Blood Work (32 page)

'Drop the gun, Michael.'

'Look into my eyes, Delaney. You know I'll do it.'

Delaney looked in his eyes and then pulled the
trigger. Michael Hill's head snapped back in a way
the spine wasn't designed for. His dark brown wig
fell off and as he crashed to the floor with his arms
held out, his head landed with a wet, slapping thud,
jolting one of the brown contact lenses he was
wearing loose. He now had one brown eye and one
blue and looked, Delaney thought, with his blond
hair and white face exactly as David Bowie might
have looked if he had carried on with the heroin.

The nurse, Jessica Tam, had fallen from his lifeless
arms and was now laid across his body in an
unnaturally intimate manner.

Delaney barely registered the sound of car tyres as
Kate pulled back into the driveway. He picked the
nurse up in his arms and carried her over to the car.
Kate opened the door for him to lay her on the back
seat and then leaned over her to check her vital signs.
She put a finger on her carotid artery and then bent
over to listen to her breathing.

'She's got a strong, steady rhythm, Jack. She's
going to be fine. Just drugged, that's all.' She looked
over at dead figure of Michael Hill and shuddered.
'Are you okay?'

Delaney looked down at his hand, which was
trembling now and nodded. 'I'm fine.'

He pulled out his phone, and turned his back to
shield himself from the wind as he made a call.

'Jimmy, it's Jack. I've got Michael Hill. He's dead.
He had a gun. We struggled. He lost.'

'Glad to hear it.'

'Don't be too glad. He didn't tell me where Sally
Cartwright is.'

'I've got another address, Jack. One from his
original application. His aunt's. She died recently.'

'Where is it?'

'About a quarter of a mile from where you are.
Priory Road. Number thirty-two.'

'Put it out. I'll make my way there. And get an
ambulance sent over here.'

'You reckon he needs it?'

'It's for the nurse. At least we saved one of them.'

Delaney walked over to the Michael Hill's supine
body. He took the tranquilliser gun off him and put
it in his pocket. Then wiped his own gun and put the
dead man's hand over the grip of the gun, fitting his
finger in the trigger guard. He squeezed the dead
man's hand a couple of times and then used it to
throw the gun on the floor about three feet away.

He walked back to Kate. 'You didn't see any of that.
We struggled. His gun went off.' He ran his fingers
through his hair, realising his hands were still
trembling and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

Kate stepped forward and hugged him. 'You can't
save everyone, Jack.'

Delaney kissed the top of her head. 'I can try.'

Kate looked up at him and ran her hand over his
unshaven face. 'What am I going to do with you?'

'I've got to go. The ambulance and the others
won't be long. Will you be all right waiting here?'

'Just find Sally, Jack.' She kissed him. 'And be
careful.'

Delaney nodded at the body. 'He's dead, Kate.'

They're both dead, he thought, as he walked off
into the wind and rain not daring to let himself
believe that Sally Cartwright was still alive.

Michael Hill's aunt may have only been dead a short
while but her house had already been stripped of
furniture; a painted dresser in the kitchen, a bed in
one of the upstairs bedrooms, some old clothes
hanging in a musty wardrobe. But nothing apart
from that. Just dust and damp.

Delaney toured the rooms once again to see if he
had missed anything. But he hadn't. The house was
empty.

He pushed the front door shut and leaned against
the porch wall; using his body to shield against the
wind, he lit a cigarette. He took a deep drag and
played back in his mind what Michael Hill had said
before he shot him. He was a force of nature, he'd
said. And before that he said he wasn't finished. No.
He hadn't. His exact words were 'We're not
finished'. The women being mutilated, the man not.
The whole Jack the Ripper nonsense. 'We.' He cursed
as he fumbled for his phone.

We. There were two of them.

'Shit!'

Detective Inspector Robert Duncton of the serious
crimes unit thundered up the stairs, the men behind
running to keep up. Half of them were in flak jackets
and armed. He got to the top of the stairs and walked
along the external corridor. He was not in a good
mood. White City had been pissing all over his
investigation again. Little men trying to play with the
big boys. One of them, Jack Delaney, had just shot
dead the prime suspect and was now claiming that
Michael Hill was acting with a partner. That there
were two of them. If they had made a mistake in
letting the first one go it was the sort of thing that
could wreck a promising career. And Robert
Duncton's career was very promising indeed. At least
it had been up until today.

He waited for two of the armed officers to position
themselves either side of the door and hammered on
it with a fist as heavy as his heart.

Ashley Bradley's grandmother peered out. 'Can I
help you?'

Duncton took her by the arms and moved her
outside. 'Is he here?'

'Ashley?'

'Yes, Mrs Bradley. Is your son here?'

'No, he's not in right now. And he's my grandson.'

Duncton gestured and the armed men piled into
the house. A few seconds later they emerged shaking
their heads.

'I told you,' said Mrs Bradley.

Duncton sighed. 'Where is he, then?'

'He's gone to the cinema. Some film he wanted to
see. He loves romantic films.'

Delaney jogged painfully back the way he had come
and had to stop by a bus shelter to catch his breath.
He leaned against it as he pulled out his packet of
cigarettes, cursing at the awkwardness of only having
one arm to use as he fumbled one into his mouth. A
handsomely dressed middle-aged couple walked past,
putting as much room between him and them as
possible. Delaney didn't blame them. He used the flat
of his hand to brush some of the dust from his
trousers. He sneezed. He lit his cigarette and sneezed
again. And then he realised, the cigarette almost
falling from his mouth, but not quite. 'Idiot!' He
almost shouted it.

The middle-aged couple ahead looked back, but
Delaney didn't even register them. He began running
back towards the house he had left just five minutes
previously. Running in real earnest now.

Ashley did like romantic films. Quite often in the
early screenings it meant there was a fair scattering of
women in the audience. Single women who didn't
want to come later and feel jealous of the happy
couples sitting all around them. Ashley could relate
to that. He settled back and enjoyed the trailers. His
overcoat was pulled lightly together, his jeans were
unbuttoned beneath it and with a hole already cut in
his right-hand pocket he was good to go.

While he had been sat there she had already eaten
a hot dog and was now munching her way through a
bin-sized bucket of popcorn. Not that he was objecting,
he liked to hear women eat. He enjoyed listening
to the wet sounds her lips made as they slapped
together, the little, almost inaudible groans of
pleasure as she swallowed.

He gave himself a little preparatory stroke. The
next trailer was for a Sandra Bullock film. Ashley
Bradley was a big fan of Sandra Bullock. Had been
ever since
Demolition Man
, when she ran around in
her tight black pants and futuristic cop outfit. Ashley
had had a really bad couple of days and he figured he
deserved a treat. And treats didn't come much better
than Sandra Bullock in tight clothing. He closed his
eyes for a moment, picturing her in her uniform,
when the sound of men running loudly down the
gently sloping aisle made him snap them open again.

Robert Duncton and four of his men stopped
opposite Bradley's seat, fanning out, two of them
training semi-automatic pistols at him.

'Get him.'

The other two leaned in and yanked him up. His
coat flew open, his jeans dropped, and his penis,
semi-priapic, twisted and scarred, wagged in the
direction of the woman sitting next to him.

She looked at it, screamed and promptly threw up.

Ashley's day wasn't getting any better.

Nor was Detective Inspector Robert Duncton from
Paddington Green's. 'Get him out of here,' he
shouted, stepping back and wiping some of the
splatter from his once immaculate trousers.

Delaney pushed open the front door that he had
earlier forced and walked in again, listening for any
sounds, but there were none. He flicked the light on
and walked down to the kitchen. He turned the light
on in the kitchen and looked at the floor. It was as
clean as he remembered it. Too clean. There was no
dust on it. He walked across to the dresser that was
positioned in the far corner opposite the sink and
leaned against the wall at a diagonal. He put his
hands either side of the base unit and pulled. It was
sitting on a rug and came away surprisingly easy. He
pulled it a little further out and looked behind it.
There was a trap door.

Bingo.

He bent down, put his finger through the ring and
pulled it open and called out.

'Sally.'

'Sir, you can't come down here.'

'It's all right, Sally, it's just me.'

Delaney took off his jacket and walked down the
stairs.

'You can't see me like this.'

'I can't see a thing,' said Delaney. 'It's like the
black hole of Calcutta down here.'

'Don't mention Indian restaurants.'

Delaney could hear the fragility behind her laugh,
he reached out with his jacket and she managed to
drape it around her shoulders. Delaney went back to
the bottom of the stairs and fumbled for the light
switch. He found and turned it on; a bare bulb flared
up overhead. It was a small wine cellar. Empty apart
from a side table, a mirror and his young assistant
who was manacled to the wall, her arm raised like an
overeager child with the answer to a difficult
question in class.

'Did he hurt you, Sally?'

She shook her head. 'He took me to another bar
for a drink. He must have slipped something in it,
because I remember feeling suddenly woozy and I
hadn't drunk that much. He said he'd drive me home.
The last thing I can remember is getting into his car.
And then I passed out.'

Delaney took a hold of the ring set into the wall
with his one good hand and tried pulling it. It
wouldn't budge. He managed to loosen the manacle
a little, but not enough for Sally to free her hand.

'Don't worry, Sally, we'll get you out.'

'Michael Hill, sir. Did he hurt anyone else?'

'No, and he's not going to hurt anyone again. He's
dead.'

'Good!'

Delaney nodded. She was right. He headed back to
the steps. 'I'm going upstairs to find something to get
you free with.'

Delaney walked up the stairs and into the kitchen
and stopped dead as he saw the rifle pointing at him.

He looked at the person holding it and held his
hands up. She looked familiar to him but he couldn't
place her at first. And then he did. She was the
receptionist at the South Hampstead Hospital. She
wasn't smiling.

'Put the rifle down,' he said.

The woman smiled and there was poison in it. 'I
don't think so.'

'Who are you?'

'Not that it's going to matter to you, but my name
is Audrey Hill.'

Delaney nodded. 'Michael Hill, he's your
husband?'

'No, Detective Delaney. He's my baby brother. I
brought him up.'

'You know who I am then?'

'I know exactly who you are.'

'And you knew what your brother was doing?'

'He didn't do anything, Detective. He never does
without my permission . . .' She looked at Delaney
with flat eyes, and he felt a chill run up his spine.
'Not any more.'

Delaney swallowed drily, his mind racing, running
through the options. He wasn't thinking so much
about himself, he was thinking about the young,
near-naked detective constable chained to the wall in
the cellar beneath them. He had to keep her talking,
he had to keep this madwoman away from her. He
didn't know what he was going to do but he knew
this much, she stopped talking and it was over for
him. Over for both of them.

'Why then, Audrey?'

She moved closer to Delaney, her unblinking eyes
staring at him like a entomologist might examine a
newly discovered specimen. 'Neither of them suffered.
They were all painless deaths. Anaesthetised and then
a simple cut to the jugular. They died in their sleep.'

'And the surgeon?'

The woman shrugged. 'We were disturbed. I'll get
back to him later.'

'What had they done to you?'

Delaney tried to edge closer to her but she raised
the rifle and shook her head very slightly. 'This is a
tranquilliser rifle, but it's loaded for very large
animals. It's hard to describe the damage it would do
to a human central nervous system.'

Delaney held up his hands, calming. 'Why did you
kill them, Audrey?'

'Because of what they did to me.'

'What?'

'Were you aware that one in seven hundred people
wake up during an operation under general
anaesthetic, Detective?' she said.

Delaney wasn't. 'No,' he replied.

'You're paralysed, immobile, you can't move. Not
even an eyelid. But you can feel. Feel the cold steel of
the scalpel slicing into you. Feel your flesh parting as
they open you up.'

Delaney didn't respond, it was putting it mildly to
say that he already had a very bad feeling about this
woman, he knew what she was capable of, after all.
He could feel the anger and sickness radiating off her
like the shimmering haze of a tarmac road in a
heatwave.

Audrey Hill took another step closer to him. 'You
can hear too, Detective Inspector. And that's the
worst part of it. They were talking, the two sluts
whispering to each other about clients they'd fucked.
The surgeon talking about football to the vapid
nurse. Talk, talk talk, When they should have been
concentrating on what they were doing. The
anaesthetist spotted something was wrong and put
me under again, but by then it was too late.'