Hard Evidence Page 4

  *

  South-west of the Waterhill estate, the White City police station squatted powerfully under the Westway flyover, sprawling in every direction like a concrete fortress. Crime didn't pay, unless you were an architect, it seemed.

  Delaney turned in to the car park and pulled his ageing Saab 900 to a halt, the handbrake creaking as he levered it upwards. His knees creaked in almost harmonic sympathy as he levered himself out of the car. He yawned expansively. Too many late nights were writing cheques his body could no longer cash. He'd been up since five thirty this morning but he might as well have stayed in bed for all the progress he had made on Jackie Malone's murder. They were no further forward and he wasn't relishing the thought of Kate Walker's uncle, the superintendent, demanding an update, demanding progress. As soon as he heard the dead woman had been asking for Delaney he'd be on his back, no doubt getting him taken off the case, and Delaney didn't want that. Superintendent Walker had made it quite clear he had little time for Delaney and would be quite happy to see him bounced out of the force.

  The trouble was, Delaney didn't have anything to give him, Jackie Malone was part of the criminal underworld and people like Jack Delaney just weren't welcome there, even when they were trying to find the killer of one of their own. He had spent the best part of the morning talking to the streetwalkers who worked the area near Jackie Malone's flat. Not too pleased to be roused from sleep and letting him know it. No one knew a thing. No one heard a thing. No one saw a thing. Life on Mars, Jack thought ironically; what about life on fucking Earth?

  He walked through the entrance doors and sketched a wave at the desk sergeant, Dave 'Slimline' Patterson, a five-foot-ten rugby-playing barrel of a man in his late thirties who, rumour had it, lived in fear of his wife, who was five foot nothing but came from Aberystwyth.

  Patterson grimaced sympathetically at Delaney. 'Thought you weren't due in till this afternoon?'

  'So did I. Walker wants all noses to the grindstone.'

  'Up his arse more like.'

  Delaney laughed in agreement and keyed the numbers into the security pad, then walked through the doors and headed up the stairs to the CID briefing room. He groaned inwardly as he looked up to see the man he had just been cursing coming down them.

  Superintendent Charles Walker was a handsome man in his early fifties. A hard face made interesting by a jagged scar on his left cheek. He wore the scar like he wore his full dress uniform, with pride stepping over into arrogance. He claimed it came from his early days in the army, though Delaney had his doubts; there were any number of coppers he knew who'd like to meet the man in a dark alley some night, but not to give him a blow job.

  'Delaney. Any word on this murdered prostitute?'

  Delaney shook his head. 'I think the preferred media-friendly term is sex worker, sir.'

  'The media can kiss my backside, Delaney.'

  'Sir.' Delaney nodded drily, all too aware that the superintendent courted the media like a C-list celebrity. Charles Walker was a political copper and always had been; crime statistics were stepping stones to promotion for him, nothing more, nothing less. And he did everything he could to put himself in a good light with the media.

  'I want all eyes on this missing girl. It's why you've been called back in. The dead tart is not priority. We clear on that?'

  'Sir.'

  'Seems you had some kind of history with the woman.'

  'Professional, sir.'

  Walker looked at him, the doubt and distaste all too clear in his expression. 'Your reputation is well known, Detective Inspector; let's not enhance it any. Just focus on the missing girl.'

  'Sir.'

  'And do that goddam tie up. You look a disgrace, man.'

  The superintendent gave a dismissive flick of his head and carried on down the stairs. Delaney momentarily considered giving him what Dirty Harry would have called a five-point suppository, but unfortunately they didn't have metal badges in the Met, and he wouldn't want to give Walker the pleasure. Instead he curled his lip, kept his counsel and headed up to the briefing room, where the sound of laughter and loud chat did nothing to improve his mood or the state of his aching head.

  Mornings in police briefing rooms were pretty much the same the world over, and this one could just as easily have been a staff room in a school, or a conference room in a big department store, or a hotel where sales executives had been summoned for a training session. The same amount of boredom, ego, petty jostling, cheap jokes, flirtations and bad coffee. The only thing different with the police was the stakes.

  Jackie Malone's picture was pinned to the left of the noticeboard, but taking centre stage was Jenny Morgan. Live kids in jeopardy clearly took precedence over dead prostitutes; fact of life – and death. Delaney could see the sense but couldn't drag his gaze away from Jackie's photo. Her eyes seemed to look straight at him like Kitchener's finger, unremitting with blame. He finally looked across to the photo of the young girl.

  Jenny Morgan's photo showed the face of a pretty, if solemn, twelve-year-old. Her hair and eyes were as dark as her father's and she stared out defiantly at the world.

  Delaney couldn't stop himself from yawning, and covered his mouth as he watched Bonner speaking with DC Sally Cartwright, who had finished her morning's beat in uniform and was now officially on her first day with CID. She had changed into a smart charcoal-grey suit and wouldn't have looked out of place in an estate agent's. He was not at all surprised that Bonner was paying her far more attention than her older ex-colleague. Bob Wilkinson could be a regal pain in the backside, Delaney knew that, but he liked his honesty and his straightforwardness, and most important of all he trusted his instincts. An old-fashioned copper. If Bob Wilkinson said someone was dodgy then you could bet your defunct Irish punt that they were.

  The whisper of bored conversation came to a halt as Delaney's immediate boss walked into the room. Chief Inspector Diane Campbell was in her forties, she wore her bobbed hair like a helmet and her make-up like an act of war. She snapped a critical look at Bonner, whose schoolboy smile slid quickly off his face like a fried egg off a greasy plate.

  'What have we got, Bonner?'

  'Jenny Morgan, ma'am. She's been missing since after school yesterday. That's nineteen hours.'

  'And it's only just been reported?'

  'That's right, ma'am. This morning. Her father. Single parent.'

  'Why did he take so long?'

  'We're looking into it. But from what the relief told me, he's not the sharpest pencil in the case.'

  Campbell looked across at Delaney. 'So I gather. The father, Howard Morgan. Has he been charged for the assault on Greville?'

  Bonner shook his head. 'Not yet.'

  'Good. Because there are potential political implications here.'

  'Ma'am?'

  'Somebody leaked the information about Greville to the press; we're all being looked at here.'

  'Maybe it's not us that should be looked at.'

  'Try and persuade Greville not to pursue, for the moment at least. I gather he wasn't seriously injured?'

  Delaney coughed and spoke up, his voice hoarse. 'No. And to be honest, he's not my top priority at the moment.'

  'If we do have a top priority, it's what I tell you it is. We all clear on that?'

  Bonner smiled. 'Pellucid, ma'am.'

  'Shut it, Sergeant.'

  'Ma'am.'

  'Delaney. I want the father, Howard Morgan, on TV as soon as possible, and I don't want any confusion over the issues involved here. We clear?'

  Delaney nodded. 'Pellucid, ma'am.'

  A hint of a smile almost twitched Campbell's lips but she managed to contain it.

  'Apologies to those of you who were about to go off shift. But the super wants all hands to the pump until that little girl is found. Anyone got a problem with that?'

  No one did. She looked over at Delaney again. 'Keep me posted.' She moved briskly from the room and Delaney moved to the front, taking charge of the meeting.<
br />
  'You heard what she said. Time is critical here. We've already lost nearly a day because of her father; let's not lose any more. I'm going to talk to Morgan. Meanwhile, I want background checks. I want to know everything about him, and I want to know everything about his daughter. School friends, boyfriends, hobbies, clubs, the lot. DC Cartwright, you're with me.'

  'Sir.'

  Her face lit up a little at being called DC for the first time. Delaney pointed at DI Jimmy Skinner, a tall, thin, pale-faced man in his thirties who spent every hour he could find playing internet poker. 'Jimmy, I want you to speak to Greville.'

  'Is that to be a polite conversation?'

  'You heard what the boss said?'

  'I did.'

  Delaney turned to Inspector Audrey Hobb, early fifties, two years off her thirty and looking forward to retirement.

  'Audrey, I want all your available uniforms out on the street with pictures of Jenny. Young girls don't just disappear in broad daylight; somebody must have seen something.'

  'Let's hope so.'

  The group got to their feet as though dismissed, but Delaney held his hand up.

  'Hang on a minute. There's one more thing.' He pointed to the picture on the left of the noticeboard. 'Jackie Malone. Some of you are familiar with the case. She had a boy sometimes in her care, Andy. We think he's with his uncle, Russell Martin, but we want to make sure. DS Bonner will organise some photos. When you're out on the street, I want you to show his photo too. Okay, Audrey?'

  'Fine by me.'

  Bonner leaned in. 'You think the chief will like it, sir?'

  Delaney ignored him. 'Okay, that's it. But one last thing. We all know how these cases sometimes turn out, and we all know how critical time is. The longer we take, the less chance we have of finding her alive. But this isn't going to be one of those cases. We're going to find that girl. We're going to do everything to make that happen, and we are going to take her out of harm's way. We clear?'

  'Sir.' The response was immediate, and, galvanised, the briefing room emptied. Delaney fumbled a couple of painkillers from a small bottle he kept in his pocket and sighed. It was going to be another long day.

  7.

  Delaney stopped at the water cooler in the corridor outside the briefing room and poured himself a clear plastic cup's worth. The gurgling of the cooler as it dispensed the water matched the gurgling in his stomach. Whiskey and late-night kebabs, not a good combination. He looked out of the window up at the massive flyover that poured traffic into the city like a Roman aqueduct sluicing sewage. The water was cool at least and did something to ease the throbbing in his forehead. Bob Wilkinson joined him at the cooler, pouring himself a cup.

  'You look like shit, boss,' he said.

  Delaney winced. 'Everyone's a detective.'

  'I'll stick with the uniform, thanks. Leave the glory-hunting to the likes of you and young Sally Cartwright.'

  Delaney snorted. 'Glory. Right.'

  'Any word on Jackie Malone?'

  Delaney shook his head. 'The post-mortem's tomorrow. Might give us something to go on, but I doubt it.'

  'It's not like the books.'

  'Rarely.'

  Bob Wilkinson moved as if to leave, then hesitated, looking back at Delaney.

  'What is it?'

  'Just thought you ought to know . . .'

  'Go on.'

  'There's a bit of gossip going round.'

  'About?'

  'About you and Jackie Malone.'

  'What about her?'

  'That you might have been too friendly with her. Maybe you're not the best man to be looking into her murder.'

  'And what do you think?'

  'I think if I were Jackie Malone I wouldn't want anyone else on it.'

  'Thanks, Bob.'

  Wilkinson scowled. 'Yeah, well. I'm off to St Mary's to sweet-talk a paedophile.'

  Delaney dropped his cup into the bin as the sound of purposeful feet clacking on the hard floor behind made him turn round. Sally Cartwright approached eagerly. She was joining him in interviewing Morgan and was clearly relishing her first day as a detective constable. As they walked along the corridor towards the interview room, he recognised the all-too-youthful enthusiasm that shone from her eyes and felt sorry for her. People came on the job for all kinds of reasons, and the ones who wanted to do good, who wanted to help people, who wanted to put something back into the community were the ones who suffered most. There might at one time have been a place for idealism in the Girl Guides, but not any more, and certainly not in the Metropolitan Police. Pest control, Delaney thought, that's all we are, glorified pest control, but at least stamping on bugs was something he liked to do.

  Interview room number one was on the ground floor near the entrance. Usually used for talking to members of the public, taking witness statements and so on. For the serious villains the room at the back of the station near the custody cells was used. Windowless and soulless. Interview room number one at least had a window; even though it just showed the car park beyond, it let sunlight in and that made all the difference. Otherwise it was a bland square room with a mirror on the wall opposite the window, and a rectangular table with two plastic moulded chairs either side, in unapologetically seventies orange. Morgan sat with his back to the window and Delaney pulled out a chair for Sally and sat down beside her, giving Morgan an appraising look. Estate agents reckoned prospective buyers made their minds up about a property within minutes; it took Delaney a lot less than that with people. This guy had bent tattooed all over him. He could see it in the way he sat restless in the chair. His fingers mobile, rubbing his arms or smoothing the fabric of his oil-stained jeans. He was as comfortable in a police station as a pig in a slaughterhouse.

  Morgan rubbed his thigh again and looked up at Delaney, the hope hungry in his hangdog eyes. 'Is there any news? Have you found her?'

  'We've only just found out that your daughter has been missing overnight, haven't we?' Delaney's tone was far from sympathetic and Sally, taking out her notebook, watched puzzled as he leaned in angrily, getting into Morgan's face.

  'And those hours could have been vital!'

  Morgan blinked, clearly unnerved by Delaney's proximity.

  'What are you saying?'

  Delaney slammed his hand down hard on the table, 'I'm saying we need to know exactly what you know and we need to know it now.'

  'Guv . . .'

  Delaney flashed a look at Sally. 'Shut it.' He looked back at Morgan. 'You do understand what I'm saying?'

  'Of course I do. I want her found.'

  'Why did you attack Philip Greville?'

  'He brought his car to my garage last week.'

  'And?'

  'And afterwards some people told me he'd been in the paper. He'd taken some girl and been in the paper for it. And prison . . .'

  'Go on?'

  'And then . . . and then when my Jenny didn't come home . . .'

  'You thought it was him?'

  Morgan looked up. 'Wasn't it?'

  'See, what I don't understand is, why . . . If you knew there was a known child offender in your area, and your daughter didn't come home from school, or at any time during the night, why did you leave it to this morning till you did something about it?'

  Morgan shook his head. 'I didn't know.'

  'You didn't know what?'

  'I didn't know she was missing. I was working late on a job. I came in, I assumed she'd put herself to bed. She takes care of herself.'

  'She's twelve years old, for Christ's sake.'

  Morgan shook his head again, remorsefully, and Sally gave him a reassuring smile as she looked up from her note-taking.

  'It's all right, Howard, just tell us what you know. Anything you tell us could be important. When did you last see her?'

  Morgan shifted awkwardly in his chair, his eyes not meeting hers. 'I work late sometimes. Since her mother died she's been good at taking care of herself.'

  Sally nodded sympathetically. 'When d
id her mother die?'

  'Two years ago.'

  Delaney sat back in his chair, crossing his arms. 'How did she die, Mr Morgan?'

  'Cancer. They couldn't do anything. Too late, they said. We never did hold with doctors. They said if we'd been earlier, but we weren't. Too late, that's what they said.'

  Sally wrote in her notebook. 'So it's just the two of you?'

  'That's right. Just the two of us. And Jake.'

  Delaney sighed angrily. 'Who's Jake?'

  'He's my brother. My older brother. He works with me at the garage. There's no one else.'

  'Do you have any other relations? Anyone she might have gone to see?'

  Morgan shook his head. 'No, it's just us. We've got each other.'

  'Okay, Mr Morgan. Think carefully: did either you or your brother see Philip Greville after you had fixed his car?'

  Morgan's brow furrowed, as if trying to squeeze some juice of memory from his troubled mind. His eyes had the look of a hurt and hunted animal as he tried to remember.

  'I can't see him.'

  Delaney cursed under his breath and fumbled in his pocket again for his bottle of painkillers.

  St Mary's Hospital is a sprawling Victorian complex on Praed Street in Paddington. The old and the modern rose-coloured cheek by pierced jowl. Where Princess Diana once came to have her babies, and where the punched and the battered drunks of a Friday and Saturday night clog up the rooms and try the patience of the night staff working A&E as regularly as a Swiss clock.

  Bob Wilkinson was standing at the vending machine squashing a thin paper cup between his bony, nicotine-stained fingers, scowling as he drank the bitter fluid contained within and hoping to Christ the thing wasn't swimming with the MRSA bug. He hated hospitals almost as much as he hated people. He looked further up the corridor where Bonner was finishing talking to Greville, who was laid out on a bed; the DS was smiling at him, treating him like he was a normal human being, not kiddie-fiddling pond scum. Bonner was the future of the Met as far as Wilkinson could tell, just like Superintendent Walker. More spin doctor than thief-taker; the kind of shiny-suited, even-teethed bastards who danced around to a political agenda, letting the paedophiles fiddle while Rome burned.