Blood Work (34 page)

'And so?'

'And so I offered him the use of my sofa.'

'Your sofa?'

'Yes. Nothing else. Dr Archer took advantage of
my hospitality by coming unbidden to my bedroom
and climbing naked into my bed.'

'Are you saying he assaulted you?'

'He assaulted my hospitality. He assaulted all
acceptable norms of behaviour.'

'But did he touch you?'

'Not then, but he made it very clear that he
intended to . . .' she gestured apologetically to the
jury, '. . . in his own words "fuck me" at a later stage
and what I wanted would have nothing to do with it.'

She looked at the jury and back at Paul Archer
before he had a chance to wipe that smug smile off
his lips and she knew the jury had seen it too. 'He
made it clear he liked his women to resist him, Your
Honour. He left me in no doubt as to his intentions
towards me.'

Archer's brief stood up. 'My client is not on trial
for things he may be imagined to do in the future.'

Kate pointed at Helen Archer. 'He raped that poor
woman.' She turned again to the jury. 'And he should
be made to pay.'

Archer's barrister leapt to his feet again,
summoning some outrage. 'I object, Your Honour.'

'Sustained,' said the judge. 'The jury will disregard
that last remark.

Which was like telling a drowning man not to
breathe in.

Delaney leaned against a lamp post. He lit a cigarette
and wondered how long it would be before smoking
was banned in all outdoor public places too. As it
was you could be fined fifty pounds for flicking a fag
end into a drain. But the law was the law, you had to
respect it.

The sky overhead for once had a remarkable
amount of blue in it, the soft white clouds that dotted
here and there were motionless and the sun was
actually shining. It was a bright, crisp, chill autumn
day. An autumn day like it should be. As it was in his
childhood, when the seasons knew how to behave
themselves.

It was a day for new beginnings.

Kate came out of the courthouse, her smile, the
epicentre now of Delaney's solar system, as bright as
the sun itself.

'What happened?'

'He got seven years and four months.'

'You don't feel guilty?'

'Not a bit of it.'

Delaney nodded. 'A certain degree of moral
flexibility allows us to do what we do.' He grinned
and flicked his cigarette into the drain at his feet
watching it spark as it hit the grating below.

'I didn't perjure myself, Jack, I just didn't tell them
I knew Helen Archer was lying.'

At that moment the woman in question came out
of the courthouse, she was surrounded by friends and
family. She looked across at Kate and gave her a
small, quick smile.

Delaney pointed at the statue adorning the roof of
the court building. 'Audrey Hill told me that there is
no God and we all know that Justice is blind, so we
just have to look out for each other, don't we?'

Kate linked her arm in his as they walked away.
'Seems to me that looking after you is going to be a
full-time job.'

Delaney dropped his voice to the rich burr of his
childhood tongue. 'That's because I'm all man,
sweetheart.'

Kate laughed. 'All ego maybe.'

Delaney's phone trilled in his pocket and he flicked
it out to answer it. 'Delaney.'

The voice on the other end of the line took him
straight back to that childhood, almost as if he had
summoned it. Took him back to a day of sunshine
and wonders and joy at the world.

'Jack, it's Mary, your cousin Mary. I need your
help,' she said.

And at that moment a crow took off from the roof
of the court building behind them, its dusty wings
flapping like shook canvas in the bright, still air, and
its caw like the mockery of God.

This is a work of fiction and although all of the
characters are indeed fictional some of the places
mentioned within are real – so firstly a big apology to
London! One of the most diverse, exhilarating and
dynamic cities on the planet, and yet in these pages it
comes across as rather a bleak place, to say the least;
but all cities are viewed through different eyes and
Jack Delaney's are a little more bloodshot and
jaundiced than most. Some of the places mentioned
in the book, however, are not real. Delaney works
out of an entirely fictional police station and The Pig
and Whistle is a pub that, sadly, does not exist;
likewise a curious tourist would struggle to find
South Hampstead Common or South Hampstead
Tube or the Royal South Hampstead Hospital, but
they would be well rewarded indeed, however, if they
decided to check if the Holly Bush pub really did add
a dash of wine to their Bloody Marys!

A lot of people should be thanked for the hard
work they have put into bringing
Blood Work
to
the bookshelf. And so, many thanks to James
Nightingale, Tess Callaway and the lovely Caroline
Gascoigne for their incredible help and support, the
sales and marketing team from Hutchinson who did
so much to get Jack Delaney out amongst the public,
Justine for her eagle eye, Anna Hughes who handled
the baton like an Olympiad and Robert Caskie for his
continual encouragement and advice. Lucie Birnie of
Lucy's Cafe for making me big in the Runtons and
especially Lynn Butler for keeping my spirits high and
the decanter full!

But the biggest thanks to you the reader, without
whom Jack Delaney would just be a sad and bitter
man, mumbling incoherently to himself in the corner
of an empty bar as he sips his solitary pint.

MP

ALSO AVAILABLE IN ARROW, A COLLECTION OF COMING-OF-AGE
STORIES FROM SOME OF THE MASTERS OF CRIME
FICTION, SELECTED AND EDITED BY JOHN HARVEY

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Karin Slaughter

Three people with something to hide. One killer with
nothing to lose.

When Atlanta police detective Michael Ormewood is called out
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Aleesha Monroe is found in the stairwell in a pool of her own
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As a one-off killing it's shocking, but when it becomes clear that
it's just the latest in a series of similar attacks, the Georgia
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Twenty-four hours later, the violence Michael sees around him
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OK!

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Ruth Rendell

Why did he do it? Why had it happened? What sort of fiend
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should he have needed to make motiveless attacks on women?
Victor didn't know.

But Victor did know that the last ten years – the years in prison
– had been a mistake. He had never intended to harm anyone.
It had all been an accident. In fact, his life had been a series of
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Guardian

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Richard Montanari

Philadelphia is blistering in the summer heat and detectives
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A beautiful secretary is slashed to death in a grimy motel
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initiated. None of The Actor's victims are as innocent as they
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just chasing a homicide suspect. They are stalking evil itself . . .

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John Harvey

Forty-eight hours, that's what they reckon, isn't it?
Forty-eight hours. If you don't find them in that, likely
they're sodding dead . . .

A cabbie's been beaten up, there's a drunk and disorderly in the
interview room and a possible child abuser on the way in.
Nothing unusual there, then, just a pretty normal Christmas
holiday for DI Resnick and his team.

Normal, that is, until Dana Mattheison calls to report her
flatmate, Nancy, missing

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then – as the New Year celebrations wind down – the first tape
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Cold Light
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