Blood Work (10 page)

'I'm sorry, but that won't be possible. It wouldn't
be appropriate, I'm afraid, Inspector.'

'I was responsible for the man's arrest, and he has
vital information on another case, sir.'

The superintendent picked up the folder again and
waved it at Delaney. 'As I recall it, after his arrest he
had to spend time in accident and emergency with a
suspected fractured skull. And the other case is the
incident in which your wife died?'

'That's right.'

'Given your involvement in that incident, and the
fact that it was your wife who was killed, I don't
think it is appropriate for you to take the lead on this
investigation. Which is why I have instructed
Detective Inspector Skinner to coordinate with the
prison authorities and their internal investigation.'

'With respect, sir, Norrell said he would only speak
to me.'

The superintendent frowned. 'I don't think he is in
any condition to speak to anyone just now.'

'Convenient timing.'

Superintendent Napier sighed. 'Concentrate on this
dead woman on the common, Delaney. Any
movement on identifying her?'

'Nothing yet, but we're working on it. She doesn't
match anyone on the missing persons' register.'

'I want a tight lid, Delaney. I've already had the
press wanting details.'

'Maybe it would help, sir. Someone probably
knows her.'

'We speak to the press when I say. We clear on
that, Inspector?'

'Sir.'

Delaney turned to leave, pausing at the door as the
superintendent called him back.

'One more thing, Delaney.'

'Sir?'

'I am well aware what happened between you and
my predecessor. Diane Campbell argued very
strongly for bringing you back into the fold. I think
you should know that I had grave misgivings but
allowed myself to be persuaded by her. I hope you
are not going to let me down.'

'Just let me do my job, sir. That's all I ask.'

The superintendent stood and picked up the file,
nodding a dismissal to Delaney. 'Go and do it then.'

Delaney shut the door behind him. Napier walked
across to a filing cabinet and put the folder in the top
drawer. He looked at himself in the mirror and
smoothed his hair with the flat of his hand. He kept
himself in very good condition. A punishing fitness
schedule, good bone structure and clear, ebony skin
made him look younger than his fifty-two years, but
the white hair above his ears told the true story. As
he looked at his temples critically, he considered, yet
again, dyeing his hair, but then discounted it, as he
always did. Gravitas was far more becoming in a
career policeman than vanity. And George Napier
was nothing if not ambitious.

He sat back behind his desk and thought about the
surly policeman who had just left his office. He
wasn't sure there was a place for people like him in
the force any more, but time would tell: Jack Delaney
could be a help or a hindrance to him. And most of
the people who had spoken to the superintendent
said Delaney was a first-rate detective with good
instincts and a great success rate. If his foot danced a
little outside the touchline now and again that was
fine by him, as long as he didn't drop the ball. But if
he did lose it in the tackle, if he became more of a
liability than an asset, then George Napier was going
to come down on him like an All Blacks front line.
Guaranteed.

Delaney paused at the drinks cooler filling a cup as
DI Jimmy Skinner approached. Delaney was still considered
tall, at six feet, but Jimmy Skinner had a good
few inches on him. He was a lot thinner, though, and
pale-faced from too many nights playing Internet
poker. His wife had left him the previous January
because he had refused to walk away from an online
game at midnight to hear Big Ben chime the New
Year in and kiss her on the final bong. He had felt
quite justified, however, as he was holding two aces
with a third on the flop. But his wife didn't see it that
way, and now he had even more time on his hands.
'You've simply got to know when to hold them,
know when to fold them,' he had told his divorce
lawyer, who had told him that it was his balls his
wife was holding, fiscally speaking, and that she was
going to cut them off. Which she proceeded to do,
leaving Skinner a fiscal soprano.

Skinner helped himself to a cup of water and
looked at Delaney. 'You spoke to the new big cheese
then?'

Delaney drank his water in a long gulp almost
feeling the liquid rehydrating his veins. 'Yup.'

'What do you make of him?'

'Remember the old joke about how to become a
policeman?'

'Grow a tit on your head and paint it blue?'

Delaney threw his cup in the bin. 'You're looking
into the Norrell thing, I hear.'

'You tag along any time you want to, Jack.'

Delaney nodded. 'Appreciate it, Jimmy.'

'You were due to see him this morning?'

'First thing, yeah.'

'Seems like a hell of a coincidence he was taken out
before you got there then.'

Delaney grunted. 'I don't believe in coincidences.'

'You think he genuinely knew something about
your wife's death?'

'Nothing in it for him if he was making it up.'

'Kevin Norrell was never a grass.'

'Yeah, well, your perspectives change when you're
standing naked in a shower surrounded by hardened
criminals. No pun intended.'

'True.'

'Or when there's a contract out on you.'

Skinner looked at him, a little surprised. 'You
think that was the case?'

'I think as soon as he started offering to sing like a
canary, someone wanted to snap off his beak and clip
his wings. Permanently.'

'He was meant to go down hard. That's for certain.
But if they thought he was dealing kiddie porn . . . ?'
He shrugged. 'Could just be that, cowboy.'

'It's too neat. Someone in there wanted him shut
up and quickly.'

Delaney and Skinner walked back towards the
CID offices. 'You saw one of the guys who attacked
him?'

'Martin Quigley. But he isn't saying anything.
Norrell smashed him up pretty good with a lavatory
bowl. Fractured his jaw in three places.'

'Helpful.'

'But he can write. He claims they took Norrell out
as a matter of course, like they would any other
kiddie fiddler, given half the chance. No other
agenda.'

'You believe him?'

'I don't know. He might have been roped in. He's
just as much an ape for hire as Norrell himself. Paid
to hurt not to think. And Norrell was involved with
Walker who was involved big time in kiddie porn. It's
a good cover story if you have another reason for
wanting him dead.'

Delaney said goodbye to Skinner, stuck his head
round the CID office door and beckoned to Sally
Cartwright. 'Come on, Constable, you're with me.'

Sally stood up from her desk, a little flushed,
quickly closing down the report she had been reading
on her computer. She picked up her jacket from the
back of her chair and joined Delaney.

He looked back at her computer as her screensaver
came on. 'What are you working on?'

'Just catching up with some paperwork.' She
avoided his eyes and headed briskly out to the
corridor. 'Where are we going?'

'South Hampstead Tube.'

'Sir?'

Delaney walked beside her and held out a photofit
picture that the computer artist had generated from
Valerie Manners' description of the flasher on the
common. 'Our man might have been wearing a suit,
she said?'

'Apparently. Under his mac,' Sally confirmed.

'So what does that tell us?'

'That flashing isn't just a blue-collar crime and he's
probably not a student.'

'Exactly, he's up too early in the morning for a
start. Maybe he was giving his John Thomas a quick
airing before putting in a hard day at the office . . .'
He looked at Sally and smiled. 'As it were.'

'Which do you reckon came first, sir? The book or
the expression? I've often wondered.'

'What are you on about?' Delaney asked,
puzzled.

'John Thomas and Lady Jane.
Lady Chatterley's
Lover
.'

Delaney threw her a look. 'I know you've got a
degree and all that shite, Detective Constable, but do
you think you could save the book-club chit-chat for
your weekend dinner parties and concentrate on the
case?'

'You reckon he was heading for the Tube?'

'He lives or works near here. And given the timing
it is more likely he was on his way to work
somewhere out of the locality.'

'So you think he lives somewhere near the heath?'

'Sexual predators like to operate within a comfort
zone. Somewhere they know well. So if something
happens they know where to run to.'

'And the murdered girl. Does she live locally, do
you think?'

The desk sergeant called out as they headed to the
front entrance. 'Good to see you back, Jack.'

'Cheers, Dave.' He opened the front door for Sally.
'I don't know about the girl. It depends if it was an
opportunistic or planned killing. Time of death will
help.'

'Not going to be wandering on the heath in the
dead of night you mean.'

Delaney nodded as they walked over to Sally's car.
'It's unlikely.'

'Mind you, it was a full moon last night.'

'Meaning?'

Sally fished out her car keys and opened the
driver's door to her car. 'Well, it brings out the
crazies. And her being a goth. Maybe there's a connection.
The mystic power of the moon and all that.'

Delaney got into the car next to her and stretched
his legs forward. 'The moon might play a part in
paganism. Witchcraft, Wicca, that kind of thing. Not
sure it applies to goths.'

'No. But the belt buckle. I've been thinking about
it.'

'What about it?'

'Looking at the photos more closely both sides had
a representation of the Green Man. Big pagan
symbol.'

Delaney nodded thoughtfully. 'Maybe, and there
may have been a full moon last night, but you'd never
have been able to see it. Not with all that cloud cover
and rain.'

'I suppose not. So, it looks like the body was
dumped there. She could have come from anywhere.'

'"Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania."'

Sally looked across at him, frowning as she fired up
the engine. 'Sir?'

'What? You surprised I know a little Shakespeare?
They do have schools in Ireland, you know.'

'Yeah, I do know that. Put your seat belt on.'

Delaney sighed and pulled the strap across. 'And
it's cockney rhyming slang.'

'What is?'

'John Thomas. So the expression came first.'

'Oh.' Sally smiled. 'So what does it rhyme with?'

Delaney considered for a moment, then sighed and
flapped his hand. 'Just drive the car, Constable.'

'On average two and a half million people use the
tube system every day and I'm guessing something
like bloody plenty of them use South Hampstead
station,' Delaney said as he stood up from the
computer, rubbed his sore eyes and yawned.

Sally paused the CCTV footage and looked up at
him, amusement quirking the corners of her mouth.
'Must have been some night.'

Delaney yawned again, putting his hand in front of
his mouth. 'You have no idea.'

Sally gestured at the computer screen. 'We're up to
twelve o'clock.'

Delaney nodded and stretched his eyes. 'Let's get
these photos in front of the nurse, see if she
recognises any of them.'

Sally collected three photos that had been printed
out of some possible men that matched the
description of the flasher they had been given by
Valerie Manners and stood up.

Kate Walker was sitting at her computer typing up
her notes for the post-mortem on the mystery
woman. She pushed the print icon and some
moments later picked up a ten by eight, black-and-white
close-up of the woman's neck. Someone had
slashed her hard enough to slice the flesh clear to the
bone. What kind of anger could have fuelled such
brutality? Even if the attack was sexually motivated
it still came down to anger. Impotent rage, maybe, as
it was clear the woman had not been sexually
assaulted. No evidence of it at least. The irony of the
thought was not lost on her and she shivered again,
thinking about the possibility that it could have been
her dead body being examined by one of her
colleagues. How close a tightrope to death we walk
in life, she thought. How fragile the human body is.
How soft and defenceless against true purpose, true
will to hurt. And yet we dance on the tightrope
blindfolded, and laugh while we do it. Only Kate
didn't feel like laughing today. She wasn't sure she
ever would again. The telephone rang suddenly,
shrilly. She started, her heart thumping in her chest,
and snatched the phone up, taking a moment or two
to steady her shattered nerves before answering.
'Kate Walker.'

'Kate, it's Caroline Akunin.'

Kate took in a deep breath. 'Go on.'

'I haven't got the blood work back . . .' She
paused.

'But?' asked Kate.

'But, I ran a check on Paul Archer.'

'And?'

'He's out on police bail at the moment, Kate.
Pending trial. He's already been charged with rape.'

Kate was puzzled for a moment. 'What do you
mean?'

'His estranged wife. She's charged him with rape.
The court case is coming up this week. He's a rapist,
Kate.'

Kate nodded, taking it in, she couldn't speak for
a moment. 'I'm coming in to White City now for a
briefing, I'll come and see you while I'm there.'

She hung up the phone and collected the
photographs and her printed out notes. She stood up
and winced, holding a hand to her stomach and had
to fight the urge to throw up again.

Valerie Manners looked impatiently at her watch and
scowled at Danny Vine, the uniformed constable who
was stood by the door of the interview room at the
front part of White City police station. It was a
featureless, plain room, with a rectangular table, six
plastic chairs and a couple of windows looking out to
the car park. Not a particularly pleasant place to
spend any length of time. She looked at her watch
again. 'How much longer are they going to be?' she
snapped.