Hard Evidence (9 page)

'False alarm.'

'Looks that way.'

There were a few things more boring than
watching CCTV footage, but offhand Delaney
couldn't think of any. At three forty-three on the
screen, however, a young girl walked into shot
and Delaney felt a jolt of adrenalin kick into his
jaundiced veins. It was Jenny Morgan, and she
was glancing around, as if she was waiting for
someone.

Sally held her breath. 'Looks like Collier's come
good for us.'

Delaney leaned forward, watching the screen.
'Maybe.'

Jenny walked into the station and out of view
and Delaney pointed to the tapes, 'Get the inside
footage,' but as Sally reached over to find it,
Delaney held his hand up. 'Don't worry she's
back.'

Jenny came out of the station and stood where
the smoker had stood earlier, looking at her watch
and swivelling her head to look up and down the
street.

'She's definitely waiting for someone, boss.'

Jenny suddenly smiled and waved as someone in
a long overcoat and a hat approached her. Her
face lit up in a big smile as the figure gave her a
quick hug, back to the camera.

They stood still for a few moments. Sally
drummed her finger on the tabletop impatiently.

'Turn round. Come on, you bastard, show us
your face.'

As if on command, the person turned around,
the camera capturing both of them perfectly.
Delaney arched an eyebrow, surprised.

Sally blinked. 'I wasn't expecting that.'

'No.'

Delaney leaned forward and paused the film
footage.

'Let's get back to the station. We'll get the
picture blown up, put it on leaflets, get it on the
television.'

'This changes everything, doesn't it?'

Delaney looked at her for a moment. 'Yeah, it
does.'

Kate Walker sat at her desk typing up the notes
from the autopsy on Jackie Malone. Her delicate
fingers flashed over the keyboard with staccato
precision and a professional rhythm. She finished
the last paragraph, summing up, and saved the
document. Her main conclusion was that the
world was a sick and dangerous place and Jackie
Malone had done little to put herself out of harm's
way. But then sometimes women didn't have a
choice. Something she herself knew all too well.

She took a long drink from a cold glass of water
and pulled across some papers she had printed off
from the internet earlier. She was due to give a
speech soon to a group of undergraduates at her
old university and teaching hospital. Jane
Harrington, a lecturer from her days as a medical
student with whom she had become friendly, was
now head of her faculty and was constantly trying
to persuade Kate to join her staff, both to teach
and as a practising doctor at the university health
centre. Kate had always refused the overtures, but
was persuaded every now and then to give a talk
or a seminar, one of many alumni strong-armed in
to talk to the students about the real world outside
the metaphorical cloisters of the college. The real
world of work mainly, and in Kate's case the real
world of danger to women. She wanted to put her
work into context. She dealt with the outcome, the
final chapter of the story, but there was always a
genesis, a cause, and they usually followed a
pattern. Violence didn't exist in a vacuum, particularly
violence against women and children. She
wanted as much as anything to be reassured that
the work she was doing was having some effect.
That by helping to catch the murderers, the
rapists, the child abductors and abusers, the statistics
would be going down. That the Metropolitan
and national police services were winning the
battle, turning the tide, killing the virus source by
source, stopping the spread and starving the
madness of oxygen. But as her eyes flicked down
the lines of statistics she had printed off, she felt
worse than Sisyphus pushing his stone. At least
one out of every three women had been beaten,
coerced into sex, or otherwise abused. One in four
would be a victim of domestic violence in her lifetime.
On average, two women per week were
killed by a male partner or former partner. One
hundred and sixty-seven were raped every day and
at best only one in five attacks was reported to the
police.

Kate collected her papers. People wondered why
she did the job she did, and there was the answer.
She wondered how many of her audience would
understand. They didn't live in her world and if
they were lucky none of them ever would. But you
couldn't beat statistics, and she knew that many of
the young women listening to her speech would, if
they hadn't been already, sometime in the future
be beaten, abused, terrified, hurt, raped or
murdered and there was nothing she could do
about it. Nothing she could ever do about it.
Because when Kate was called in to help, it was
already far, far too late for them.

Kate put the papers aside and rubbed a hand
across her forehead. Her hand came away damp.
As she looked at her finger, she picked at a
minuscule fibre that stuck to the pad of her
thumb, the sort of fibre that a forensic pathologist
would be delighted to discover on a dead body.
She brushed it off and then rubbed her hand
harder, her nails almost breaking the skin.

She picked up an overnight bag that she kept in
her office and walked out and down to a shower
that was made available for her exclusive use.

She always showered between each autopsy. A
habit picked up in her days working as a police
surgeon before she specialised. Often she would
give a physical examination to a rape victim and
then do the same to the accused rapist. A shower
between examinations was mandatory to prevent
cross-contamination of evidence, but Kate was
glad of the excuse.

She stood in the small cubicle and closed the
curtains around her. She cranked the handle until
it was almost too hot to bear and made herself
stand under the jets of near-scalding water.

Superintendent Charles Walker smoothed his hair
back with a manicured hand and smiled at
Melanie Jones, the pretty young reporter from Sky
Television News. There were other press gathered
around, but he focused his attention mainly on her
as he read out the prepared statement.

'The search for Jenny Morgan continues round
the clock. At this time we are following several
leads but urge any members of the public with
information to come forward.'

Diane Campbell looked down from her window at
the press who gathered around the front of the
building like a pack of baying wolves at a kill. And
at the epicentre of it all, Superintendent Charles
Walker remained the face of calm authority, of
concern and reassurance.

'Prick,' she muttered under her breath, and put
a cigarette in her mouth, lighting it up. She didn't
get any argument from Delaney, who was
standing beside her also watching the circus
unfold below. Twenty-four-hour news meant that
someone's private tragedy could be played out
round the clock for the entertainment of millions.
He knew the coverage meant more chance of
information coming forward, more chance of
them finding Jenny before it was too late, but the
slickness of it, the show-business of it all,
disgusted him.

Chief Inspector Campbell looked at the photo
that Delaney had just handed to her, the photo he
had blown up from the CCTV footage taken from
Baker Street station, and drew deep on her
cigarette, blowing out a long, sinuous kiss of
smoke which was taken away by the light breeze.

'Bonner tells me those things can kill you,
Diane.'

She turned her eyes in a lazy smile back on
Delaney. 'We're all going to die, Jack.'

'When?' He pulled a cigarette from his own
pack and stuck it into his mouth. 'Smoking in a
public building. We could get fired for this.'

'You could, Jack. I'm not dispensable.'

'Dispensable? I guess that's the best thing you
can say about me.'

'Oh, I don't know. You've got a nice arse.'

Delaney laughed despite himself. 'See, now if I
said that to you, I probably would get fired.'

'You know what the difference is, Jack?'

'No.'

'The difference is, if you had said it, it would
have been true.'

Delaney nodded and drew deep on his cigarette.
'Facts. You can't argue with them.'

Diane held the photo up. A woman in her
thirties. Blonde hair, dark, haunted eyes.

'Do we know who she is?'

Delaney shook his head. 'Not yet.'

'We should get this down to the media. Out on
the news, on the web. Someone will know her.'

'Not just yet. Let's find out what we can first.
We don't want to spook her.'

'So the girl's teacher, Collier, he's in the clear on
this?'

'Not necessarily. You know how often women
are involved in child abductions, recruiting
runaways from railways stations and the like.'

'He's hardly likely to lead us to her if he's
involved.'

'People do stupid things, boss. It's what pays
our wages.'

'We'd have got round to looking at station
footage sooner or later. Maybe he's being clever.'

'Maybe.'

'Keep me posted.'

'Boss.'

Delaney flicked his cigarette out of the window
and left.

Sally Cartwright waited by her car, watching as
Delaney strode quickly over to her. He opened the
door and handed her another copy of the blown-up
photo of the mystery woman.

Melanie Jones came hurrying over. 'Detective
Inspector. Can I have a word?'

Delaney opened the passenger door. 'Get in the
car, Sally, I'm driving.'

Melanie picked up on the urgency in his voice.
'Have there been any developments, Inspector?'

'Your friend with the scar on his face and a five-hundred-pound
suit should keep you posted.'
Delaney got in the car, turning the photo face
down on the dashboard, and slammed the door on
the reporter.

He pulled the car away, leaving Melanie Jones
frustrated in his wake. 'Where are we going, guv?'

'To have another chat with Jenny's friend.'

'You think she knows who the woman is?'

'Yeah. I think she does.'

'At least if Jenny's with a woman she's probably
safe.'

'Doesn't work that way, Sally.'

Sally looked across at him as he pulled out into
the traffic, cranking his window right down to let
some air in. 'You think she's in danger?'

'Who knows? If we panic the woman who's
taken her, she might be.'

'She's not going to physically hurt her, is she?'

'That's probably not why she took her. That's
very rare for a woman. Especially a woman on her
own.'

'Which of course she may not be.'

'She probably isn't. She groomed her on the
internet, made her feel safe.'

'Meaning she's got a partner.'

Delaney shrugged. 'We don't know. But the
sooner we find out, the better.'

The loop of the thick iron chain screeched a little
as it rubbed against the hook it was hung from. It
was an old, heavy chain, pitted with rust, and the
noise it made as it scraped metal on metal would
have put the Devil's teeth on edge.

Below it, kicking her legs sullenly, sat Carol
Parks, swinging herself backwards and forwards.

Delaney and Sally Cartwright were back in
Primrose Avenue, standing at the bottom of the
garden watching as the young girl sat on her old
swing and squinted sullenly up at them.

Delaney rested his hand on the chain, stopping
the movement and the noise, and smiled at Carol.
He would have liked to kick her backside off the
thing but didn't think the tactic would be helpful,
so he smiled instead, bringing the full brilliance of
his Irish eyes to bear.

'I used to have a swing when I was a kid.'

Carol shrugged, not at all impressed. 'Really?'

'Yeah. Back in Ballydehob. Do you know where
that is?'

'Essex?'

'Close enough.' Delaney smiled at her again.
'One time I swung so high and so hard I went right
over the top, flew out of the seat and smashed my
head on the ground.'

He had her attention now, the frown easing off
her lips slightly. 'Honest?'

'Oh yeah. Right on the noggin. Knocked all the
brains out of me. I reckon that's why I ended up
joining the police.'

A slight smile.

'Did you swing here with Jenny?'

'Sometimes. We're not little kids, you know.'

'Of course not. I suppose it's all boys and bands,
eh?'

'No.'

Delaney nodded. 'Not bands?'

'Not boys.'

Delaney smiled again, trying to work his charm;
failing.

'Come on, I bet you and Jenny had a queue of
boys pestering you at school. Couple of pretty
girls like you.'

'Jenny isn't interested in boys.'

Delaney looked at her for a moment. 'You don't
seem to be too worried about her.'

She shrugged again: whatever.

'Only we've got half the Metropolitan Police
out looking for her. Her father is in pieces. But
you don't seem to be too troubled at all. And she's
your best friend.'

'She'll be all right.'

Carol kicked her feet again, setting the swing in
creaking motion once more.

Sally stepped forward and put her hand on the
girl's shoulder to stop her. 'You know something,
don't you?'

'I don't know anything.'

Delaney shook his head. 'See, I reckon that
bump on the head gave me psychic powers as well,
and I don't think you're telling us everything.'

Carol looked away. Delaney looked at the girl's
mother, who nodded and knelt down in front of
her daughter.

'Tell them, Carol; if you know anything you
have to tell them.'

Sally smiled again, reassuring. 'You're not going
to be in any trouble. But if you know anything,
you have to tell us. We need to know she's all
right.'

'She is.'

'How do you know?'

'I promised I wouldn't tell. She made me
promise.'

Delaney stooped down to bring his face level
with Carol's, his voice soft and soothing. 'I know
you made a promise, but things have gone too far
now, haven't they?'

Carol looked at him for a moment, worrying
her lower lip between her teeth.

'She's gone to be with her aunt.'

Delaney looked across surprised to Sally, then
back at Carol.

'She doesn't have an aunt.'

'Yes she does.'

Sally crouched beside her. 'She doesn't. If she
had we would have spoken to her. Maybe she just
called herself an aunt, like family friends
sometimes do?'

Carol shook her head. 'No. She's her real aunt.
She told me. She didn't think she had a real auntie
either, until she met her.'

'Met her where, Carol?'

'On the internet. At school.'

'Do you know what her name is? Did she tell
you that?'

Carol nodded.

'What is it? You have to tell us.'

And she did.