Murder Club (22 page)

So she and Jack had both been in dark places when they met; she could never have thought they would get together in a million years – but they had, and now they weren’t in those dark places any more. She guessed that’s how it happens sometimes. She ran a hand over her stomach and smiled sadly. She kind of hoped it would be a boy too. The truth was that the unborn baby that Jack Delaney’s wife had been carrying when she died wasn’t his. She didn’t have the heart to tell him, when she had accidentally
discovered
the fact. And she didn’t have the heart to tell him now, either.

She looked at the Amazon gift page she was browsing and then closed it with a sigh. She was already carrying the best present she could give him, he always said. But she’d think of something!

Her phone went and she snatched it off her desk. ‘Dr Kate Walker.’

The voice on the other end was male. He was speaking quietly. ‘Hey Kate, it’s Ben Fielding.’

Kate nodded and pushed some papers around, looking for a pen. ‘What have you got for me, Ben?’

‘The blood-work and sample analysis back on your mysterious woman.’

‘And?’

‘No semen. No blood. No foreign pubic hairs. Some evidence of lubricant.’

‘Consistent with a condom?’

‘No. Too much for that.’

‘Okay.’

‘Her blood had a cocktail of drugs showing in it, and her alcohol levels were very high for the morning after. I’ll email you the report. But you didn’t get anything from me.’

‘Of course not. Goes without saying.’

‘But I’m not at all surprised this lady didn’t remember anything of what happened. It’d be amazing if she did.’

‘Thanks again, Ben. I owe you one.’

‘No, you don’t, we’re quits.’

Kate sat at her desk for a moment or two, pondering the implications after she had hung up her phone. And then moved her thumb on the touchpad
of
her laptop to bring up her mailbox, to see if the reports were there. They weren’t yet, but another message had come in. She read the subject line and clicked it it to open.

Then she took out her mobile and hit a speed-dial button. The phone was answered after a couple of rings.

‘Hey, gorgeous, I was just thinking about you.’

‘Getting all hot and bothered, were you,’ Delaney replied on the other end of the line, lowering his voice and putting on the brogue.

‘Always. But I was thinking of what I should get you for Christmas.’

‘Why don’t I take you down to Agent Provocateur in Broadwick Street? I’ll help you pick something out for me.’

‘I don’t think stockings and suspenders would be a good look for you.’

Delaney laughed. ‘I wasn’t planning on wearing them myself.’

‘So, you still at the hospital?’

‘Just grabbing a coffee. Both witnesses are unavailable for comment right now. Hope to speak to Bible Steve soon. He had a bit of a turn.’

‘Well I just heard back from the World Peace Mission. Seems Geoffrey’s brother, Jeremy Hunt, was a missionary with them. Also a reverend with the Church of England, but peripatetic as it were, overseas.’

‘Go on.’

‘The World Peace Mission is tracking down his medical records. Not easy from twenty years ago, if you think that he was in Africa at the time and the Internet wasn’t anything like as accessible as it is today.’

‘When will we get them?’

‘This afternoon, they promised.’

‘Good work.’

‘I do my best.’

‘And you do it very prettily.’

‘Now that wouldn’t be a sexist remark, would it, Jack?’

‘It’s a statement of fact, Doctor. My job, after all, is sifting the facts from the fiction.’

‘And you do it very handsomely.’

‘I do my best.’

‘So are you just going to hang around until you’re allowed in to speak to the witnesses?’

‘I’m going to speak to the reverend’s wife. See if she has anything to add.’

‘Send her my regards.’

‘Will do.’

‘And be gentle with her, she’s an old lady.’

‘This is an old murder.’

‘True. But Patricia Hunt is no murderer.’

‘Everybody has secrets, Kate.’

‘Part of your job is wheedling them out?’

‘Yup.’

Kate ran her hand, slightly guiltily, over her stomach. ‘You just take care of yourself, is all.’

‘Hey, I’m always careful out there. Bye, darling, catch you later.’

‘Bye, honey.’

Kate hung up and looked down at her stomach. ‘Because he has to take care of us too, doesn’t he? He has to take care of all of us,’ she said in a soothing voice.

An incoming message beeped on her computer and
Kate
pulled up the report just in from Ben Fielding.

She scanned it briefly, raising an eyebrow. If Laura Chilvers had been seeking oblivion that night, she had certainly gone about it the right way. Traces of enough drugs in her system to sedate an elephant. Unless someone had planted them in her drinks, of course.

She moved the cursor and clicked on the print icon.

DI TONY HAMILTON
looked over at the tall woman who was driving. It was an estimated two-and-a-bit-hour drive to Lavenham in Suffolk from White City, but DI Emma Halliday had her foot down hard on the accelerator. They had been going for an hour or so and were at Bishop’s Stortford, about to leave the M11 and head towards Sudbury. The roads had been pretty clear out of central London, and even the North Circular had been remarkably hold-up-free. The heavier snowfalls expected in the capital had probably put most people off. Tony Hamilton didn’t blame them. Traffic in London was like one of the seven circles of Hell at the best of times; add a snow blizzard to the mix, and he’d count himself out soon enough. The only trouble was he couldn’t. The call comes and London’s finest have to answer, even if it does mean driving through several counties to get there. There were flurries of snow and the clouds overhead seemed to be thickening, but Emma had driven fast and controlled; he was impressed.

The DI noticed that he was looking at her, with a small smile on his face.

‘Spit it out, Detective. You got something to say?’

‘Just having a little sexist thought.’

‘You better not have been looking at my legs.’

DI Hamilton on reflex looked down at her very long trousered legs and then back up at her. ‘Actually I was just admiring your driving skills and was admonishing myself for being surprised.’

‘I surprise a lot of people with a lot of things.’

‘I’m sure you do, Catwalk.’

‘Yeah, Detective Inspector Halliday will do just fine thank you!’

‘Hamilton and Halliday. Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?’

‘No.’

‘I could see it on the TV. After
Eastenders
… stay tuned for Hamilton and Halliday. They kick butt, but boy do they look good!’

Emma looked over at him, smiling despite herself. ‘Got tickets on yourself, haven’t you?’

‘Is that what you think?’

‘What I think is that you should let me concentrate on the driving.’

‘Just trying to pass the time with some witty conversation.’

‘Well you’re failing. Stick the radio on.’

DI Hamilton leaned forward and pushed the button on the dashboard. A smooth announcer’s voice was reading the news.

‘…
Superintendent Napier of White City Police Station and the Metropolitan Police has today confirmed that the body recovered from under the carriages of an east-bound Bakerloo Line train was indeed that of Michael Robinson. Mister Robinson had earlier that morning walked free from the Old Bailey after several charges of rape and aggravated
sexual
assault and grievous bodily harm were dropped against him. The chief witness for the prosecution, who was the alleged victim of the vicious assault, herself sensationally claimed that she was shown a photograph of Michael Robinson before the formal identification parade
.’

Tony moved his hand to change the channel, but Emma flicked it away.

‘
The person who showed her the photo
,’ the announcer continued, ‘
was Detective Inspector Jack Delaney, she claimed. This claim is under internal investigation but it has also emerged that Michael Robinson had served a civil lawsuit on Inspector Delaney on the very morning he was released. DI Delaney has not been available for comment but Superintendent George Napier has confirmed that at this moment they are treating Michael Robinson’s death as suspicious. In other news Cheryl Cole has reportedly
…’

Emma switched off the announcer in mid-speech. ‘That sounds to me like wolves gathering, don’t you think, Tony? Smelling blood.’

‘Yeah I’d say so. Jumping Jack Flash better be watching his back.’

‘To think a few months ago he was the poster-boy for the Met.’

‘Tall poppy syndrome. The real English vice.’

‘And Jack Delaney is Irish.’

‘Black-as-bog Irish.’

‘Just as well he’s got us on his side, then.’

‘Let’s hope so. I can see heads rolling over this.’

Emma nodded and pressed down harder on the accelerator pedal.

Delaney walked into the family area of the intensive-care unit. It was as depressing a place as they always were in hospitals around the country. National Health hospitals, at least. Some gestures towards comfort but the effect was mainly utilitarian. An industrial-style maroon carpet on the floor. Modern wooden tables with a few magazines scattered on them. Blue moulded furniture with hard-wearing fabric on it, formed into benches and individual chairs. A cold water dispenser in the corner. The light overhead too bright. A mixture of hope and despair hung in the air in these sorts of rooms in hospitals throughout the country. Throughout the world.

Patricia Hunt was seated in the middle of the long blue bench opposite the door Delaney had just walked through. Her head was down, lost in the kind of thoughts that Delaney didn’t have to imagine. He knew only too well what they were. He presumed she had her faith to find some comfort. The last time he himself had prayed was when his wife was fighting a losing battle for her life in a hospital theatre not so very many miles away. He wasn’t sure if he was praying to a Catholic God. Over the years he had lost a sense of who he was in that regard. He was praying to the Catholic God or the Protestant or the Hebrew (even though it was supposedly the same thing), or to the Hindu God or to whatever power it was that created and shaped the universe. He prayed that that was the case and that this was not just some random chaos. So that someone might listen, might change the terrible course of events which were heading full speed to a tragic conclusion. But the words he
mumbled
in his head over and over again were Catholic ones. Drummed into him by rote as a schoolboy and altar boy back in Ballydehob. The words came as easily as breathing.

Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum. Adveniat regnum tuum. Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in caelo et in terra. Panem nostrum quotidianum da nobis hodie, et dimitte nobis debita nostra sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris
.

But the Father in Heaven who was hallowed by name, had not forgiven Jack Delaney his trespasses. His wife and her unborn child had both died that night. And Delaney had not been led astray into temptation because of this. He had simply lost all will to resist it. Neither was he delivered from Evil, but was put in its path like a sun-stroke victim walking blindly into a herd of stampeding cattle. But he was here now and he was sane and, even though he had not prayed since that terrible night, he didn’t look angrily at the trappings of religion, he didn’t bridle at the sight of a dog collar and crucifix. And he didn’t curse God and his actions every time he swallowed a glass of whiskey and ordered another.

‘Can I fetch you a coffee or a cup of tea,’ he asked simply.

Patricia Hunt looked up at him for a moment or two and blinked. ‘No thank you,’ she said. ‘It’s Inspector Delaney, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re married to the lovely Dr Walker.’

‘Not married. Living together.’

‘With a child on the way.’

Delaney shrugged apologetically. ‘Yes.’

‘Please,’ said Patricia Hunt. ‘You get to my age and attitudes change. I’m not sure the expression “living in sin” applies any more. Living in love is far more important.
Amor Vincit Omnia
. Isn’t that what they used to say?’

Delaney smiled. ‘Not in Ballydehob.’

‘Do you come with news of Geoffrey? How is he?’ she asked anxiously.

‘No news, I’m afraid. They’re keeping a close eye on him.’

‘It’s my fault.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘This cold weather, Inspector. Letting him out. Shovelling snow. He’s not a well man, said the fresh air would do him good.’

‘You mustn’t blame yourself, Mrs Hunt.’

‘You’re a Catholic, or once were?’

Delaney nodded.

‘Well then, you should be familiar with the concept?’

‘I am. And it’s not a helpful one. I know that from experience.’

‘So how can I help you?’

‘I need to ask you some questions about your husband’s brother.’

‘Is that really necessary right now?’

‘As you know, a body was found in the church your husband used to be the vicar of. The victim was murdered and buried there, about the same time as your husband’s brother went missing.’

‘I really don’t see the relevance. This has waited twenty years for your attention. Do you not think it could wait a little longer?’

‘I know this is a difficult time for you, Mrs Hunt, but if you could tell me anything about the last time you saw or spoke to him.’

‘Do you think it is him then, Inspector?’

‘We’re not ruling it out.’

‘It can’t be Jeremy.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘I am not sure of anything any more, Inspector. As a young girl, and later as a lecturer in theology, I was pretty sure. Pretty sure about most things. Now that I am just a silly old woman, it is quite the opposite.’

‘You have lost your faith?’

‘Not in God. Never in him.’

‘The Reverend Jeremy Hunt had been in Africa …?’

‘Yes.’

‘For how long?’

‘Oh I am sure if you check his records, you’ll see he had been over there for many, many years. He would pop back to England every so often. But rarely. More as a holiday. Taking care of affairs, that kind of thing.’