos on
his forearms bulge. Forearms like industrial
diggers, Delaney thought. A man could do a lot of
damage with arms like that.

'I live up the road.' Jake's voice was as slow as
tar.

'And?'

'I live up the road. So I didn't see her. Not
yesterday.'

Delaney looked over at Howard. 'Someone must
have seen her.'

Morgan shifted uncomfortably. Delaney looked
at him steadily. 'We're going to hold a press conference
later. Television. I want you to be there.'

Morgan shook his head, distressed. 'I can't do
that.'

'If she has run away, then an appeal from you
might just bring her home.'

'She didn't run away.' Morgan shook his head
again, as if the action would make it so. 'She loves
her dad.'

Sally stepped in before Delaney could respond.
'It would be a big help. And don't worry, we
would prepare a statement for you. All you'd have
to do is read it.'

'No! I can't do it.'

Delaney looked at Morgan's darting eyes and
his trembling fingers. A chill settling in his heart.

'What do you want to tell us, Howard?'

Jake stepped forward. 'We can't read, see? Just
boxes. For parts and that. Jenny did our reading
and writing for us. Since . . .'

Morgan grunted. 'Since my wife died,
Inspector.'

Delaney nodded. 'Okay.'

Morgan looked to the side again, the hurt clear
in his eyes. 'She never kissed me.'

'I'm sorry?'

'Jenny. She never kissed me.'

'What do you mean?'

'She never kissed me goodbye before going to
school. She always kissed me goodbye. What if she
never comes back?'

But Delaney didn't reply. Some questions you
just couldn't answer.

The Pig and Whistle was the aptly named pub a
short staggering distance from White City police
station. It had been used by the boys and girls
in blue for over a hundred years, and Sally
Cartwright, a sparkle in her eyes, was basking in
the noisy hubbub and savouring her first day out
of uniform. Opposite her sat Bob Wilkinson, the
sparkle, had there ever been one, long since gone
from his eyes.

'The way I see it, Sally, there's only one thing
you need to know as a detective, and that is . . .
once a slag, always a slag.' Everyone was a slag to
Bob. Young, poor, rich, old . . . if they were a
criminal, or a suspected criminal, they were a slag.
It kept matters simple.

'And the way to deal with slags . . .'

But DC Cartwright didn't get to benefit from
her older colleague's wisdom, as Delaney
approached carrying a couple of drinks.

'Come on, Bob. She's off the clock. The slags'll
keep till tomorrow, eh?' He handed Sally her
drink. 'Here's to you. First day on the job.'

Sally nodded reflectively. 'Not the best of days,
boss.'

'The way it goes sometimes.'

'Don't like to think that girl's still out there
somewhere, on her own.'

Bonner, with DI Skinner and Dave 'Slimline'
Patterson, joined them, handing round drinks and
crisps and packets of nuts.

Bonner smiled at Sally. 'We'll find her.'

Delaney raised his glass. 'Here's to DC Sally
Cartwright. The future of the Met, God help us.'

The drinks were drained and another round
ordered, and another.

Many hours later Delaney stumbled into his
flat, lay back exhausted on his bed and fired up a
cigarette. Like Sally, he was disappointed they
hadn't found Jenny Morgan, but it was Jackie
Malone's ravaged body that haunted him, and he
hoped her cold, naked corpse wouldn't join him in
his dreams again, her mouth wet with blood on his
lips, his hands finding openings that nature had
never intended.

As Delaney laid his head back on his pillow, and
drifted into troubled sleep, across town in a back
alley of Soho a young girl lay huddled in the
doorway to an accountancy office. The moon in
the cloudless sky gave her skin a ghostly-pale look.
Two officers on night patrol looked down at her
motionless body; one hooked off his police radio
and made the call.

Another child dead on the streets of London.

Kate Walker turned the thermostat on the shower
as high as she dared and waited a moment before
stepping under the scalding water. She closed her
eyes as the jets pummelled her tired muscles. She'd
been up since six o'clock, not just because of the
bright sunlight spilling in through her bedroom
window, but because, as she always did, she'd
spent a restless night. Night horrors, they called it,
and the term always made her laugh. After the
horrors she saw on a day-to-day basis, dreams
shouldn't have had any hold over her. But they
did. They always had. Since she was a little girl she
would wake early, and when she drifted back into
sleep the dreams would start. Dreams that would
leave her muscles locked and a penetrating sadness
that took a while to shake off. The hot water
helped. She rubbed the exfoliating scrub over her
body as if to wash away the lingering emotions of
her nightmares, watching the soapy water puddle
around her feet and swirl soundlessly down the
drain. After a few minutes she put the sponge
aside and just stood under the water. Letting it
pool through her hair and spatter against her
glowing skin. She stood there for at least five
minutes, breathing deeply, her eyes closed, her
heartbeat slowing to a normal pace.

Delaney woke with a painful start, the ringing
phone clattering into his consciousness like a
dental drill set on kill. He picked it up, grunted a
few words and hung up. He looked at the clock on
his bedside table and cursed under his breath, then
stood up unsteadily and stumbled through to the
bathroom, wincing at the blinding sun as it spiked
in at him through the Venetian blinds.

He dragged an electric razor across the resisting
planes and angles of his face and looked at himself
in the mirror. His eyes still looked as if they had
seen too many things they no longer wished to see
and the cold water he splashed into them couldn't
wash the hardness away. The muscles of his
cheeks sagged and the puffiness around his eyes
spoke as much of alcohol as sleeplessness. He
splashed more water into his bloodshot eyes and
rubbed a towel roughly across to dry his face.
Then he pulled on his jacket and yawned. Another
day.

Outside, the sun cooked the fractured pavements
of the city. Everywhere signs of life stirred. People
thronged and bustled, humanity busy with
purpose. Thrusting like beetles into the underground
stations that swallowed them whole to
vomit them out again throughout the metropolis.
The oxygen particles in the blood of the metropolis,
making it pump, making it breathe.

But death in London was also as regular as a
heartbeat. Death from old age, from cancer, from
heart attacks when playing squash or having
energetic sex, from pneumonia and exposure,
from automotive accident, from desperation and
loneliness, and from murder. On a daily basis the
bodies mounted up and were brought to Kate
Walker and her colleagues for examination, for
analysis.

This Wednesday morning, while the sun shone
bright, she had five cold bodies on the slate,
including Jackie Malone, and one young child
jumping to the head of the queue. Another statistic
on the slab. Another job to do.

Kate snapped the latex gloves tight to her
fingers and looked down at the mortuary table.
The young girl's body lay ready for her
examination. Kate put her at about eleven . . .
maybe twelve, maybe ten. Life hadn't been kind to
her in that short span. That was evidenced by the
scars on her lifeless skin and the fractures that
were revealed in the X-rays hanging on light-boxes
at the back of the room. Kate wished she
could shine a light into the dead girl's brain and
see what had happened in her life. But nothing
was ever that simple. Certainly nothing in Kate's
life. She picked up a scalpel, knowing that the little
girl had already been through a world of hurt, but
taking comfort in the knowledge that she was
beyond pain now. She flicked the switch on the
recording machine and began dictating as she
went to work.

Delaney hurried along the corridors and into
interview room one. If anything, it was hotter than
it had been yesterday, but he made no move to
open the windows. He took off his jacket and
hung it on the back of a chair next to Bonner, who
was sitting across the table from Terry Collier, a
slight ginger-haired man in his late twenties.
Collier was about five-foot-nine tall and as thin as
a fishing rod; dressed in an avocado-green moleskin
suit, he held a pair of round rimless glasses
which he was polishing nervously.

Delaney smiled at him, but it didn't reach anywhere
near his eyes. 'Sorry to keep you waiting.'

Collier put his glasses back on and ran a finger
under his shirt collar and loosened his tie. 'I don't
understand why I am still here.'

'You're still here, Mr Collier, because I want to
talk to you.'

'You can't hold me here. This is England, not
Iran. I can leave any time I want to.'

Delaney stared at him, letting the words hang in
the air until Collier looked away.

'You came in earlier to amend your statement, I
believe,' Delaney prompted him.

'That's right.'

'We need to talk about that.'

Collier hunched defensively and looked pointedly
at his watch. 'Yes, I came in first thing. I told
the woman at your front desk everything. She has
all the details.'

'People say God is in the details, Mr Collier. But
I don't believe them. See, in our line of work the
Devil is in the details. We get all the details and we
always ferret the bastard out.'

'I don't understand what you're talking about.'

'You're an English teacher, aren't you?'

'Yes.'

'So I am sure you know what a metaphor is.'
Delaney pulled the chair from under the table, the
legs scratching loudly on the floor. He banged it
into position and sat down heavily. Collier
flinched instinctively back as Delaney leaned
forward.

'Tell us again, for my benefit.'

'Tell you what?'

Bonner smiled encouragingly, 'You were on
playground duty at end of school Monday?'

'It's all in my statement.'

'Nobody's accusing you of anything, we just
need to know all the facts.'

'You could have fooled me.'

The petulance in Collier's voice made Delaney
want to reach across the table and slap him hard
in the face, but he clenched and unclenched his fist
under the table and let the moment pass.

'You could have been the last person to see
Jenny Morgan alive, you do understand that, Mr
Collier?'

Collier looked shocked. 'Are you saying she's
dead?'

'I didn't say that. Do you think she's dead?'

'How would I know that? What are you
implying?'

Delaney let the words hang again, and looked
down at Collier's statement. 'You were on your
own. No other teachers were with you?'

'Just me.'

'And earlier you told our uniformed officers
that you didn't see Jenny Morgan leaving?'

'That's right.'

'But now you remember that you did?' Delaney
kept his anger in check. Either the man was a liar
and worse, or he was a bloody idiot.

'It came to me later. She left with a friend. Carol
Parks.'

'And you've only just remembered that!'
Delaney couldn't stop his voice rising or his hand
slapping hard on the table again.

Collier jumped back in his chair. 'There are
hundreds of children at that school. Am I supposed
to remember every one?'

Delaney pushed a picture of Jenny Morgan
across the table to him. 'Just her.'

'I know what you're trying to do here.'

'We're trying to find a little girl who's missing,
that's what we're trying to do.'

'You're saying that I was the last person to see
her alive. I know what that means. You've got me
down as your prime suspect. You think I did it!'

'Did what, exactly?' Bonner leaned forward, any
friendliness long since drained from his eyes.

'I just meant . . .' Collier shook his head,
flustered, and Delaney brought his cold eyes to
bear on him.

Collier swallowed nervously, running his finger
under his collar once again.

Delaney stood up and pulled his jacket off the
chair. He looked at Bonner. 'I'm going to see the
girl.'

Collier stood up. 'What about me?'

'We haven't finished with you yet. Sit down and
the sergeant will organise you a cup of tea.'

'You don't want me with you, guv?'

'I'll take Cartwright,' said Delaney. 'The feminine
touch.'

Kate Walker pulled off her blood-stained latex
gloves and dropped them in the stainless-steel
swing bin. She nodded to her assistant, who
wheeled the remains of the young girl away. In life
the child had suffered all sorts of indignities, and
in death she had fared no better. Sharp steel was
no friend to human skin or internal organs, and
although in most cases Kate managed to do her
job in a professional manner, in a disconnected
way, to work on someone so young and so fragile
and who had been so obviously in pain was hard.
She ran a hand through her hair and composed
herself. The morgue was no place for emotions,
and for Kate that was a good thing. She picked up
her schedule for the day and tried to put the image
of the pretty, dark-haired, little girl out of her
mind. They didn't even have a name for her yet.

Primrose Avenue was the kind of name, Delaney
thought, that belonged in Surbiton or Chelsea, or
else some suburb that wasn't dominated by the
high-rise reality of a Waterhill estate casting a
shadow all over it. But Primrose Avenue was
where Carol Parks' family lived, and if there was
a smell hanging on the hot still air, it wasn't the
sweet smell of spring.

Abigail Parks, a modestly if smartly dressed
woman, had been startled at first to find two
detectives on the front doorstep of her small but
immaculately kept home. She regained her composure
quickly, though, and took them both
through to the back garden, where her daughter,
brought home from school to be interviewed, was
waiting.

Out in the sunshine Delaney smiled reassuringly
at Carol Parks, who took hold of her mother's
hand like a lifeline. She was a quiet, brown-eyed
girl of twelve, with mousy blonde hair and
crooked teeth being set straight with National
Health metal braces. Delaney had brought Sally
Cartwright with him, but her youthful, cheerful
presence had done little to calm the young girl's
obvious nerves.

'You're not in any trouble.'

'I haven't done anything.'

'We know that. We just need to talk to you
about Jenny. Your friend Jenny Morgan.'

Carol shook her head, leaning into her mother.
'I don't know anything.'

Her mother squeezed her hand. 'It's all right,
nobody is accusing you of anything.'

Sally crouched down a little, bringing herself
to Carol's level. 'She's your special friend, isn't
she?'

Carol nodded.

'What do you remember of the day before yesterday,
when you left school?'

'I didn't see her after school.'

'Mr Collier said he saw you two together,
leaving.'

'After that. I left her at the gate.'

'But you normally walk home together, don't
you?'

Carol didn't answer, and Delaney looked at her
mother, the question in a bent eyebrow. Abigail
Parks put an arm, defensively, around her
daughter's shoulder.

'It's not far. They walk together. The school is
only around the corner.'

Sally smiled at Carol again. 'But you didn't walk
home together on Monday?'

Carol considered for a moment and then looked
down at the ground, shaking her head.

'Why not?'

'She wanted to wait behind.'

'In the playground?'

Carol slid her eyes off to the left, not looking at
Sally. 'Yes.'

Delaney stepped closer. 'Why, Carol? Why
would she do that? What aren't you telling us?'

'Nothing. I told you, I don't know anything!'

She burst into tears and Delaney sighed. Kids
were born liars, every single one of them. But they
weren't very good at it.

Sally knelt down and took her hand.

'It's okay, Carol. It's just very urgent we find
Jenny. We need to find her quickly and make
sure she's safe. You do understand that, don't
you?'

Carol nodded, but still wouldn't look at Sally,
shaking her head as she gazed at the floor. 'I don't
know where she is.'

Her mother patted her on the head. 'It's okay,
poppet.' She nodded apologetically to Delaney.
'I'm sorry we couldn't be of any help.'

Delaney nodded back, frustrated, and handed
her a card. 'Speak to her; if there's anything she
can tell you, get in touch as soon as you can.'

'Of course.'

Delaney pulled the door behind him as he left
and strode angrily to his car. DC Cartwright,
following behind, knew better than to try and
engage him in conversation. As he opened his car
door he looked across at her. 'She was lying to us,
Sally.'

'I think so too, sir.'

'About what, though?'

Sally shrugged. Delaney sighed and got into his
car. If people just told them what they needed to
know, their jobs would be a whole lot easier. Then
again, if people just told the truth they would all
be out of a job. A whole lot of people would be.

A short while later, Delaney pulled his car to a
stop back in the White City police station car park
and looked across to see Bonner watching Collier
walk away from the building. He locked the door
behind him and crossed angrily over to the
sergeant.

'I thought I told you to hold him.'

'He insisted, guv. There was nothing we could
do.'

'For now, maybe.'

'Did you get anything from the girl?'

'She said she left Jenny at the school. They
didn't walk home together.'