Blood Work (16 page)

Delaney glared at him. 'With respect, sir. I am
conducting an interview here.'

'No you're not, Delaney. Your interview is over.'

Melanie Jones brought the full force of her
professional smile to bear. 'It's quite all right, Superintendent.
The detective inspector and I were
discussing the case.'

'It's not all right, Miss Jones. I will not have members
of the press treated in such a cavalier fashion in
my station. Your cameraman has told me how you
were manhandled, Miss Jones.'

'A small misunderstanding.'

Delaney held his boss's gaze. 'No misunderstanding
on my part, sir. I don't care if she's press,
public or a member of the royal frigging family, she
has information on an ongoing murder case then she
gets treated just the same by me.'

Napier goggled at him. 'Have you listened to a
word I have said, Inspector?'

Delaney smiled sardonically at Melanie Jones. 'I'm
just doing my job, sir.'

'Wait outside, Delaney. I'll speak to you later.'

Delaney nodded pointedly at the reporter then
walked out, closing the door loudly behind him, and
took a moment to compose himself. He'd have liked
to have gone back inside and slapped his boss but he
knew what the consequences would be, and although
in times recently past he wouldn't have much cared,
right now he needed his badge and the authority it
brought. He still had personal matters to take care of
and his warrant card was going to help do just that.

He walked through to public reception area where
the long-haired cameraman was watching him with a
smug and amused expression on his face as he
lounged against the counter. 'Your boss had a word
with you, did he?'

Delaney walked up to him, the smile on his lips far
from friendly. He grasped the camera out of his
hands, slid the broadcast-quality Betacam tape out of
it and put it in his jacket pocket.

The cameraman was outraged. 'You can't do that!'

Delaney ignored him and nodded at Dave. 'Napier
will probably be looking for me in a minute.'

'Want me to tell him where you'll be?'

'Tell him I got called away. Urgent business.'

Dave smiled knowingly. 'Have one on me.'

Delaney cocked his finger at him, pulled an
imaginary trigger and headed towards the entrance.

The cameraman called after him. 'Oi!'

Delaney ignored him, walking outside and closing
the door behind him, silencing the cameraman's outraged
protests.

He looked up at the sky and thought about what
Melanie Jones had told him. The moon was low in
the sky, leaking a sulphurous light over the dark car
park; a few clouds scudded over it as he watched,
throwing a shadow over his face, but his eyes still
glittered.

Derek Watters had been a prison officer for twenty-two
years and married for twenty-three. He had left
school at the age of sixteen and worked in a number
of different jobs over the next year or so, never really
settling into any of them. But after walking into a
recruiting office, he had decided that when he turned
eighteen he was going to join the army. His mates
threw him a big party at the local pub, the Roebuck,
to celebrate his eighteenth and give him a bit of a
send-off before he took the Queen's shilling. Derek's
mates had all had a whip-round and organised for a
strippergram as well. A girl whose real name was
Audrey but was calling herself for the purposes of
erotic entertainment Sergeant Sally Strict. She was
nineteen, dressed in a policewoman's outfit and had
breasts like coconuts, the young Derek Watters had
thought. Heavy, full, magnificent. Exotic fruit
indeed.

Derek had always been more of a headlamps than
a bumper man, still was. And Audrey's headlamps on
that night dazzled him. Literally. She'd made him
walk around the pub on all fours barking like a dog
and then given him eighteen lashes with a soft suede
whip. One for each of his years. Then given him his
birthday treat. She hadn't done a full strip, she was
just a fun telegram girl she'd said. But she had gone
topless and let him cradle his face in her ample
bosom. It was the best night of Derek's life thus far.

It turned out that Audrey was a student, training as
a nursery nurse. The strippergram work was just to
help pay for her fees. Derek had taken her card and a
couple of days later he'd finally sobered up and found
the courage to call her up and ask her out on a date.
To his delight she had said yes. And on the third date
she'd taken him home to her digs at college. Donned
the policewoman's uniform once again and then took
it off for an audience of just one. Took it off very
slowly. All of it this time. And if Derek had been
happy before he was fit to burst now.

But that 'now' was twenty-three years ago, he
thought bitterly as he trudged up past the hordes of
office workers who were spilling down the short
steps into Piccadilly Circus station. Twenty-three
years ago; and three weeks after her strictly non-
Metropolitan Police regulation knickers had hit the
floor of her eight foot by eight foot bedroom, he had
got the phone call. He was having Sunday dinner at
his parents' at the time, roast pork and parsnips,
thinking life didn't get much better. No, it got worse.

Audrey was up the stick, he was the father, and his
plans for joining the army were right in the shitter.

She wouldn't hear of him joining up. She wanted
him home with her, not swanning off overseas whenever
Maggie wanted to win another election. She
wanted them to get married as soon as possible, and
it wasn't just one baby she wanted, it was three. And
there was no way she was walking up the aisle
looking like Alison Moyet with a pillow stuffed
under her jumper. Derek wasn't even thinking about
marriage let alone a family but abortion was out of
the question, seemingly. Audrey had her way; they
got married and had three kids. Derek's application
to join the police force was turned down and he
ended up in the prison services. And the worst of it
was, she refused to wear the uniform ever again.
After her third baby her stomach had thickened and
her back broadened and her once coconut-like
breasts were now like flabby pumpkins that were
long past their Halloween best.

So, he was going to put the touch on the copper
and his CID mate. The information he had should be
worth a couple of C notes and he was going to put
the money to good use. A feisty little Irish tart he
liked to visit when he had enough folding squirrelled
away.

He smiled to himself as he pulled out his mobile
phone and stood outside Boots on the north side of
Piccadilly Circus, turning the collar of his raincoat
up as the wind had freshened. There was moisture
in the chill air. An hour ought to do it, he figured.
Give him time to get some cash from DI Jimmy
Skinner, a couple of drinks to set the ball rolling and
then round to the auburn-haired strumpet for
another round of Sergeant Strict and the love
truncheon. He punched in the number and grinned
expectantly.

*

Delaney took a sip of his Guinness and wended his
way through the crowd at the Pig and Whistle over to
a back table where Sally Cartwright and a bunch of
other people were sitting, He nodded to some of
them, all uniform, all fresh-faced and eager. Cops
really were getting younger these days, he thought.

'Glad you could make it, sir.' Sally pulled out a
chair for him. 'I think you know most people.'

'Sure.'

Delaney nodded generally and shifted uncomfortably
in his seat, the pain in his shoulder throbbing
and reminding him that his own youth was far
behind him. He took another pull of his Guinness.
Creamy analgesic by the pint glass.

Sally gestured at the young, black constable. 'This
is Danny Vine.'

'Nice to meet you again, sir.'

Delaney flashed him a quick smile as he shook his
hand, pain lancing into his shoulder and making him
regret it. 'Please don't call me sir. Not in here,
anyway.'

'Sure.'

'And this is Michael Hill.'

She smiled at the blond-haired man in his mid-twenties.
Delaney picked up the slight catch in her
voice and the sparkle in her eye. Danny Vine had
competition. He nodded at the man, not risking
another handshake. He recognised him from somewhere,
but couldn't quite place him. 'I know you?'

'You'd have seen me earlier, sir.'

'Like I said, no sirs. When you're out of uniform
I'm just plain old Jack Delaney.'

'I'm not uniform.'

'Oh?'

'I'm the police photographer.'

Delaney nodded a little guiltily. 'Sure, I thought I
recognised you.' The truth was he hardly noticed any
of the myriad support staff when he was working.
Especially if they were all kitted out in white
spacesuits. Some detective.

'Any developments on the case, Inspector?' Danny
Vine asked. He was clearly eager to show he was
keen. Sally had better look out, Delaney reckoned.
Youth and energy were dangerous enough, particularly
when you added testosterone to the mix.

'Nothing new. We'll track down who she is
tomorrow with any luck. Give us somewhere to start.'

'How are you going to do that?'

Michael Hill this time. Delaney sensed that they
weren't really interested in talking to him per se, but
thought that if they got on his good side they'd get on
the good side of Sally Cartwright.

He was relieved to see Bob Wilkinson coming in
and heading up to the bar. He smiled apologetically
at Sally. 'Sorry, got to have a word with Bob.'

Sally nodded back distractedly but Delaney could
tell she had other matters on her mind. Young love,
he thought as he worked his way back through the
noisy hubbub, God and all his angels save us from it.

'Inspector.'

'Get us a pint, Bob, for Christ's sake.'

Bob smiled at the barmaid and jerked his thumb at
Delaney. The barmaid, a button-nosed temptress
called Angela something, Delaney never could
remember, grinned at him as she poured a fresh pint
of Guinness. 'Shot with that, Jack?'

'No. Being a good boy tonight.'

Angela laughed, a throaty, husky laugh that started
somewhere low. 'Can't see that somehow.'

Delaney winked at her. 'Turning over a new leaf.
Jack Delaney. Modern man.'

'Yeah, you and Hugh Hefner.' She put the pint on
the counter. 'Let it settle and if you want a top-up
give me a whistle.' She moved off to serve some
others at the end of the bar. Her hips swinging like a
Tennessee two-step.

Bob looked at Delaney watching her. 'They reckon
if a woman swings her hips like that, she isn't
ovulating.'

Delaney looked back at him. 'That a fact?'

'Mine of them, me. Fuck police work, I should
have been a black-cab driver.'

Delaney couldn't be bothered to wait for the
Guinness to settle properly and took a long gulp.
'Got a stupid question for you, Bob?'

'Shoot?'

'What's a belt buckle used for?'

Bob Wilkinson shrugged. 'Well, in the good old
days it would be used to keep your women and
children in line.' He grinned. 'Nowadays just to keep
your dignity, and your trousers up.'

'Yeah.' Delaney nodded.

Bob frowned. 'Why do you ask that?'

Delaney shrugged and immediately regretted asking
Bob the question. 'I have no idea.' He took another
pull on his drink and as he put the pint down on the
bar and gestured to Angela for a top-up, his mobile
phone rang. Irritated, he pulled it out from his pocket
but his expression changed as he saw who was calling.

'Delaney.'

'Jack, it's Kate.'

'I saw. What's up?'

'I need to talk to you.'

'What about?'

The large group at the bar started singing loudly.
Kate said something on the other end of the line but
Delaney couldn't catch it. 'Hang on, Kate, I'll take it
outside.'

Angela watched him, puzzled, as he walked
towards the exit. She picked up Delaney's unfinished
pint. 'Does he want this or not?'

Bob grinned at her. 'I may be the fount of all
wisdom, darling, but what I am not, is a psychic.'

'No, what you is, is an arsehole.'

Bob nodded with a self-satisfied grin and took a sip
of his pint. Some things you couldn't argue with.

Jimmy Skinner liked coming to Soho for very
different reasons to the prison officer from Bayfield
Prison. Jimmy had two vices. One was Internet poker
and the other was Scotch. Unlike Delaney, however,
he didn't drink it like lemonade. He treated himself
every now and again with a small glass when he had
won a high stakes game. He never drank when he
was playing. That way disaster lay. You played the
odds, you trusted the maths. What you didn't do was
get drunk and risk all on chance, on the vagaries of
the turn of a card. Lady luck was for losers.

Soho had a couple of great places to shop for the
whisky connoisseur. One was on Old Compton
Street and the other was on Greek Street. Just down
from a bookshop specialising in spanking magazines
and one of the entrances to the Pillars of Hercules,
which was why he was more than happy with where
Derek Watters had suggested they meet.

He stepped out of the whisky shop, pleased with
himself. In his carrier bag a bottle of Johnny Walker
Blue Label. A blended whisky but at one hundred and
sixty pounds it wasn't the kind of stuff you found on
special offer in the alcohol aisle of Tesco's. It wasn't
about the money for Jimmy Skinner, it was about the
victory. And victory always deserved to be marked,
in his opinion.

He looked up at the narrow, black clouds scudding
across an already dark and crimson sky then
suddenly down again as he heard the sound of an
engine screaming in high revs and the concurrent
sound of tyres screeching on tarmac. He looked up
the street and the carrier bag in his right hand slid
from his open fingers. The bottle inside it hit the
pavement hard and smashed. But Jimmy Skinner
didn't register it all. He was too busy shouting,
straining his lungs in the face of the gusting wind.