Hard Evidence Read online

  The other woman was tall – at five ten she had a good couple of inches on Kate – but years of yoga had made Kate more than flexible, and there was anger behind the kick. The taller woman grunted, taken unawares, and dropped to her knees. Kate pulled back her hand, making an upside-down fist, her other hand held palm down to the side of her waist, and stepped up as her opponent fought to catch her breath. Their eyes locked as Kate readied herself.

  'Enough.' The woman held up a hand. 'For Christ's sake, Kate, that felt like you meant it.'

  Kate grimaced apologetically and held out a hand to help her up. 'Sorry, Jane. Didn't mean to knock you over.'

  Jane laughed, wincing with pain. 'I'd hate to be here when you did.'

  'Want to call it a draw?'

  'I want to call it a day. This body is getting too old for this kind of abuse.'

  Kate slapped her on the back. 'Rubbish.' At forty-five, Dr Jane Harrington still had the kind of body a lot of twenty-two-year-olds would envy. And as they walked off the exercise mats across the gym towards the showers, Kate could see that they were both getting a fair number of admiring glances. Some of them almost welcome.

  In the shower block, Kate turned the dial medium high and stood under the fierce jets of steaming water. Her body ached all over, but it was a pleasant ache, the kind that only came from hard exercise, exercise that took her off into a different space and flooded her body with endorphins. She had always been sporty, even as a girl, but in martial arts she had really found her element. The discipline, the focus, the toughness of mind and body. And she was good at it. That was important to Kate; she didn't like to be second best at anything. And the confidence the training gave her was more than just a bonus. She liked to be in control of her life, and if somebody meant to hurt her, then they would find out just how in control she was. The hot water hammered her skin and she felt glowing, vibrant. She didn't know why she let that arrogant prick Delaney get under her skin, but he did, he always had. She smiled, a little guiltily, remembering how hard she had kicked her friend. She was sure that subconsciously it was Jack Delaney she wanted to be kicking. It was certainly him who had made her call Jane and suggest a workout. Sometimes you just had to burn the negative energy away, and the dojo was the best place Kate knew to do that. As a doctor she could see comic irony in violence as therapy, but it was controlled violence and Kate was all for it.

  Jane held out a glass of orange juice as Kate walked up to join her at the sports club bar, dropping her holdall to the floor and taking the drink gratefully.

  'I was beginning to think you'd drowned in that shower.'

  'Was I long?'

  'Kate, you are always long. But today I think you set a new record.'

  'Sorry.' Kate clinked her glass against Jane's and took a long swallow, finishing half of it.

  'So what's going on?'

  Kate sat on the tall stool beside her and put her glass on the marble bar counter. 'What do you mean?'

  'You seemed a bit distracted earlier.'

  'Distracted?'

  'Tense. Preoccupied. You don't usually knock seven bells out of me. Six maybe; not usually seven.'

  'Just work.'

  'Oh?'

  Kate shook her head dismissively. 'Nothing specific, just a couple of cases.'

  'Not like you to bring your work away from the office.'

  'It's pretty nasty. A prostitute. She was cut up really badly.'

  Jane looked at her closely as she took a deep swallow of her own drink.

  'You know what I think you should do?'

  Kate laughed. 'Come and work with you, I suppose?'

  'I know your job isn't doing you any good.'

  'I make a difference, Jane.'

  'You took a Hippocratic oath to save lives. How is cutting up dead people doing that?'

  'Because when I help catch a murderer and put them away, it stops them from killing again.'

  Jane was unconvinced. 'Killing again? How many victims that you deal with are murdered by a serial killer?'

  Kate didn't answer and Jane nodded smugly. 'Exactly. You know as well as I do that ninety-nine-point-something of all murders are committed by family members or friends or criminal associates. The serial killer is a myth for all practical purposes outside of American films and novels.'

  'Not true. Serial killing has increased enormously in America. And what they have in America always ends up here a few years later.'

  'Yeah. McDonald's maybe. And indoor bowling alleys and nude beach volleyball. But the Fred Wests and the Nilsens and the Shipmans, they're rare. They're nothing to do with some fashion from America. They make up a tiny fraction of your work and you know it.'

  Kate laughed and shook her head. 'It's the same old story, Jane. I'm not going to change. I love what I do. The dead deserve justice just as much as the living.'

  'Justice? You're a doctor, Kate, not a lawyer.'

  'Either way, I'm not going to change my job. I love what I do.'

  Jane laughed ironically. 'I hope you make a better forensic pathologist than you do an actress.'

  'Why don't we change the subject?'

  Jane fixed her with a look. 'Okay. How's the love life?'

  'What love life?'

  'Something has got you coiled up like a jungle cat stuck in a bathtub of soapy water, and if it isn't work . . . it's got to be a man.'

  Kate shook her head. 'What is it they say? A woman needs a man like a fish needs a deep fat fryer.'

  Jane leaned in and looked her in the eye. 'Yeah. Definitely a man. You going to tell me about it?'

  Kate stood up and finished her drink. 'I have to get back to work.'

  Jane called after her. 'Just tell me it's not one of your clients.'

  Elaine Simmons was in her early fifties. Dressed conservatively in a thick woollen skirt and jacket, despite the heat. Delaney was used to judging people by appearances, and he knew Ms Simmons was aware of it. After all, they both played the same kind of game. Delaney was used to reading people so he could help put them behind bars. Ms Simmons was used to reading people to keep them out. If asked for his views on the role counsellors played in keeping crime statistics down, he wasn't usually complimentary.

  'The point is, Ms Simmons, you recommended Candy Morgan for release.'

  Elaine Simmons smiled at him in a neutral kind of way. 'I'm guessing here that you don't usually have much time for the likes of me, Inspector.'

  'You'd be guessing right.'

  'Wishy-washy liberals, holding the criminals' hands and treating them with more respect than their victims.'

  'Sounds about the right description.'

  'We all have a job to do.'

  'If you kept on holding their hands, maybe that would work.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'See, if you held on to them, then those hands couldn't be put to use again, could they? Strangling people. Stabbing or glassing people. Raping. Sodomising. Old ladies, young children.'

  'You're not a fan of probation and rehabilitation, I take it?'

  'Are you?'

  'I wouldn't be in this job if I wasn't.'

  'Every single week someone is murdered or raped by an offender on parole. Let out early on the recommendation of yourself or one of your colleagues.'

  'We're not the bad guys, Inspector. These statistics should be put into context. Last year only point six per cent of offenders assessed as high risk reoffended.'

  Delaney could feel a throbbing in his temples and a red mist building up behind his eyes. 'I was just putting matters into the context, Ms Simmons, of the fact that career criminals are let out after serving only half their time. Let out on probation due to the fact that the government reckons it is more cost-effective to let murderers loose on the street than to build the prisons needed to house them all.'

  Elaine smiled sympathetically. 'I'm sorry you see it that way.'

  'Save your apologies for Jenny Morgan's father.'

  'I don't feel he has cause for alarm.'

/>   Delaney couldn't believe what he was hearing. 'His psychotic sister has kidnapped his daughter, for Christ's sake. I should think he has every good reason to be alarmed.'

  'Candy Morgan was assessed very thoroughly before she was released. I really don't think she poses a threat to anyone, least of all her niece.'

  'She cut somebody's ear off. She sliced a guard's face open with a razor.'

  'She changed.'

  'They all change when parole comes up.'

  'Candy was different.'

  Delaney laughed dismissively. 'They're all different, they're all innocent.'

  'Have you spoken to her, Inspector?'

  'Obviously not. That's why we're here.'

  'When you speak to her, you'll see what I mean.'

  'You have nothing to give us that will help us find her?'

  'I've no idea where she is. But I can assure you that the girl is in no danger.'

  'How can you be so sure?'

  Elaine hesitated, then shook her head. 'You'll just have to take my word for it.'

  Delaney looked at her, realisation dawning. 'You know something, don't you?'

  'No. I have no idea where she is.'

  'But you know something. She has told you something?'

  'Anything we ever spoke about is confidential. You know that, Inspector.'

  'I know that a twelve-year-old girl is missing.'

  'I'm sorry, but I can't help you.'

  'Bullshit!' Delaney slammed his hand down hard on her desk.

  Elaine jumped back, startled.

  'You know anything that can help us find that girl then you tell us now. Or so help me I'll make you pay for it if anything happens to her.'

  Elaine Simmons met his angry look. 'Believe it or not, Inspector, you're not the first person to shout at me.'

  Sally intervened diplomatically. 'We just want to find the girl. I'm sure you can see that.'

  'Of course I can. And if I could help in any way I would. Like I said, I honestly and genuinely believe that Candy Morgan is a changed woman. She has had a horrible, troubled life but she has turned it around. She's turned a corner.'

  'She's turning a corner straight back to Holloway when we catch up with her.'

  'And if she hasn't done anything wrong?'

  'Of course she's done something wrong.'

  'She's a relative. It makes a difference.'

  Delaney leaned in. 'You want to help Candy Morgan?'

  'Yes, I do.'

  'Then tell us what you know.'

  'I'm sorry, there's nothing else to tell.'

  Delaney's mobile phone rang; he snapped it open, irritated.

  'Delaney?'

  He listened for a moment or two then thanked the caller and hung up. He stood up and nodded to Sally. 'We're out of here.'

  'Where to?'

  'Back to Holloway.'

  Delaney opened the door for Sally and looked back at Elaine Simmons.

  'I hope you sleep well at night.'

  'As it happens, I don't, Inspector. And you know why?'

  'Surprise me.'

  Because I actually care about the people I deal with. To you they may be worthless scum. But to me they are victims just as much as the people they have offended against.'

  'And it's all the fault of society, I suppose?'

  'You're carrying a lot of anger around with you, Inspector. It's not healthy.'

  'You going to offer to counsel me?'

  'Not me, but you should get help. That kind of anger. You let that build and someone is going to end up getting hurt.'

  'Maybe someone already has.'

  Delaney followed Sally through the door and pulled it firmly shut behind him.

  Sally looked at him a little nervously. 'What did you mean by somebody already being hurt?'

  'Don't worry about it.'

  He walked ahead, the tension showing in the taut muscles of his shoulders.

  A loose tile let a shaft of sunlight poke through the roof, throwing a small spill of speckled gold on to the attic floor. Dust motes danced in the beam of light as a spider crawled out of the eaves and stopped frozen in the centre of the small golden circle.

  Across the attic, in the dark, Jenny Morgan's eyes widened and she shrank back against the hard angle of the roof. She hated spiders. Always had. It seemed to her that the spider had stopped because it had seen her. She let out a low whimper and shrank even further back, hunching her shoulders. She cried out a little as the blue nylon cord that was tied to her wrists bit in roughly. The other end of the rope was tied to an iron hoop beyond her reach, so she was trapped. Alone. In the dark, and terrified.

  The spider stiffened slightly and then suddenly shot with lightning speed back into the shadows. Jenny let out a small sigh of relief, her young heart pumping blood so fast that she could feel it in her chest and her ears.

  Then a sound came and she stiffened again. The sound of footsteps on the ladder that led into the loft. As she looked across, the woman who claimed to be her aunt was coming towards her. In the darkness she couldn't see the expression on her face or the look in her eyes, but what she could see was the spill of sunlight flashing off steel as the woman raised the carving knife that she held in her right hand.

  And Jenny screamed.

  17.

  Delaney leaned his elbow out of the window as they waited in a long line of traffic queuing up to Archway. Sally glanced across at him. 'You think there should be a difference between sentencing men and women, then? That women should be treated differently?'

  'We don't make the law, Sally.'

  'Most female prisoners are in for crimes that don't really pose a risk to society. Theft, handling stolen goods, petty crimes to help feed their family. The children of those women are often then put into care. And that's just seeding crime for the future. We're breeding criminals and the prison system is a large part of it.'

  'What about Candy Morgan, do you think she should have been released?'

  Sally sighed. 'She obviously has mental health problems.'

  She spun the wheel, pulling the car back into the prison car park, and showed her warrant card to the security guard who manned the gate, Delaney did likewise and they were waved through to drive on and find a space.

  He stared ahead as he took off his seatbelt. 'Elaine Simmons may sit in her ivory tower and make decisions based on political correctness because she doesn't have to deal with the consequences. You and I do. And if she is wrong about Candy Morgan, then it is little Jenny who will pay the price.'

  Sally undid her belt and Delaney turned to her. 'No point us both going in. You wait here. I won't be long.'

  He got out of the car and shut his door. Sally wound her window down, grateful for a slight breeze that shifted the hot and heavy air a little.

  She sat back in her seat and put the radio on. Radio Four. Some sitcom about a care worker and her variably eccentric colleagues dealing with life in modern London. She chuckled a little but the programme was finishing and the next item was the news, which she had heard already that day about ten times. She turned the radio right down and leaned her head back, closing her eyes, enjoying the warmth of the day and falling into a light doze.

  The sound of a woman screaming in agony woke her with a start. The screaming rang out again, from a high window in the prison beyond. She was either mad or in labour, Sally reckoned. Maybe both. But weren't pregnant women allowed out to give birth in hospital? She remembered something about a female conservative MP liking to see women in labour handcuffed or some such.

  She looked at her watch, wondering where Delaney had got to. Probably arguing with the governor. Delaney reminded her a little of her father; he never liked to be wrong about anything either. And he was her father's age, though she'd never tell him that. Mind you, her father was still an attractive man according to all the women who seemed to flirt with him whenever her mother's back was turned. But there was no way she'd ever think of Delaney in those terms: he was her boss, and besides, he car
ried more baggage than Paris Hilton on a two-month holiday to the Seychelles. The last thing she needed right now in her career was to have an affair with a senior colleague. She had already decided that. He was very much her senior in both age and rank. Absolutely no way. Don't even go there.

  Still, a one-night shag would be fun. Sally laughed out loud and shook the thought quickly out of her head as she watched Delaney striding across the car park and up to the car.

  'Something amusing you, Constable?'

  'Just the radio.'

  Delaney grunted and slid himself into the passenger seat as Sally hurriedly turned the radio off. She felt a blush rise from her neck upwards and quickly changed the subject, nodding to the handful of envelopes that Delaney was clutching.

  'What have we got?'

  'The Royal Mail. It might be slow but it gets there in the end.'

  'Candy Morgan's?'

  'Yeah.

  'You going to tell me an admirer has been writing to her and he's arranged for her to come and live with him after she's released, and he's very kindly put his address on the letter?'

  'If only.'

  'What then?'

  'Mostly junk. But one letter from a different bank account. One we didn't know about.'

  'So if she pays by card at a supermarket, or uses a hole in the wall . . .'

  'Exactly. Get us out of here.'

  'Boss.'

  Sally started the car and made a quick U-turn, heading back towards King's Cross.

  Delaney wound his window right down again and looked out. The streets were lively with people. This was always a busy area but the sun brought them out in their hundreds. What tourists wanted to see in King's Cross was beyond him. Maybe King's Cross was going to be the new Covent Garden. The old Covent Garden was a common stamping ground for hookers and florists; maybe there was a theme developing here.

  'What do you reckon, Sally?'

  'About what?'

  'King's Cross becoming the new Covent Garden?'

  As they turned left into one of the side streets, Sally looked out of her window at a rail-thin eastern European woman leaning against a wall, her face a map of misery, the tracks of her addiction marked in the blotches on her skin and the soulless hunger in her eyes. A poster girl for consumerism gone very badly wrong.