Mark Pearson - Blood Work

A hospital trolley laden with pills and syringes and God knows what else clattered past his bed and Delaney cursed silently. The thin tendrils of sleep that were clinging to him were severed by the sound. He was awake now, he was in pain, and he was going to have to deal with it.

He leaned his head further up the pillow and groaned, the last few images of his dreams lingering in his consciousness. Why had he been dreaming about his cousin Liam? Why had he been remembering those incidents? It wasn't just being in hospital. Delaney groaned again and raised himself to sit up in bed. He ran his good right hand over his bandaged shoulder and strapped-up left arm and grimaced. Who was he kidding? He knew exactly why he was thinking about Liam. He threw back the covers and slid his legs to the floor. Standing up and wincing at the pain in his shoulder, he looked at the clock. Way past time. The pain forgotten as he picked up his clothes from the chair beside his bed.

As an alarm bell sounded, Kate and Sally ran concerned down the corridor and into his room.

Kate couldn't believe her eyes. 'Bloody, stupid, bloody man!'

'Where's he gone?'

'I don't know, Sally. You're the detective. Where do men with no brain cells go?' Kate snapped.

Sally shrugged. 'Paddington Green?'

Kate glared at her. 'Yeah, not funny.'

They went back outside and Kate stopped one of two nurses who were hurrying down the corridor. 'What's going on?'

'A prisoner's escaped from the secure room.'

Kate sighed. 'Don't tell me – Kevin Norrell.'

The nurse nodded. 'The officer who was guarding them is seriously hurt.'

'And the other prisoner here? The one with the broken jaw?'

The nurse looked at Kate, shocked, as if she could hardly believe the words that were coming out of her mouth. 'He's dead.'

Sally took Kate's arm. 'You don't think Jack's busted Norrell loose?'

Kate shook her head, her voice trembling with anger and fear. 'I don't know, Sally. Let's find the stupid man.'

Melanie Jones sat at her desk writing on her computer. She read what she had just written and then highlighted and deleted it. It was all garbage. This was supposed to be her big break and what did she have to show for it? They had a guy in custody who they figured was good for the murders, but she had listened to his voice at the police's request and she couldn't be sure it was the man who had telephoned her. She had no idea what Delaney had been doing with his comments about deformed genitalia in his press statement either. She had dealt with the police enough times to know that they didn't release that kind of detail. If she didn't know better, she would have said he was deliberately trying to rile the murderer. But if he was already in custody, what was the point? She thought ironically about the title of the book she had in mind. Intimate Conversations With a Serial Killer. Some intimacy! She'd exchanged about ten words with the man. And the main part of the book, looking at the investigation through the eyes of the lead detective, had gone tits up as well. The suspect had been arrested by plain clothes and not only had Jack Delaney been taken off the case it looked like he had been taken out for good. Some nutter, probably an ex-girlfriend and good luck to her, had shot him and left him in intensive care in South Hampstead Hospital. Be just her luck if he died on her as well. So much for the New York office and the dream job. She had seen herself as a modern-day Truman Capote; as it was she was turning into more of a Lois Lane. Everything happened when she wasn't there, and her Superman turned out to be an Irish drunk whose IQ was no higher than her shoe size.

'Shit,' she said aloud, for the thirtieth time that day. And then the phone rang.

She picked it up, suppressing a yawn. 'Melanie Jones, Sky News.'

The lilting brogue on the other end of the line jolted the yawn into oblivion.

'Roses are crap, me darlin'. Violets are shit. Sit on me face, and wriggle a bit.'

'Delaney?'

'Ah no, sad to hear he's not well.'

'Who is this?'

There was laugher on the other end of the line and the accent changed to English. 'Well now, it's not Santa's little helper. But I could be your lucky charm.'

And Melanie recognised the voice, belatedly hitting the record button built into her digital phone system.

'I'm listening.'

'www.truecrimeways.com.'

'What's that?'

'The password is Whitechapel and your birthday.'

'But what is it?'

The line went dead and Melanie was left listening to a single persistent tone. She blinked for a moment as though mesmerised and then hung up the phone, her fingers flashing across her keyboard with more enthusiasm than she had had all morning.

Delaney winced, held his side and leaned against the wall of the visitors' centre. He put a cigarette in his mouth and searched through his pockets for a box of matches. He twisted his hand to the other pocket and picked out the box with his fingertips. He pulled the box open with his teeth and managed to get a match out. But how he was going to strike it he had absolutely no idea.

'Jack Delaney!'

He looked across and cursed as he saw Kate Walker and Sally Cartwright bearing down on him. Great, he thought, double tagged.

'What the hell do you think you're doing?'

'I'm trying to have a cigarette, Kate.'

Kate glared at him. 'I thought you'd given up?'

'I did. I'm very good at giving up. I do it all the time.'

'You should be in bed, boss,' Sally said, taking the box of matches off him and lighting his cigarette.

Kate shook her head, resigned. 'You realise Norrell has escaped.'

'Yeah, I know.'

'It's not safe for you, Jack.'

'He's not going to do anything to me.'

'How can you be so sure?'

'I just know.' Delaney drew deep on his cigarette. 'Sally, I need you to drive me.'

Kate sneered. 'Are you mad? You're not going anywhere.'

'I have to.'

'For God's sake, Sally, talk some sense into him.'

'Where do you want to go?' Sally asked.

'I'll tell you in the car.'

Kate stepped between them. 'No, if anybody is driving you it will be me.'

Delaney looked across at Sally, then shrugged with a little smile and kissed Kate full on the lips, who was too startled to back away. 'No, I've got another job for you to do.'

'What?'

'There's a man in intensive care. I saw him on my way out and recognised him. He was shot on Hampstead Heath last night. Near where we found the first victim.'

'I thought the latest theory was it was a Jack the Ripper copycat, killing prostitutes.'

'Maybe we were supposed to think that. He was shot in the same area with a tranquilliser rifle. I don't believe in coincidences, Kate. Check it out, find out if it's the same tranquillising drug.'

'What does it mean if it is?'

Delaney ground his cigarette under his heel. 'I have absolutely no idea.'

He turned to Sally. 'Come on, Constable, you can drive.'

Sally shrugged helplessly at Kate and followed him to the car.

George Napier hung up the telephone. He was far from pleased. Serious crimes had just released Ashley Bradley on police bail. On top of that Kevin Norrell had escaped from the police guard at the South Hampstead Hospital. And if that wasn't enough, Delaney had gone walkabout too. Napier opened the bottom drawer of his desk cabinet and pulled out a bottle of milk of magnesia. He had just taken a healthy swig, when Diane Campbell walked into the room. Why couldn't she keep a damn leash on her Irish bloody inspector? he'd like to know. Was it too much to ask?

Diane read his expression and nodded, at the bottle. 'Ulcer?

Napier grimaced. 'Indigestion.'

'It's going to get a lot worse.'

'What are you talking about?'