Mark Pearson - Blood Work

He made himself a cup of coffee and went through the copies of the paperwork again. There were about twelve shoeboxes' worth of them, mostly receipts for items all paid for by cash, and letters from prospective or satisfied clients. There were no phone bills as there was no landline to the property, she obviously only took bookings on her mobile.

As he rubbed his tired eyes an hour later he realised one receipt didn't match all the others. A vet's bill. It was the one thing that didn't have a connection with anything in the flat. Suddenly energised he picked up the phone and got the directory service to connect him directly with the office named on the receipt.

A short while after that and Jimmy hung up the phone, picked up his coat and was hurrying out the door. The vet had confirmed the receipt was regarding surgical work done on a Siamese cat, but the name didn't match the one Jimmy had given him. The vet refused to give out the name and address unless he saw some identification. His premises were in Mornington Crescent off the Hampstead Road. Jimmy stood up and pulled his jacket off the back of the chair when Diane Campbell came in and leaned against the door frame.

'You got something?'

Skinner nodded. 'Got a lead on the second victim.'

'Good. Looks like we might have the name of the first, too.'

'How come?'

'Her mother's made contact. At least she thinks it's her daughter.'

'Thinks?'

'She hasn't seen her since she was fifteen years old.'

'Family row?'

'The father was abusing her.'

'What's her name?'

'When she left home she was called Maureen Carey. But no such name is flagging on our databases.'

'Working girl?' Jimmy shrugged. 'Likely not using her real name.'

Campbell nodded in agreement and stood aside for Skinner to leave. 'Keep me posted.'

'You got it.'

Sally pulled her car to a stop by the McDonald's on the corner of Shaftesbury Avenue and Dean Street, ignoring the angry honking from furious motorists behind her.

'Are you sure you don't want me to come with you, sir?'

'Quite sure, Sally, thanks.'

'You going to be back in time for a drink tonight?'

'I thought you had a hot date?

'Hardly that, sir. Just dinner with Michael Hill. But a few of us are going to the Pig first. You wouldn't be a gooseberry.'

'I'll think about it.'

Sally put her hand on his arm as he reached across for the door handle. 'I want to help, sir. Whatever it is you know I've got your back.'

Delaney nodded and quickly opened the door before she could press the matter. This was something he had to take care of himself and it was way past time.

It was a typically grey, wet and windy late-autumn day in Soho as Delaney walked up Dean Street, pulling his jacket as best he could around him. Since dislocating his shoulder and then being shot he was certainly feeling the cold a lot more. Christ, I'm getting old, he thought. Maybe he should do a Kate Walker, get out of the madness of it all while he still had a chance. The thought of Kate made him smile almost, took a little of the chill off his bones. To think he had almost let her get away again. And for what? For the fear he wouldn't be able to change? That he would carry the past around with him like a hunchback unable to straighten himself? Well, today was the day for all that to be put in the past once and for all. If Delaney was a sickness then Kate Walker was his cure. She would take the curve from his spine and make him walk tall again. But first he had business to attend to. The man who was responsible for his wife's death, who had put the weight on his back in the first place, the man who was responsible for Delaney being shot, for the murder of Derek Watters, for the attack on Kevin Norrell. The man responsible for all that was going to look in his eyes today. That man was going to look in his cold, brown eyes and regret he had ever heard the name Jack Delaney. Today was the day for drawing a line.

A crowd of loudly smug media types spilled out of the Groucho Club as he passed, knocking into him and making him wince as his shoulder jarred. Any other day he would have had words, but today he kept his head down. The pieces of the puzzle were finally coming together and Delaney had no time for petty distractions.

He looked at his watch. Two o'clock. He used his less damaged shoulder to push a door open and walked into one of the new breed of bars that had sprung up in the area. All polished wood and chrome and bright lights. Might as well be drinking in an IKEA store, he reckoned, but today he hardly registered it. He ordered a large whisky straight up and downed it one. He ordered another and held out his hand looking at the slight tremble in his fingers. He put it down to his injuries. His nervous system was shot to pieces, that's all it was.

He finished his second drink and left the pub, crossing over the street fifty yards further up the road and heading down a narrow cul-de-sac, at the end of which was a small club called Hot Totty. It didn't open until the late afternoon, but Delaney waited for a moment or two and then taking a deep breath he pulled a balaclava over his head, pushed the door open and went inside. A thin man in his mid-twenties was behind the counter of a small bar refilling the spirit optics. He called over his shoulder as he heard the door.

'We're not open.'

'I've not come for a lap dance.'

The man turned round and nearly dropped the bottle of whisky he was holding. Delaney was pointing a gun straight at him.

'Hey, I just work here.'

'Is he in the back?'

The barman nodded nervously.

'You got a good memory, son?'

The barman considered it for a bit not sure what he was supposed to say. 'No, sir.'

Delaney jerked his thumb at the door behind him. 'Get out then. You want to stay alive, keep it that way.'

The man held his hands up, nodding and scuttling out of the door like a scorpion on a hot skillet.

Delaney thought about Mickey Ryan as he watched the barman scurry away. There wasn't a detective in the Met who hadn't come up against him in one way or another. But he was the original Teflon man, nothing stuck to him. Witnesses were silenced, detectives were bought off, blackmailed or terrorised. He was a brutal, vicious, successful, self-made man. A shining example of everything Thatcher's Britain had created.

Delaney took off the balaclava. He didn't care if Mickey Ryan saw him. In fact he wanted him to know who was putting him in the ground.

He walked to the back of the small auditorium, past the stage and the pole, not even registering the slightly sour smell of body oil that tainted the air like a cheap perfume.

It wasn't hard to find Ryan's office. He pushed the door open holding the gun forward and walked in. It was a windowless room, but glowed with opulence. Rich carpeting, Tiffany-style lamps, artwork on the walls. His dead wife's brother-in-law would fit right in here, Delaney thought. Mickey Ryan was sitting behind a large desk typing on a laptop. He looked up, bored.

'What do you want, Delaney?'

Delaney gestured at the cubic man who stood not far from his boss.

'Put your hands up, Nigel.'

The man glared at him. 'My name's not fucking Nigel.'

'Just do what he says, Pete.'

The man raised his hands, glaring venomously at Delaney.

Delaney turned back to the man behind the desk. 'Tell him to stop staring at me, Mickey. I might just wet myself.'

'What the fuck do you want, Delaney?'

'You know what I want.'

'I'm the fucking oracle of Delphi, am I now?'

'No, you're a two-bit slag who has made good on other people's misery for far too long. And now it's time to pay the rent.'

Ryan laughed out loud. 'Do you hear this guy, Pete? He should be on the fucking telly.' His smile died. 'After what happened to Norrell and that prison guard, you should have taken the hint, Delaney. Nobody fucks with me and walks away.'