Blood Work (18 page)

'Thanks.'

'Not a problem.'

Her voice had the lyrical smoothness of the
confident rich, one whose education had eschewed
affectation.

Just like Kate's.

The woman closed her lighter and Delaney
wondered why someone such as her would approach
him, but then realised as the woman walked away
and joined her friends that the gesture was just one of
solidarity, of friendship. The fraternity of smokers in
exile, gathered in groups outside every pub and bar
throughout the country, united by the stigma of
nicotine.

The woman's friends laughed a little and
whispered something to her. She turned to look back
at him curiously and Delaney realised he had been
staring. He looked away and sipped some smoke
from his cigarette into his mouth, then drew it deep
so that it burned his lungs. Delaney was sure he saw
something akin to pity in the young woman's eyes
and the thought of it stung more than the hot smoke.
What the hell was he thinking of, buying a house in
an area like this? He looked at the window of the pub
behind him, bright with colour and noise, he looked
through it at the shining faces with smiles full of
porcelain, and voices ringing with the confidence of a
golden future. He looked at the fashionable ties and
slicked-back hair, at the Barbour jackets and
coloured, corduroy trousers, and he thought of the
dark-haired woman who waited for him at the bar
and who fitted in among that crowd like a Hunter
Wellington at the Chelsea Flower Show. He told
himself he hadn't moved to be near her. It was to be
near his daughter and his sister-in-law and her
family. But as he ground out his cigarette on the cold
slate beneath his feet, he realised the biggest sin was
lying to yourself. The trouble was that, contrary to
received opinion, the truth did not set you free.
Sometimes the truth was an iron cage of your own
fashioning.

He walked through the door, the sounds and
chatter around him muted somehow, the light a softness
like warmth as he threaded through the crowd
and saw her waiting for him at the bar.

'Hello, Jack.'

He could see in her eyes that the drink she held in
her hand was not her first. But her gaze was steady
and the warmth of her breath was sweet. Her lips had
been stained by the tomato juice and Delaney wanted
nothing more than to put his arm around her
alabaster shoulder and kiss her.

Instead he pulled over a stool, sat beside her and
gestured to the barman. 'Another one here please,
and I'll have a large . . .' He hesitated for a moment.
'I'll have a large Bushmills. Straight up. No ice, no
spittle.'

Kate handed her drink over to the barman. 'Vodka
tonic please.' She smiled at Delaney. 'You can only
drink so much tomato juice.'

'Of course.'

Delaney waited for her to say more but Kate
turned her attentions back to the barman and handed
Delaney his drink when it arrived. He took a sip of
his whiskey and before he could ask her why she had
wanted to see him, Kate spoke.

'I'm pregnant, Jack.'

And for the second or third time in his life the
world rocked on its axis. Kate was saying something
else but Delaney couldn't hear it. All he could hear
was the blood pounding in his temples. He took
another sip of his drink and tried to catch her words
but failed. 'I'm sorry?' he managed at last.

'It's not a question of anybody being to blame,
Jack.'

'No, that's not what I meant. I meant I didn't hear
the rest of it.'

'I don't know what the rest of it is, Jack. That's
what I'm saying. I don't know what to think, I just
wanted you to know, that's all. And I didn't want to
tell you on the telephone.'

Delaney nodded, still taking it in. 'I'm the father?'

Kate looked at him, trying to read his eyes, cursing
herself for drinking too much again and clouding her
judgement. 'Yes, Jack. You're the father.'

'I see.'

Kate took another swallow of her drink. 'Is that
it?'

'I don't know, Kate.' He shrugged. 'What was that
business this morning, in the hospital car park?'

Kate shook her head, the colour drained out of her
face and Delaney couldn't work out if it was through
fear or through anger. 'This has got nothing to do
with him.'

'If he's hurt you in some way, I want to help.'

Kate had to fight back the tears but she was
damned if she was going to let him see her cry.
'You're a knight in shining armour, are you, Jack?'

'Hardly, but I could see something was wrong. I
can be a friend, can't I?'

Kate pushed her glass away and stood up a little
unsteadily. 'You know what, this was a bad idea. We
have to talk, but not now.'

She picked her coat up off the back of her chair
and would have walked away but Jack held her arm,
gently, as he stood up himself. He looked into her
eyes and could see the need in them as naked as a
flame. He wanted to wrap her in his arms and hold
her and tell her that he was there for her in every way
that she wanted. But the visions of the dead man in
Greek Street and the comatose body of Kevin Norrell
held him back. The violence visited upon his wife
four years ago was still a force loose in his world, a
force that he could neither identify nor control. So in
that moment, between breathing and speaking, as he
looked into Kate Walker's eyes, he knew that the past
still had a grip on him as tight as the clasp of a
drowning man. He could not offer Kate the emotional
lifeline she so clearly needed. 'Let me know
what you decide.'

Kate looked at him, the hurt sparking in her eyes.
He wished he could kiss it away, but he knew, also,
that the kind of pain she was feeling took a lifetime
of disappointment to build, and its healing was way
beyond the small amelioration provided by such
short-lived gestures.

'Fuck you, Jack.' She brushed his arm aside and
walked quickly to the door. Delaney let her go.
Turning back to the bar again and looking at his
reflection in the mirror hanging on the wall behind
the counter, he felt his face burning with shame.

Outside, Kate made no effort to hold back the tears
that were now streaming down her face. What had
she expected of the man after all? She'd had no
illusions, no dreams that the fact of her pregnancy
would drive him begging for forgiveness into his
arms. What had she expected of him then? The truth
was that she didn't know, but the cold reality of the
encounter was too much for her to bear. He wanted
to be friends, he wanted her to let him know what she
decides! Christ, if she had had a shotgun in her hands
right then she would have cut him in half with it. She
dashed the back of her right hand across her eyes.
What the hell had she been thinking? She should have
known Delaney would be as emotionally available as
a piece of the frozen Donegal turf or wherever it was
he came from. But the trouble was she knew exactly
what she was thinking, even if she hadn't been honest
with herself. She wanted to tell him all about Paul
Archer, about what she thought he had done to her.
She wanted to tell him everything and she wanted
him to take care of it for her. She wanted him to fold
her in his arms and tell her that he loved her. How
stupid was that? She wiped her hand across her eyes
and crossed the road, barely registering the horn
blaring from a passing car that had to swerve to miss
her. She hated herself for being so weak and formed
a fist of her right hand. If she had to do it all on her
own then that was how it was going to be. Damn
Delaney. Damn all men, if it came to that. Kate
Walker had been her own woman for thirty-odd
years and she wasn't about to let that change now.
She took a deep breath and wiped her eyes dry. She
knew what she was going to do.

Delaney finished a second whiskey in five minutes.
He looked at his watch. He should never have let
Kate go off on her own like that, she deserved to
know what was going on. He had no intention of
letting the matter of Kevin Norrell drop. Norrell had
something to tell him that would lead him to his
wife's killers. Derek Watters's murder proved that
much. He had never bought the idea that the attack
on Kevin Norrell was just some sort of rough justice
in prison. Kevin Norrell was an ignorant, ill-bred,
psychopathic Neanderthal with as much conscience
as a rabid stoat, but he wasn't a nonce. Delaney was
pretty sure about that. So that meant the attack on
Norrell and Watters's murder was to stop them both
from getting information to him. He should have told
Kate that. She would have understood. But her
revelation that she was pregnant had taken him
completely by surprise. He needed to talk to her. He
finished his glass and considered for a moment as the
barman gestured to see if he wanted another. He
shook his head and headed for the door.

It took Delaney a matter of minutes to reach Kate's
house. He crossed the road and looked up at the
windows. There were no lights on. It had been ten
minutes since she had stormed out of the pub. She
should definitely be home by now. He hated to think
of her in there alone with the lights out, curled up on
her sofa sobbing. He walked up to the door and rang
the bell. After a short while he rang it again, but there
was no answer. He banged his fist on the door a few
times and called her name out but still there was no
answer.

'Come on, Kate. If you're in there open the door.
We need to talk. Jeez, I know I've been a prick, just
let me talk to you.'

Apart from a curtain twitching in her neighbour's
property there was no response. He glanced at his
watch and then looked up the road. There was no
sign of her. He took out his mobile and quickly
tapped in her name. After a few rings her voice on an
answerphone cut in asking him to leave a message.
He hesitated and then closed the phone. He hated
leaving messages and what could he say anyway? He
looked up once more at the dark windows. If Kate
was at home she clearly wasn't ready to talk to him
just yet. He pulled his overcoat closed and set off
back down the road. He was tempted to keep going
as he neared his new house, keep going further down
the hill and then turn right into the Richard Steele
pub. Take the prescription in iron-rich Guinness and
amber measure, repeat as necessary, but for the first
time in a very long while he realised he didn't want to
be alcohol-numbed; he knew he was going to need a
clear head about him.

He took his key out of his pocket, opened his front
door, and went inside.

The scream was cut off very quickly. His hand was
around her throat like the strike of a snake. Silencing
her to a barely audible gurgle of horrified panic. The
sound a kitten might make if you held it under
muddy bathwater. Her legs kicked weakly and she
felt a sharp pain in her neck. She gasped, fighting for
breath, and reached out her right hand, snaggling her
fingers in his thick curly hair, but before she could
clench her hand and pull, the power seemed to drain
from her muscles. Her body flopped like a marionette
with its strings cut. He moved forward catching the
droop of her body on his chest. She could feel the
hardness of his prick as he pressed excitedly against
her. Then the lights seemed to dim, she fought to
blink her eyes open but, like her leg muscles, they
refused to respond. She looked down, drool from her
mouth falling to drop on the toe of his snakeskin
cowboy boots. She felt a warmth rise from her lower
body as though she were being lowered slowly into a
very warm bath and then she was aware of nothing
at all.

Paul Archer paused for breath, the sweat running
down his forehead into his eyes and forcing him to
blink. His breathing was ragged, gasping as much for
oxygen as with desire. The woman on all fours
beneath him was breathing hard too, whimpering,
although he could make out no words, the gag he had
tied made pretty sure of that. He placed his strong
hands on either side of her perfectly shaped buttocks,
raising them up to cup her waist and, positioning
himself again, began to thrust deep into her, with the
relentless and perfunctory rhythm of a gardener using
a trowel to dig into hard earth. Stabbing at her. Her
breathing was harder now, a yelping sound coming
with every thrust, her luxuriant, dark hair flicking
with the movement. Archer smiled coldly. Turn and
turn about. He wasn't a misogynist, though he had
been called one many times. He didn't despise
women, he loved them, in fact, especially those that
knew their place. And if they didn't, well, he enjoyed
teaching them it.

A trickle of sweat ran down his nose and he
released one hand to wipe it, wincing as a fresh stab
of pain came with the movement. He gripped the
woman's body again, not caring if he hurt her as he
dug his fingers in and pulled her towards him. He
had paid for his pleasures after all, hadn't he? Paid in
so many ways.

DC Sally Cartwright shivered and flapped her arms,
trying to spread some warmth into them. Seven thirty
in the morning now and she had been freezing her tits
off on the heath since six o'clock. An old-fashioned
bicycle, complete with front basket, was propped up
against a tree with a puncture repair kit open on the
ground beside it. A couple of concerned citizens, male
naturally, had already offered to help her fix her tyre.
She had moved them along. Their motives were not
entirely based on the Good Samaritan principle, she
guessed, but she also knew that neither of them
matched the photofit of the flasher that they had been
given by Valerie Manners, and neither looked the
type, to be fair. Even so, she was learning that in
matters of sexual deviancy you shouldn't judge a
book by its cover. The most mild-seeming and
normal of men were often capable of appalling
crimes. You only had to look at Ted Bundy to see
that. She slapped her arms again, unhappy to be
made to wear a nurse's uniform, but Delaney, in a
particularly filthy mood this morning, had insisted,
arguing that the uniform itself might be the trigger.
Maybe only nurses provided him with the desire to
wag his wienie? Who knew, but she wasn't going to
argue with her boss. Not with him in that mood, and
what he was saying might well be the case. But if
Delaney was right why hadn't the flasher been
reported before? Why hadn't other nurses come
forward? Either way she still felt a little foolish in the
outfit, and was all too aware of her colleagues hidden
away in the bushes and trees, looking at her. The
honey trap. The wriggly worm on the hook. The bait
in black suspenders. Although she had drawn the line
when her colleagues had suggested that suspenders
were an essential part of the nurse's uniform. Male
colleagues, again, of course. But she knew better, and
there was absolutely no way she was going to be
wearing anything other than a very thick pair of
tights and industrial-strength knickers under her skirt
at that time of the morning on a cold, wet and windy
South Hampstead Heath.

She flapped her arms again, feeling particularly
conscious that Danny Vine was over there in the trees
somewhere. Hidden, with the others, out of her range
of sight, but with a good view of her. She smiled a
little to herself as she thought of him. She'd had a
good time the night before, being the centre of attention
between him and Michael Hill, and she wasn't
above playing the two off against each other. She was
young after all, she was entitled to a bit of fun, she
worked hard enough, God knows, to be allowed to let
her hair down now and again, and misbehave a little.
Not that playing men against each other was misbehaving,
it was redressing the balance, if you asked
her. And anyway, she wasn't sure which of them she
preferred. Danny Vine was confident, fit, attractive,
but he knew it. She could tell he was used to women
eating out of the palm of his hand, but she knew how
to deal with his type. Michael Hill, on the other hand,
was quieter, but that meant he listened, he took
interest and really paid attention. And while she didn't
normally go for the blond-haired, blue-eyed Nordic
type, she couldn't deny she was attracted to him. She
was attracted to them both, in fact, so didn't feel any
great rush to choose between them. She had gone off
for a pizza with Danny after the pub last night but
had agreed to go out with Michael tomorrow night
for a drink and a curry. She smiled a little to herself
again, lost in her thoughts, and then started as
someone rustled through the leaves right behind her.
She spun round to see a middle-aged, bald man
staring at her. He was wearing a bright yellow duffel
coat with a Burberry scarf wrapped round his neck.

'Can I help you at all?' he asked.

Sally shook her head. If this was the curly-haired
man in his twenties or thirties who had flashed
Valerie Manners yesterday morning, then he'd had a
really, really bad night. She shook her head. 'No,
that's okay, thanks, I've got it covered.' Unconsciously
she pulled the cloak she had been given a
little tighter around her shoulders.

The man made no move to go. 'I'm very good with
punctures. I've got a bike myself. Well, several
actually.' He shrugged and smiled. 'You know how
it is.'

Sally had absolutely no idea. 'I'll be fine, thanks.'

'You work at the South Hampstead?'

'I'm sorry?'

The man gestured. 'Your uniform.'

Sally sighed, this man obviously wasn't going to go
away. She reached into her pocket and pulled out her
warrant card and held it out for him to see. 'No, I
work at White City police station. I'm a detective
constable. And I'm working here.' She didn't hide the
impatience in her voice

The man didn't seem fazed, however, he just
smiled good-naturedly. 'Oh, I see. Well, I'll let you
get on. My name's James Collins. Mr Collins. I'm the
obstetric surgical registrar at the hospital. Didn't like
to think one of our own was stranded.'

Sally smiled back, embarrassed now. 'Oh, well,
thanks again.' She nodded self-consciously as he
walked away, she had been sure that the man was a
pervert, that he was hitting on her at least. It was the
uniform she guessed, what was it with men and
uniforms? She looked down at the unflattering cut of
it, the plain colour, the thick tights, the simple, black
elasticated belt and didn't understand it at all. And
then a thought struck her.

'Boss!' Sally's voice came out louder than she
intended, almost a scream.

Delaney came crashing through the undergrowth
closely followed by Danny Vine. Bob Wilkinson
brought up the rear at a leisurely pace.

Delaney looked around, confused. 'What the hell
happened, Sally?'

'I had a thought.' She could see he wasn't looking
too impressed and rushed ahead before he could say
more. 'About the belt buckle, sir.'

'What belt buckle?'

'That the dead girl was wearing. The silver buckle.
The Green Man in the woods.'

She had his attention now. 'Go on.'

'"What are belt buckles for?" he said.'

'Get on with it, Sally.'

'Well, traditionally, when a nurse qualifies, they
are often given a belt buckle by a loved one to mark
it. Often silver. Often an old one. Victorian. That
kind of thing.'

Delaney nodded, pleased.

'I think she's a nurse, sir.'

Delaney waved at Danny and Bob Wilkinson.
'Okay, guys, I think we can call this off for now. You
two get back to the station.'

Wilkinson looked at his watch and nodded. 'Five
past bacon-butty o'clock.' He crooked his finger at
Danny Vine. 'Come on, Kemo Sabe.'

Danny glared at him. 'That had better not be a
racist remark.'

Wilkinson looked at him as though highly
offended. 'I am a white male English policeman in his
fifties, what are the chances of me being racist?'

Danny laughed. 'Absolutely none at all.'

'I'll even drink my tea with you.'

Delaney watched the uniforms walk away, the
future and the past of the Metropolitan Police, and
figured a blend of the two wasn't perhaps such a bad
thing.

He turned back to Sally and nodded at her,
pleased. 'Brains as well as beauty. Not sure there's a
place for that on the job.'

Despite herself Sally felt herself blushing.
Compliments from Jack Delaney were like goals from
England trying to qualify for Euro 2008. Which, as
her grandfather said at the time, were fucking few
and fucking far between.

'Come on then, you can drive.'

Sally blinked. 'Where to?'

'South Hampstead Hospital. You should fit right
in.'

Sally pulled her dark, woollen cloak about her,
feeling like a character from a
Carry On
film, and set
off following her boss to where his car was parked
just off the common.

A few moments later, about thirty yards from where
Sally had been, a dark-haired man zipped himself
back up and scuffed up some wet leaves with the
sharp toe of his boot to kick over the evidence of his
shameful pleasures. Though, in truth, he felt no
shame at all. Just the thrill of the hunt . . . the thrill
of it beginning all over again.

Last night was just another chapter. Long way to
go yet.

Delaney's expression was grim as he pushed open the
main entrance door to the South Hampstead
Hospital, the muscles in his jaw flexed and bunched
as though he were chewing on gum rather than
memories. Sally stole a sympathetic glance at him as
they walked up to the reception desk. She knew why
he didn't like hospitals, knew exactly why he didn't
like this one in particular. His baby had died here
after his wife, wounded badly by shotgun fire, had
had to undergo an emergency Caesarean section.
Very premature and traumatised by the injuries to his
mother, the baby had survived only a matter of
moments after the procedure. Delaney's wife survived
her son's death by no more than a few minutes. Sally
Cartwright knew that her boss still carried the guilt
for both their deaths like a member of Opus Dei
carries a scourge to beat themselves with daily.
Delaney had never let the scar tissue heal, each day
he'd make it bleed afresh.

She remembered reading the details of his wife's
murder the day before; something about it had struck
her as odd, but she didn't feel now was the right time
to discuss it.

Delaney held his warrant card up to the bored-looking
receptionist who betrayed no emotion at the
display. Police and their warrant cards were, after all,
not a rarity at any city hospital.

'I want to see whoever is in charge of the nurses
here.'

The receptionist glanced back at her horoscope.
Sally could see it was written by Jonathan Cainer.
'Depends what wards they work on. They all have
their own senior sisters.'

'I don't know what ward she worked on. Isn't
there someone from personnel who deals with them
all?'

Sally could hear the irritation in his voice. The
receptionist picked up the phone. 'I'll see if I can find
someone to talk to you. Can I ask what it is about?'

'It's about police business. Tell them that,' Delaney
said curtly.

The receptionist sighed heavily and punched some
numbers into the telephone keypad. Delaney walked
across to read the notices pinned on the adjacent wall
on the other side of the reception desk and Sally
smiled apologetically at the woman behind the
counter. 'He doesn't like hospitals very much.'

'Not really interested.'

Sally shrugged. 'What's he say for Capricorn?'

The receptionist looked back at her, frowning.
'What?'

'Jonathan Cainer. He's very good, isn't he?'

The receptionist pointedly turned the page. 'I don't
know. I only buy it for the Sudoku.'

Sally shrugged again, and wandered over to join
Delaney as he was studying a poster advertising an
STD drop-in clinic.

'Something you're worried about, sir?'

Delaney gave her a flat look. 'You may have done
well with the belt buckle, Detective Constable, but
don't push it.'

'Sir.' Sally grinned, she knew Delaney wasn't
annoyed. Not with her at least.

A little while later, a short woman dressed in a
navy-blue suit, with iron-grey hair cut fashionably
short, strode briskly up to Delaney and thrust out her
hand.

'Margaret Johnson. I understand you have some
questions regarding one of our staff?'

Delaney shrugged. 'Possibly about one of your
staff, Mrs Johnson.'

'Why don't you come through to my office?'

Margaret Johnson's office was surprisingly
colourful and cluttered. She moved a stack of files
from one of the chairs facing her desk and gestured at
them to take a seat.

'What can I do to be of assistance?'

'We are trying to identify someone. We think she
may have worked here.'

'And she's dead?'

'How would you know that?' Sally asked.

Margaret Johnson looked at her sadly. 'Call it an
educated guess. If she wasn't dead she herself could
tell you who she was, especially if you knew where
she worked.'

Delaney placed a file on the desk in front of him.
'I'm afraid these photos are going to be rather
unpleasant to look at.'

'That's okay, Inspector.'

'You know all the nurses who work here?'

'I would have interviewed them all at least once,
yes.'

Delaney opened the file. 'We're trying to find out
who she is. She wore a belt with a distinctive buckle.
It's why we think she might have been a nurse.'

He took out a ten by eight black-and-white photo
of the belt and buckle and handed it across to her.

Sally leaned in. 'We thought it might have been a
qualifying gift. She was found near the hospital and
we figured she may have worked here.'

The woman nodded. 'It's a possibility. It's the sort
of buckle that a nurse might well have. When you say
she was found . . . may I ask what the circumstances
were?'

'She was murdered,' Delaney said shortly. 'Her
throat was cut and her body was slashed. Repeatedly,
and with some force.'

Margaret Johnson swallowed and nodded at the
folder, steeling herself. 'I had best take a look then.'

Delaney handed the file across to her and Sally
could see moisture forming in the older woman's eyes
as she looked through the photos one by one.

'The poor woman.' Her voice cracked, and she
brushed the back of her hand across her eyes. 'I'm
sorry.'

She handed the file back.

'I'm sorry you had to see those, but we need to
know,' Delaney said.

'I meant I'm sorry because I can't help you.'

'Mrs Johnson?'

'She may well have been a nurse. But she didn't
work here.'

The man looked at the answerphone by his bed. It
was an old-fashioned one that he had never got
around to replacing. You could have it through your
line on BT so you didn't need a separate piece of
equipment, but he had never cared for that. He liked
the mechanics of things. He liked taking them apart
to see how they worked. Always had. As a kid he had
opened the backs of clocks to see the hidden, inner
workings.