Mark Pearson - Blood Work

Before the day was spent, however, eleven o'clock at night with the moon hanging low and enormous in the summer sky like a swollen exotic fruit, his silver-haired grandfather, eighty-three years old, had died. And Delaney would never see a crow or a rook again without shivering slightly, although in his heart, deep down, he knew the raven had not been meant for his grandfather. But there was a cycle to life, and death was part of that. Jack grasped that from a very early age.

How that connection worked, though, in the case of the murdered and mutilated woman that had been obscenely decorated with a scarf just like Kate Walker's, Delaney wasn't quite so sure. But he knew evil wasn't an abstract concept.

He was far from hungry. After what he had witnessed a short while ago he felt as if he might never eat again. But his energy levels were low and his brain told him he needed nourishment, so he was standing outside the burger van chain-smoking and trying to wash the memory of what he had witnessed from his mind. He held his cigarette to his lips and realised his hands were still shaking. He couldn't keep the images away and he knew what would be written in the pathologist's clinical report.

Her left arm was placed across the left breast. The body was terribly mutilated… the throat was severed deeply, the incision through the skin jagged, and reaching right round the neck. The body had lost a great quantity of blood. There was no evidence of a struggle having taken place. The scarf was draped around her savaged neck. There were two distinct, clean cuts on the left side of the spine. They were parallel with each other and separated by about half an inch. The muscular structures appeared as though an attempt had made to separate the bones of the neck.

The abdomen had been entirely laid open: the intestines, severed from their attachments, had been lifted out of the body and placed on the shoulder of the corpse; while from the pelvis, the uterus and its appendages with the upper portion of the vagina and the posterior two-thirds of the bladder, had been entirely removed.

'Inspector?'

Delaney, startled out of his reverie, looked up at the florid face of the short-order chef.

'You want onions with this?'

Roy held up the burger and Delaney shook his head, not sure he had the stomach for it right then.

'You all right, sir?' Sally asked.

Delaney didn't reply, pulling out his mobile phone and tapping in some numbers. After a while the call was answered. The familiar voice purring with self-content.

'Melanie Jones.'

'Melanie. It's Jack Delaney.'

'I was just about to call you,'

'Why?'

'Because he just called me again.'

'And…'

'He said to give you another message.'

'What was it?'

'He said for you to start with the man in the mirror.'

'What's that mean?'

'I don't know, Jack. That's all he said. Then he hung up.'

Delaney clenched his fist. 'Do you have any idea what he did to that woman?'

'They haven't given me any details, no.'

'I find out you're jerking me around and I am going to visit vengeance on you like a biblical fucking angel.'

'Great line. Can I use that?'

Delaney spoke quietly but furiously. 'Do you believe me, when I say it?'

'All right, yes. I believe you. You're the arch-fucking-angel of death and justice. I'm telling you what he's told me. What more do you want me to do?'

'I'll let you know.' Delaney cut the call off. He quickly scrolled to Kate's number once more and snapped the phone angrily shut when it cut into her answerphone yet again. Where the bloody hell was she?

Sally walked over to him, holding out his burger. Delaney snatched it off her, took one look at it and threw it in the bin.

'Oi!' Roy shouted out.

Delaney glared up at him. 'Not now, all right?' He turned to Sally. 'Come on.'

'Where are we going?'

If Sally was hoping for further enlightenment, it wasn't forthcoming as Delaney was already striding quickly away.

Roy leaned over the counter and called after him. 'Jack Delaney. International man of misery!' He grinned, pleased with himself, then went back to reading his Peter F. Hamilton.

In Hampstead village itself, a light drizzle had started. And the wind made the air far colder than it should have been for the time of year. Kate locked her car door then pulled her coat tighter to herself, hugging her arms around her body as she walked, head down, across the road.

She walked up to the front door but hesitated before knocking on it. She had taken the morning off to meet with this woman, but now that it came to it, she wasn't sure she could go through with it.

After she had left Delaney the previous night, she had stood outside the Holly Bush for a moment or two, furious and hurt. Really hurt and hating herself for it. She couldn't face being alone that night so she had flagged down a passing cab and told the driver to take her out of Hampstead. When he had asked her where to go she honestly had no idea, but then told him to take her to Highgate. She needed a friend. But at her friend's front door she had hesitated, wanting to ring the bell but fearing conversation. Knowing that if she articulated her thoughts she would break down in tears. The rain had started falling in earnest when Kate finally pushed the doorbell. The chimes sounded as though from a different world. A world of comfort and security. A world that Kate felt as though she had been ripped away from and was not sure she would ever find her way back to.

The door had opened and it had been like standing in front of an open fire after a winter storm.

'For God's sake, Kate! How long have you been out there? You look like a drowned rat.'

Kate had stumbled in and Jane had put her strong arms around her, stroking her wet hair as the tears poured down Kate's cheeks and she sobbed like a hurt child.

The next morning, back in Hampstead village at another front door, Kate took a deep breath and willed her finger forward, knowing if she pushed the bell the world might change for ever.

The chimes played a tune Kate felt sure she should recognise but couldn't quite place. The door opened and Helen Archer looked out at her. She was a beautiful woman somewhere in her thirties, Kate guessed, with long blonde hair the colour of antique pine with threads of amber gold. Her eyes were startling, wide and doll-like. But Kate could see behind those painted eyes an innocence that had been betrayed long ago. A hurt that was beyond restoration. She had seen it before, in her own eyes.

'You must be Dr Walker.'

'It's Kate, please.'

The woman stepped back and gestured with her arm. 'Come in, Kate.'

Across the road Paul Archer rolled down his window and stared at the door as it closed behind the pair of them. He put a hand subconsciously to his nose.

There was nothing kind in his eyes.

Roger Yates was sitting behind his desk in a plush office. It was a partner's desk, green leather on the top with a rich patina on the wood which only comes after a few hundred years. There was nothing repro about the office. The paintings on the wall were originals and insured for many thousands of pounds. Roger believed that the outward expression of wealth was one of the main pleasures in life. What would be the point of being as rich as Croesus if poorer people weren't made aware of it? It would be like having a supermodel figure and wearing a burka, if you asked him. Sackcloth and ashes were all very well for the Jesuits and the Presbyterians but his shirts were made in Jermyn Street of silk, not hair, and he always turned left when boarding an aeroplane. Not that he wasn't a generous man. He gave more than most people's salaries to charity each year, and he always made a point of buying the Big Issue. And he was popular. For some reason his opulent lifestyle and big gestures didn't engender envy in people. He bought himself a new jag every year and had never had it keyed once. The Big Issue seller always smiled when he saw him, not at all resentful that his watch alone could have housed him in fine style for a year.