Mark Pearson - Hard Evidence

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 against 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.'

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.