Mark Pearson - Hard Evidence

Kate snorted angrily. 'Good job!'

'It's your career. You can't afford to be associated with me. Not right now. I just wanted to do the right thing.'

'Then don't patronise me, Jack. I want to help.' There was long pause and Kate could hear Delaney breathing, thinking.

'Okay.'

'Okay? Is that it?'

'Yeah, Okay.'

Kate smiled. Damn the man.

Half an hour later, Kate was looking out of a wooden-framed window on to a picture of English tranquillity. Lush green grass, sedate willows lining ordered and well-tended gravel paths. Somewhere a fountain tinkled and Kate could imagine the cool water in the air, giving gentle relief from the relentless sun. In the centre of the park was a small lake with a semicircle of trees behind it, and splashing on the water was a family of moorhens. It was a beautiful spot to spend eternity, she thought.

She turned back to the caretaker who looked after the cemetery. 'It's a lovely place, Mr Hoskins.'

The caretaker nodded. 'I try and keep it nice.'

'You do it very well.'

'People don't get the respect they deserve in life, do they?'

Kate shook her head in agreement. 'Not often. Not in this world.'

'So when they die and come here, I like to think they all get respect. At least they do from me.'

'And Jack Delaney's grateful for it?'

'He always brings fresh flowers. Always leaves a little something in the donations box. He doesn't think anyone sees, but I do. I see everything.'

'I can imagine.'

'I don't spend it on myself. Now and again I buy flowers for them as don't get any visitors.'

'That's good of you.'

He grimaced. 'Yeah, well, no one's going to be putting any flowers on my grave, miss.'

Kate gave him a small smile. 'You're absolutely certain of the date?'

'Positive. I never forget a date. It goes with the job really. Spend all my day looking at them.'

Kate nodded gratefully. If Delaney was here grieving for his dead wife all day long, then he couldn't have been in Ladbroke Grove murdering a prostitute. 'I might need you to make a statement later.'

'I've already done that.'

Kate looked back at him, surprised. 'I'm sorry?'

'At the nick. One of your sergeants, he's got my written statement.'

'Which one?'

'Can't remember his name, arrogant little cockerel.'

Kate nodded again gratefully, pretty sure who he was referring to.

Outside in her car, Kate hesitated for a moment, flipping her mobile phone round in her hand. She watched as a young couple came and placed a bunch of flowers by a small memorial marker, then made a decision. She thumbed the number in quickly and set her jaw firmly as the call was answered.

'Superintendent Walker, please.'

There are all kinds of secret places in London. Buildings hidden away in the labyrinths of old cul-de-sacs and dead ends that lie moments away from the main thoroughfares. The Church of Saint Mary is one such place. A small gothic church, with its own walled garden, set back at the top end of a cul-de-sac just a stone's throw from the middle of Oxford Street, but, as the morning services had finished, it was as quiet now as a building can be in London.

The sun still beat down, as relentless as it had been all summer. Dazzling the pavements with light and melting the tarmac of the roads, so that the tarry smell hung in the air like a modern-day smog. But inside the church it was cool. As cool as a mountain stream and a menthol cigarette. As cool as a Martini served dirty in a New York cocktail bar. But still Delaney sweated, and it wasn't the fact that he was wearing his leather jacket that moistened his neck and sent small beads of perspiration running from his broad forehead to drip into his eyes and along his nose. It was the church itself. He tasted the sweet saltiness of his own sweat and dragged his coat sleeve across his brow. Ever since he was a child, churches had unsettled him. He had a rational mind, but he nonetheless felt a tangible presence whenever he was in a church. He didn't think it was God. In Delaney's opinion, God was just as likely to be in a hotel bedroom, or a supermarket, or a bowling alley as in a church. Given the amount of horror perpetrated on a daily basis in His name, it was perhaps more likely that He wouldn't be in a church, or a mosque, or a synagogue.

Delaney looked around the small, beautifully constructed church with its sweeping stone pillars and exquisite carvings, its Renaissance paintings and heart-breaking realistic statuary, and felt the weight not of the presence of God, but of his own ever-present guilt.

He closed his eyes in silent thought for a moment or two, lost in unbearable memories. So lost that he didn't notice the figure slide quickly into the pew next to him and press something into the side of his ribs.

Startled, he opened his eyes to see Sally sitting beside him. He looked down as she pulled back the mobile phone with which she had just prodded him.

'You trying to give me a heart attack?'

'I thought you were asleep.'

Delaney looked at her, and then laughed. His voice echoing around the small church like a rude intrusion. 'Christ, Sally. I think you just put ten years on my life.'

Sally looked around, shocked. 'Don't, sir.'

'Don't what?'

'Blaspheme.'

'Blasphemy is the least of my problems.'

'Still, sir. You know. In a church.'

'Don't tell me you're a Catholic too?'

'Church of Scotland, sir.'

Delaney looked at her, surprised. 'I didn't know you were Scottish.'

'On my dad's side. I grew up in north-west London. Went to church there. St John's. Run by an ex-padre, reminds me a lot of you.'

'How?'

'He could be an irreligious bastard at times too, sir. And he liked a drop of whisky.'

Delaney laughed again, gently this time. 'Well, I do thank God for you, Sally, that's all I say.'

Sally looked at him, suddenly serious. 'What are you going to do?'

'What I do best.'

'What's that?'

'Fuck things up regally.'

Sally took his hand. 'That's rubbish, sir. You're the best detective on the squad.'

'And who says that?'

'You do.'

Delaney smiled.

'And so do I.'

Delaney looked at her. 'How long have you been a detective constable?'

'Maybe it's just a week. But it's long enough to know the truth when I see it.'

Delaney patted her hand gratefully. 'So what have you got for me?'

'My dismissal, probably.' She reached into the inside pocket of her jacket and pulled out a sheet of paper.

'My best guess is that the woman who called you about the DVD was Karen Richardson. A prostitute who used to work with Jackie Malone. They were busted together in a massage parlour out in Cricklewood some years back.'

'You got an address?'

'I'm working on it.'

'I need to know where she is, Sally. It's really important.'

Sally sighed, frustrated. 'I'm doing the best I can, but it's very hard with everyone watching me. I'm just a constable. They catch me…'

'I know. You're putting your career on the line for me, and I'm grateful.'

Sally shook her head. 'I'm just doing what I signed up to do. You're not the bad guy, boss.'

'I'm glad someone believes me.'

'You've still got a lot of friends on the force.'

Delaney took the piece of paper. 'Nobody else knows about her?'

Sally shook her head. 'But Bonner-'

Delaney interrupted her sharply. 'You didn't tell him this?'

'No.'

Delaney nodded, relieved. 'Good.'

'But he wants to help.'

'What did he say to you?'

'Just that, that he wants to help.'

'You told him you were meeting me?'

'No, but I guess he worked out you might get in touch with one of us.'

Delaney took her shoulders, looking into her eyes so she could see how serious he was. 'This stays between you and me for now. Okay?'