Mark Pearson - Blood Work

Diane picked up the TV remote control from Napier's desk, pointed it at the large television in the corner of the room and turned it on. Melanie Jones's picture-perfect face filled the screen.

'Sky News is now exclusively able to reveal a gruesome new development in the murders of two sex workers. One was found on Hampstead Heath three days ago and the second found murdered in a flat in Camden Town. Sky News understands that horrific details concerning the murders lead police to believe they are dealing with a Jack the Ripper copycat killer. Sky News has been given exclusive access to scene-of-the-crime photographs and forensic details that show that there is no coincidence. In a further development, the suspect the police were holding in connection with these killings has now been released.'

Diane Campbell pushed the mute button cutting off the sound as the television now flashed up pictures of the two dead women.

'How the hell did they get hold of this, Diane?'

'The killer told them, sir.'

'Why?'

'Clearly he didn't think he was getting the recognition he deserved.'

'Get that reporter in here. And where the fuck is Delaney?'

It wasn't the first time Chief Inspector Diane Campbell had heard that question, but it was the first time she had ever heard George Napier swear.

Sally pulled the car to a stop outside a betting shop on the Kilburn High Road. It was called Right Bet and was either in danger of going bust or the owners felt it didn't do to advertise wealth.

Delaney struggled to get the seat belt out of its socket and Sally leaned across. 'Let me.'

She pushed the button and his seat belt snapped back. Delaney rubbed his sore shoulder. 'It would be a lot easier if I didn't wear the fricking thing in the first place. I'm in enough pain as it is, you know.'

Sally smiled at him. 'Clunk click, every trip.'

'Just wait here.' Delaney opened the car door.

'You sure you don't want me with you?'

'Quite sure.'

Delaney got out of the car and walked to the shop, kicking aside an empty tin of Special Brew as he entered. It was a small shop. No customers. Sheets of paper posted around the room with the various horse and dog race meets covered on them. In the corner was a small television showing dogs running at Brough Park in Newcastle. Behind the counter was a large, bored-looking, bald man in his forties with a barrel of a beer belly and, in defiance of the regulations, a lit fag dangling from his lips. He looked up from his copy of Sunday Sport.

'Help you?'

'Is Liam in?'

'And who wants him?'

Delaney looked over his shoulder at the empty shop behind him then back at the man again. 'That would be me.' The large man opened his mouth to say something but Delaney didn't have the energy for it. 'Just tell him it's Jack Delaney.'

The man grunted and disappeared through the door to his left.

Delaney looked up at the television screen. A brindled greyhound carrying the number seven won the race. Delaney's lucky number.

'Jack Delaney, you Irish motherfucker!'

Delaney turned round to see his cousin grinning at him. He may have been smaller than Delaney at age seven, now he was four inches taller and good few stones heavier. And all of it muscle. He threw open the hatch and grappled Delaney in a bear hug.

'Oi. Watch my fecking shoulders.'

'Sorry, big man.' Liam released him and gestured. 'Come on back. I'll pull the ring on a cup of tea.'

Delaney followed him through the counter and back into a medium-sized office. A desk, an armchair, a fridge, some filing cabinets. The dusty window at the back showed a yard with a skip, a shopping trolley and a couple of cars. One of them a brand new jag. Liam was doing okay for himself, Delaney reckoned, but then he already knew that.

Liam opened the fridge and pulled out a couple of tins of lager. Foster's, thankfully, not Special Brew, and handed one to his cousin.

Delaney awkwardly pulled the tab and took a couple of grateful swallows. He hadn't realised how thirsty he was.

'So, what can I do for you, big man?'

'I need a piece, Liam.'

'I see.' His cousin nodded seriously and gestured at his bandaged shoulder. 'This got anything to do with the fancy dress outfit?'

'Yup. I want to repay the compliment.'

'I'd advise you make a better job of it if you do.'

'Count on that.'

Liam smiled, not doubting it. 'And what makes you think your law-abiding cousin would have access to unlicensed and unauthorised firearms?'

'Just get me a piece, Liam.'

Liam considered for a moment and then stood up. 'Anything for you, Jack. You know that.'

He stood up and moved the fridge to one side, pulled up a loose floorboard, rummaged beneath and pulled out a cloth-wrapped package, which he handed to Delaney.

'Ammunition in there. You want to tell me what you need it for?'

'Nope.'

'You want any help with it?'

Delaney held up the bundle. 'Just this.'

Liam laughed. 'What are you going to do, stick it down your trousers? Jesus, man, you'll be back in casualty with your cock shot off, and what'll I tell your daughter then? Hang on. I'll get you a holster.'

Delaney nodded gratefully. His cousin had a point.

Kate Walker tapped on Diane Campbell's office, walked in and shut the door behind her. She wasn't surprised to see the superintendent standing by the open window smoking a cigarette. Jack Delaney and Diane Campbell could support a tobacco plantation between them.

'Hi, Kate.'

'Diane.'

'Want to tell me where Jack Delaney is?'

'Believe me, if I knew I'd be more than happy to tell you.'

'Why do we put up with him?'

'God's punishment for a previous life.'

'Now I do believe you have spent too much time with him.' She tossed her cigarette out of the window and walked across the room as Kate opened her shoulder bag. 'What have you got for me?'

Kate pulled out two photos and a sheet of paper which she handed to the superintendent.

'Both female victims had the same puncture wound to the neck. A very forceful puncture wound made, I believe, by a tranquilliser gun or rifle.'

Diane had picked up on what Kate had said. 'What do you mean by "the female victims"?'

Kate pointed at the paper she had given Diane. 'Last night a man was shot on Hampstead Heath. Again it looks like with a tranquilliser dart. He had a near fatal dose of the stuff in him. He was lucky to survive the night.'

'Does he have any idea who did it?'

'He's not speaking yet.'

'But he's going to make it?'

'Yeah, he's going to make it.'

Diane's forehead creased as she looked back at the photos. 'So, you're saying this is the same killer. What's the connection? Mr James Collins the surgical registrar is not exactly a female prostitute, is he?'

'Not unless my seven years of medical training missed something very important.'

'So what the hell is going on?'

But if Dr Walker had any answers to that they certainly weren't showing on her face.

Jimmy Skinner rubbed his eyes. He was used to staring at a computer monitor for hours, but that was playing poker. Wading through reports was a different matter. Plus, he reckoned he was wasting his time. Paddington Green were in charge of the case now. But the killer was still at large, the public were at risk, and at times like this all hands were called to the deck. It just wasn't the deck he would have preferred.

He flicked on and read the inventory of what had been found in the second victim's apartment. All the videos and DVDs were sex videos. As were the magazines. No Home & Country, no Good Housekeeping, not even a Delia Smith cookery book. He lived on his own and never ever cooked and even he had a copy of her summer cookery book. For this working girl the property was clearly just that: a workplace. She lived elsewhere, he'd bet on it like he was holding a royal flush.