Hard Evidence Page 3

  He poured himself another measure and looked again at the flashing light on his answering machine.

  He pushed the button and listened as the machine rewound to the voice of the dead.

  'Delaney, it's Jackie Malone. I need to speak to you. Call me. You've got my number.'

  Click. Swallow.

  'Delaney, it's Jackie again. I really need to speak to you. Just call me.'

  Click.

  'It's me. Where are you, Delaney?'

  Delaney took another swallow as he listened to the desperation in her voice. Not a question he was sure he could have answered. What have you done, Jackie? What have you let them do?

  Click.

  Delaney was reaching forward to turn the machine off when another voice spoke and he held his hand back. The voice of a seven-year-old girl with just a hint of Irish in it, enough of a familiar hint to break his heart all over again.

  'Daddy, it's Siobhan. When are you going to come round? We miss you. Bye.'

  He ran a hand through his hair and sighed as the machine clicked again. 'It's Jackie again, Cowboy. Don't tell me you've gone all bashful on me? We need to speak. This concerns you. I'll be in all day. Call me or come round. You know where.'

  Click. Click. Click.

  The machine clunked to a stop. It was an antique now and he knew he should have replaced it, but it had his wife's voice on it and Delaney called himself daily just to hear it. He pushed the message button and another dead woman's voice filled the room, filled his life all over again, but it would never fill the hole right in the middle of him.

  'This is Sinead. Jack and I aren't here right now. This is an answerphone and I'm sure you know by now what to do when you hear the beep, so go ahead and do it.'

  Delaney sat back on the sofa and shook his head gently. She was wrong. He had absolutely no idea what to do. He tipped the bottle and poured himself half a tumbler. Some memories he wanted to keep, no matter how much whiskey he drank, and some he wanted to destroy. These images he used alcohol to try and kill, but it only helped fuel his nightmares. A petrol station at night, the cold striplights spilling across the forecourt. The transit van, its back doors open like the maw of an evil creature. A man running, dressed in black, leaping in as the van pulled away. The faint smoke leaking from the barrels of the shotgun, sulphurous and yellow.

  Delaney stood up and lurched to the sink in the corner of the room and threw up, the sour whiskey burning his throat as he gasped for breath. He ran cold water, cupping it in his hand and splashing it over his head. He filled a glass and drained it, then picked up a mouthwash bottle from the shelf above the sink and gargled. He looked up into the mirror but couldn't meet his own gaze; he walked to the cabinet by the door and picked up the keys to his old Saab.

  The night was still warm and Delaney kept his window open as he drove, the thick air blowing his hair flat to his head and slapping him awake. The white lines in the middle of the road and the fat, jaundiced street lights flashed past him as in a dream, and Delaney had to shake his head now and again to clear his thoughts, to focus on the road. The wail of a horn and the screech of brakes barely registered as he swerved to avoid an oncoming taxi and continued to drive.

  He pulled the car to an untidy stop in a pleasant suburban street north of Hampstead station. A few miles from Delaney's impersonal little flat and a million light years from his own world.

  He looked at his eyes in the rear-view mirror and ran the back of his hand over them, as though to squeeze the hurt from them. He shook his head sharply and combed his fingers through his tangled hair, took a swallow from a bottle of water tossed earlier on to the passenger seat and opened the car door.

  He looked up at the house for a long moment. A bay-fronted Victorian terrace, set back from the road, with a neat front lawn and a gravel path leading up to the oak door with stained-glass panels. Thin tendrils of honeyed light spilled from the gaps in the curtains.

  Delaney closed the slightly creaking wooden gate behind him and walked along the path, stepped into the narrow porch and rang the bell. Musical chimes filled the warm air, and from somewhere Delaney dug up a smile as the door was opened. The light spilled out and caught his eyes, revealing a warmth beyond the door that lay hidden like bluebells under a foot of snow.

  'Hello, Wendy.'

  'Jack. Have you any idea what the time is?'

  'None at all.'

  'It's gone midnight! We've been worried about you. Come on, come in.' Delaney nodded gratefully and followed her through the door. Following like Alice down a rabbit hole into a whole different world.

  Wendy closed the door behind him. Thirty-seven, six inches shorter than Delaney. Attractive, polished, dirty-blonde hair and pale blue eyes. Worried eyes. She moved forward and stood on tiptoe to kiss Delaney on the cheek and then held her palm to where her lips had been.

  'You need a shave.'

  Delaney nodded, and Wendy took her hand away, suddenly self-conscious. 'Come through to the lounge.'

  Delaney followed her, his heavy feet soundless on the plush carpeting. It was a family home. Pictures on the wall, a faint smell of polish in the air, photographs, a cluttered piano, thick, comfortable furniture, a worn but expensive rug on the floor. Delaney sat on the edge of a fashionably battered leather sofa and smiled apologetically. 'I didn't want to be a nuisance . . .'

  'It's all right, Jack. Really it is. Especially today, your wedding anniversary. We've been really worried about you.'

  'I meant to call, you know.'

  Wendy looked at him, the sympathy a physical presence in her eyes. 'Where've you been?'

  Delaney considered the question, not sure he had an answer, and just shrugged.

  'God, you look terrible. Can I get you a drink?'

  'Not for me. Where's Roger?'

  A moment's pause and a flicker of something replacing the sympathy in her eyes.

  'He's gone to Dublin for the weekend. Golf trip with the lads.'

  'Is Siobhan in bed?'

  'And where else would she be at this time of night?' Wendy laughed suddenly. A silky laugh, rich, a purr in there somewhere. 'God, Jack, what are we going to do with you?'

  'If I was a horse you could probably shoot me.' He smiled up at her. 'You're a good woman, Wendy.'

  'Why don't you go up and see her?'

  'She'll be asleep.'

  Wendy shook her head. 'She'll have heard the car. She's been just as worried about you as I have. More. She's been waiting all day to see you, desperate to show you her First Holy Communion dress.'

  'God, her First Communion. When is that?'

  'Saturday. It's a lovely dress.'

  'I bet she looks a picture in it.'

  'A princess.'

  'I'll go up and see her then.' He stood up and Wendy put her palm against his cheek again.

  'We all miss her.'

  He nodded and looked at a silver-framed photo that stood on the mantelpiece. His wife's eyes smiling at a future she couldn't see.

  Delaney pushed his daughter's bedroom door open. It was another world again to him, a different universe. A world of pastel lights and pastel colours. A kingdom of teddy bears and soft dolls. The world of his dark-haired, bright-eyed seven-year-old daughter. She had her mother's blue eyes, like parts of her soul gifted. She smiled up at him as he came into the room.

  'Hello, Cowboy.'

  'Hello, Partner. Give me a kiss.' He swooped her up in his arms as she launched herself from the trampoline of her bed.

  'I want a story.'

  Delaney put her back on the bed with another kiss. 'It's very late, poppet.'

  'Please.'

  He couldn't resist those eyes. 'All right. Just a quick one.'

  'With guns and drugs and murdered women.'

  'Not tonight.'

  'All right then. One of your fairy stories.' Siobhan smiled grudgingly, pretending to be disappointed.

  Delaney laughed for the first time in that terrible day and sat down beside her on the bed as she
snuggled into the warmth of its cartooned covers.

  'Once upon a very long time ago, in the year of our lunch of green cabbage and bacon, lived a humble woodcutter's son. He lived deep, deep in the ancient forest and had been born with a curse. He was a great artist. That is, he would have been if it hadn't been for his hands. His mind was filled with many beautiful pictures that he longed to paint, but whenever he put his simple brush to canvas his hand twitched and went out of control.'

  'Why?'

  'Why indeed? That's the question of all questions, and if we can answer that then we can answer everything.'

  'But why did his hands twitch?'

  'Ah, you see, a wicked witch had cursed him at birth. So whenever he tried to paint a picture, the result was quite diabolical and everyone laughed at him. One day he became so despondent that he decided to set out and find a cure for his problem. Now everybody in the ancient forest knew that the only person able to solve such a problem for him was the old hermit who lived on top of the hill in a cave. And so the humble woodcutter's son went to visit him.'

  'What did he say?'

  'Well, the old hermit was very sympathetic. Which made a pleasant change and soon gave him hope. In fact he gave him a strange mushroom, telling him to eat it and gaze into his pond. This the woodcutter's son did, and as he looked, the vision of a beautiful girl appeared to him. The hermit told him that all he had to do was make the girl fall in love with him and the curse would be lifted.'

  'What was her name? The beautiful girl?'

  'Her name was Estrella, the Princess Estrella, and she was quite the most beautiful girl he had ever seen.'

  'And did he marry her?'

  'Well, he set off to the castle singing with joy and expectation. When he arrived and was shown in to the princess, he could hardly contain his happiness. The princess, though, when she heard of his mission, well, she burst into silver peals of laughter, and waved her hands as she cast a spell and shrank him to the dimensions of a frog. She then placed him in his own little glass jar on a shelf next to all the other young men who had had similar ideas and were similarly contained.'

  Siobhan blinked her eyes sleepily.

  'Why did she do that?'

  'Well you see, the princess was really the wicked witch's daughter all along. The humble woodcutter's son still loved her, though, and wasn't altogether too unhappy because he could still look at her through the jar.'

  Siobhan couldn't keep her eyes open and mumbled as she turned her head on the pillow, 'What a nasty thing to do.'

  Delaney stroked a soothing hand on her hair. His other hand holding her tiny one, gripping tight.

  'And anyway, that wasn't a very good story. What about the happy ending? What about his pictures?'

  'They can't all have happy endings.'

  'Why not?'

  'It's time you went to sleep, young lady. We can't have princesses with bags under their eyes, can we?'

  'I'm not sure I want to be a princess any more.'

  'We don't get to choose who we are, darling.'

  He kissed her gently on the forehead as she closed her eyes and drifted into sleep. He watched her for a moment or two longer, for as long as he could bear, and then closed her bedroom door behind him and went downstairs.

  'How is she?'

  Delaney smiled sadly at Wendy. 'She's fine. She looks more like her mother every day.'

  'Is she asleep?'

  'Dropped off like a log.'

  'I'm glad you came by. She'd have been really disappointed if you hadn't.'

  'It's the job, Wendy. You know how it is.'

  'I know how you are. You don't have to do it all on your own, Jack.'

  'I guess we all do what we can.'

  'She misses you.'

  'I'll get the flat soon and she can come and live with me when I do. You know that.'

  'It's not a house she needs. It's a home.'

  'I know.'

  'It's time to move on.'

  'Don't, Wendy. Please . . . just don't.'

  'It's been four years.'

  'So people keep telling me.' It was true, but it was just numbers, it didn't mean anything to him.

  'It's what she would have wanted.'

  Delaney shook his head.

  'You've got to put it behind you, Jack. For her sake. For Siobhan's sake. For your sake.'

  Delaney stood up. 'It's late, Wendy. I'd better get home.'

  'Why don't you stay over?'

  Delaney looked at the slight flush that had crept over her cheek like she'd just been softly kissed, and the wetness in her eyes that came from more than grief.

  'I can't.'

  'Siobhan would love to see you in the morning.'

  'I've got things I need to do.'

  'You're welcome any time, you know that?' He met her gaze, and she could not hold it, her eyes sliding away.

  'It means a lot to me, Wendy.'

  She looked up and smiled, the moment passed, shaking her head at him. 'Jack, you look like shit. Get some sleep. Get some decent food. Take care of yourself, for Christ's sake.'

  Delaney laughed again. The blasphemy sat as prettily on her lips as a robin perched on a statue of the Pope.

  'You're a good woman, Wendy.'

  'Not always.'

  And Delaney pulled her into a hug. The kind of hug that a man gives his wife's sister.

  6.

  Tuesday morning. The sun was still low in the sky but it was hot. Hot enough to put a shimmer in the air and raise tempers to boiling point.

  The Waterhill estate was less of a carbuncle and more of an open sore on the architectural face of north London. Urban decay as installation art writ large. A breeding ground for fear, for degradation and for violence. Where hope was a word that had no meaning whatsoever and murder was as familiar as the rain, the graffiti and the burnt-out wrecks of cars that dotted the estate like the statuary of stately homes. It was not an attractive place.

  Howard Morgan had never been mistaken for attractive either, even before the burn scar running from neck to eye and forehead that had so disfigured one side of his face. He was in his forties, heavily built and heavily muscled. His dark hair was greasy and long to his collar, his jeans were oil-stained and filthy from working in his garage. There was a brute, animal intelligence in his eyes, eyes that flickered like sparking coals in a kicked-over fire, and there was intent also. Murderous intent.

  Morgan had his thick arm wrapped around the pale and slender neck of a terrified, bespectacled man in his late thirties, and was bellowing into his face.

  'You tell me where she is!'

  The man could barely manage a gurgle, his consciousness slipping from him like thick blood oozing from a slow wound.

  'Get off him.'

  Sally Cartwright came running up the road and flicked out her asp, the twenty-first century's telescopic version of the truncheon. She wielded it with poorly disguised pleasure as she shouted at Howard Morgan. Morgan released his grip long enough to push Sally away, and as he did so, the bespectacled man tried to escape, but Morgan was too quick, ramming the man's head hard against the brick wall behind him. He stepped back and the man slumped to his knees with a low gurgle and then fell to the ground unconscious. Sally caught her balance and moved forward holding her asp high, ready to strike.

  Sally's colleague PC Bob Wilkinson came gasping up to join her. He was in his early fifties and had several thousand more miles on the beat behind him, and it showed. It was clear in the shortness of his breath and the cynicism in his eyes. He held his asp warily forward, and moved to block Morgan's getaway. But Morgan, breathing as heavy as Bob Wilkinson, backed into the wall, making no move to run.

  Sally thumbed the send button on her police radio.

  'Foxtrot Alpha from forty-eight.'

  Bob Wilkinson meanwhile stared at Howard Morgan, the asp in his hand twitching like a hazel rod finding water.

  'What's your name?'

  Confusion rippled across Morgan's face as he stood agai
nst the wall, trembling, though not with anger any more.

  'Is he going to be all right?'

  Bob knelt and put his hand to the injured man's neck as Sally's radio crackled.

  'Go ahead, Sally.'

  'Ambulance urgently, please. Waterhill estate. IC1 male. Head injuries.' She thumbed the radio off and glared at Morgan. 'What's your name, sir!'

  Morgan snapped his head back to meet Sally's focused stare as the unconscious man groaned slightly and moved. Bob held his arm.

  'Please try not to move. You may have concussion.'

  Morgan looked at Sally, taking in her presence for the first time. 'My name's Morgan.'

  'Morgan who?'

  'Howard Morgan.'

  'Howard Morgan, I am arresting you . . .'

  She stopped as Bob stood up and pulled her to one side.

  'Hang on a minute, Sally.'

  'What's up?'

  'You know who that is.' He nodded at the prostrate man, the distaste sitting on his lips like sour wine.

  'No. What difference does it make?'

  'That's Philip Greville.'

  Sally's radio crackled again, 'Forty-eight from Foxtrot Alpha. Ambulance on way.'

  Sally shook her head, puzzled. 'Who's Philip Greville?'

  'The worst kind of slag, that's who.'

  'Meaning?'

  'Meaning he's on the sex offenders list. Kids.'

  Sally nodded, taking it in.

  'He was outed last week in the local papers. People know who he is. They know what he is.'

  Sally nodded over to Morgan. 'Doesn't give them the right to assault him. Are you saying we shouldn't arrest Morgan?'

  'Of course I'm not. I'm just saying we should find out what's going on first.'

  Morgan came to life again, pointing at Greville and shouting at Sally.

  'He's got my daughter.'

  Sally held up a soothing hand. 'All right, sir. Try and keep calm.'

  'Make him say where my Jenny is.' Morgan couldn't hold back the tears and he didn't even try. 'You make him tell.'