Mark Pearson - Blood Work

'What can you tell us about the man in custody, Detective Inspector?'

Delaney looked down at the piece of paper that his boss had given him. There was no more to the statement and he had been told not to answer any questions.

'There is nothing I can add to my statement about the man in custody. However, we do believe that the man responsible for these crimes has very low self-esteem. He also has an uncontrollable anger towards women and we think this is down to a very serious form of penis envy.'

Melanie Jones reacted, smiled a little as she recovered herself. 'I beg your pardon?'

Delaney looked at her, deadpan. 'We believe that he feels himself to be extremely inadequate in the eyes of women, and that this is down to some kind of genital deformity.'

Behind the camera Delaney could see that George Napier was absolutely fuming. He'd better watch his stress levels, he thought, he was a heart attack looking to happen. He could see Melanie Jones was about to ask another question but he held his hand up.

'I am sorry but that is all the information I am able to give at this juncture. Once again, I would urge anyone who has any information about these women to come forward.'

The images of the two women appeared on the television screen once more.

Delaney headed back to the building. Napier would have followed after him but Melanie Jones approached him and he stopped to try and fight some of the forest fire Delaney had started.

In the CID office Jimmy Skinner grinned at the television screen. 'Way to go, Jack.' He winked at Sally Cartwright. 'Looks like you might need a new partner.'

Kate looked across at him. 'I'm assuming he made all that up?'

'The bit about the deformed wing-wang? I doubt that was in the script.'

'Why did he say it then?'

'The killer is fucking around with Delaney. Sending him messages. I guess he thought he would send one back.'

'Is that wise?'

Skinner laughed out loud. 'Wise? This is Jack Delaney we're talking about. He's not famous for having the wisdom of Solomon.'

Delaney gave the custody sergeant a quick, grateful nod as he opened the door to the holding cell. He stepped inside and the sergeant closed it behind him. He looked down at Ashley Bradley who was sitting on the bed holding his head in his hands.

'You got anything to tell me, Ashley?'

'Who are you?

'I'm the sugarplum fucking fairy. Now answer my question.'

Ashley Bradley shook his head nervously. 'I have no idea what you're talking about.'

'You don't know who I am?'

Bradley shrugged.

'I'm Jack Delaney. Detective Inspector Delaney. That make matters clearer for you?'

'You've come to let me out?'

Delaney barked a short, humourless laugh. 'Now why in the name of all that's fucking holy would you think that?'

'Because I haven't done anything wrong.'

'We caught you filming up the skirt of some woman with no knickers on, you twink.'

Bradley sat up, more animated now. 'Are you saying she wasn't wearing anything?'

Delaney sighed. 'You want to stick with the programme here, son.'

'I want that tape back. That's my property. It's legal to film people in public places, I looked it up on the Internet.'

Delaney glared at him, his voice ratcheting up a few decibels. 'Up her fucking skirt isn't considered a public place, you sick dipstick.'

He crossed over to Ashley who flinched back against the wall. 'What the hell is the mirror and the buckle about?'

Bradley shook his head. 'I don't know what you're talking about.'

Delaney looked in his eyes. Could see the fear and the confusion, but couldn't see any guile. In truth, he hadn't expected to. He turned back to the door and rapped on it for the custody sergeant to let him out.

'Wait a minute.'

Delaney could hear the desperation in his voice and turned back half hopeful. 'Yes?'

'About that tape…'

'What about it?'

'If you could get it back for me, I'd make it worth your while.'

Delaney slammed the door on him.

The curly-haired man was sitting at his usual table in the White Horse again. Nursing a pint of Guinness. He took a sip and spilled some as he put the glass back down on the table, his hand was shaking so much with anger. The barman picked up the remote control and changed the channel from Sky News to Sky Sports.

He took another sip of his pint. The Irish beer was far too bitter for his taste but he drank it anyway. That clown Delaney had just made a big mistake. He was helping the guy after all. And, all right, he might have teased him a little with a practical joke. But he'd been helping him. Leaving him clues. Getting that retroussé-nosed reporter to put her candy-coloured lips to good use. Delaney should have been orgasming by now. He should have been coming in his fucking detective trousers for the help he was giving to him and his career. Instead he was dicking about on national television. Deformed genitalia! He'd give him deformed genitalia. He looked at the woman who was standing at the bar sipping on a bottle of Gold Label. Her thin shoulder showed bone, but her arms had muscle on them, like a female javelin thrower, with just as strong a grip. In her thirties with ancient eyes and buttocks that had been kissed by more bricks than a stonemason's trowel, he reckoned. He watched as she took another gulp of her Gold Label. Strong barley wine, proof against the elements. Probably proof against any leakage in her mouth from a poorly fitting condom too, he thought. Gold Label, it was like Domestos, killed ninety-nine point nine per cent of all germs dead.

He could relate to that.

Detective Inspector Jack Delaney was a germ.

Kate hesitated for a moment before opening the envelope containing the scene-of-crime photographs. Something Jack had said niggled at her. There was something she was sure they ought to be seeing, something right before their eyes. She opened the envelope and spilled the black-and-white photographs on to her desk. One slid to the back of the desk. She picked it up. It was a close-up of part of the woman's neck and it showed the same deep puncture wound as the first victim had.

She picked up the phone and dialled her own work number. When her assistant answered, she asked if the blood-work report was in. She listened, making some notes as she did so. There were high levels of tranquilliser in the first victim's blood, and she'd bet her mortgage that the second victim's blood work would show the same.

She thanked her assistant, told her not to make any appointments and hung up the phone. She sorted through the other photos and looked at them, shuddering to see her own scarf hung about the throat of the mutilated woman like some kind of macabre decoration. She looked at the next photo, a close-up of the victim's right hand which was holding a small, broken mirror.

She looked at the report again. It was the sort of compact mirror you might find in a handbag. And it was broken. Suddenly her synapses started firing like fireworks on Guy Fawkes Night and she put the pieces together. She remembered what Jack had said and she looked at the second photo once more, the woman laid out, posed for the camera, with her scarf as a final flourish. And she remembered.

'Sweet Jesus!'

Delaney was heading towards his office. The newscast had generated hundreds of calls, people phoning in claiming to know the identity of one of the dead women, and each one had to be checked out. It wasn't what Napier had in mind but maybe some good had come out of the news piece after all. He had his hand on the office door when his mobile phone rang. He looked at the caller ID but didn't recognise the number. 'Jack Delaney.'

'Jack, it's me.'

Delaney didn't need to ask. He could hear the lazy, hypnotic lilt to her accent. He remembered it as a voice filled with mischief, with amusement. But today, her voice was as serious as a heart attack.'