Mark Pearson - Blood Work

'Yeah, funny, Danny.' Sally flashed a none too amused smile at her colleague at the other end of the table. There were a few of them there, having a drink or two and, as yet, Michael Hill hadn't shown up. Danny, jealous that she was going out for a curry with him, had been making snide little remarks, doing himself no favours in her book at all. But she wasn't worried about Michael, she'd seen the eagerness in his puppy-dog eyes. He was probably nervous. No, it wasn't Michael Hill who had her looking at her watch, it was Jack Delaney she was concerned about. There was a darkness is his eyes when he had left her on Shaftesbury Avenue. Something darker than she had ever seen before.

A cheer went up from Danny and a couple of his mates as Michael Hill eventually came in and walked over to join them. Sally thought he looked nice. Black jeans, a nicely ironed white shirt and a black jacket.

'It's Rhydian!' Danny called out. 'Go on, sing us a song.'

'Ignore him,' Sally said. 'He's an idiot.'

'I will.'

He sat down beside her.

'Actually, I'm glad you're here,' said Sally.

'Of course. We're going for a curry, aren't we?'

'Yes. Later. But I meant I'm glad you're here because I want to talk to you. About work. About the crime-scene photos of the second victim that were posted on the Net. There's something a little wrong with them.'

Michael Hill stood up. 'Well, if we're going to talk shop, there's a little bar I found. I thought we could go there for a drink first, before the ruby? Bit quieter than here.'

Sally looked down at his feet as she stood up. 'New boots?'

Michael Hill looked down at his snakeskin cowboy boots, polished to a gleam, and smiled as he admired them, stroking his black shoestring tie as he did so. 'Fairly new, yes.'

Sally looked at her watch again and then shrugged; if anybody could take care of himself, Jack Delaney certainly could. Besides, she had earned herself a bit of fun.

She stood up and gave Michael a quick kiss on the cheek. 'Come on then. Let's leave the peanut gallery to it.'

Sally headed for the door, Michael Hill put his hand to his cheek where Sally had brushed her lips, and then followed her, desire dancing in his eyes and the faintest of smiles quirking the corners of his mouth.

Diane Campbell was leaning against Jack Delaney's desk. Looking through the Filofax that Jimmy Skinner had just brought back from the flat in Mornington Crescent. Kate Walker, meanwhile, was working at Sally's computer going over the forensics reports on both the dead women. 'So Jennifer Cole's real name is Katherine Wingrove.'

Jimmy Skinner nodded, a gesture on his tall thin body somewhat akin to an albatross dipping for food. 'She was a midwife at the South Hampstead Hospital, and did escorting work on the side. The first victim, Maureen Casey but calling herself Janet Barnes, was a student nurse, also at the South Hampstead, about eighteen months ago. According to Katherine Wingrove's diary, she had been working in prostitution since she was fifteen years old and had come to London as a runaway from domestic abuse. She wanted to qualify as a nurse, put that life behind her, but found she couldn't. Student bills to pay, debt mounting up. Katherine Wingrove helped her out, showed her the classier end of the trade. She gave up the nursing and took up escorting full-time.'

'Why did nobody recognise them at the hospital?'

'They look completely different, with the make-up and clothes on. Katherine Wingrove was on scheduled holiday this week so no one was expecting to see her anyway. And Maureen's own mother took some time to come forward she looked so different.'

'Either way it's not about prostitution, it's about the hospital. All three of his victims have worked there at some time.'

Kate typed in the address that Melanie Jones had given the police, truecrimeways.com. It opened on to a general site detailing true crimes, murders of a particularly brutal and violent nature. On the sixth page was a picture of a gravestone, at the bottom of a long article about Fred West. Following the instructions they had been given, Kate clicked on the cross at the top of the gravestone. A box appeared requesting a password.

Skinner watched what she was doing. 'It's just a like the paedophiles, hiding hyperlinks within a seemingly legal site. You need to know where it is and a password to get into the specialised area.' He said the word 'specialised' with a definite curl to his lip.

'And people actually pay money to look at these pictures?' Kate asked the room in general as crime-scene photos of the mutilated women appeared on the computer screen.

Diane shrugged. 'Kate, people pay a licence fee to watch Holby City at dinner time.'

Kate nodded, she had a good point. How close-ups of heart surgery, ribcages being cracked open and worse, had become evening family viewing on the BBC she had absolutely no idea.

'Can they be traced, whoever's putting up these pictures?'

Diane shrugged again. 'Paddington Green has their best technical people on it but they don't hold out much hope. Not of finding the guy who posted these pictures. Anyone can set up a bogus account, from an Internet cafe or a library. Hack into our systems, download the photos and put them up where they like. It can be impossible to trace.'

'Why lead us to it then?'

Diane rummaged in her handbag. 'Because we hadn't mentioned it to the press. These sad fucks need an audience, Kate. Pardon my fucking French.'

Kate sensed that Diane Campbell was hanging out for a cigarette. She was proved right as Diane found what she was looking for in her handbag, opened the window in front of Delaney's desk and lit one up.

Kate looked at the photos on the screen, pausing at one and then flicking through her files to look at the same photo in hard copy. She leaned in and peered at the computer screen when a voice behind her made her heart leap into her throat.

'You better have one of those for me, Diane.'

Kate spun round and jumped out of her chair. She didn't know whether to kiss him or slap him.

'Where have you been, Jack?'

'Christ, Delaney. You look like you've been run over by a combine harvester,' Diane Campbell added.

Delaney ran a hand over the rough stubble of his chin and nodded. 'I've had better days.'

Diane Campbell threw him a cigarette which he just about managed to catch with one hand. He leaned in for her to light it for him. 'Jimmy has identified the first two victims,' she told him. 'They both worked at the South Hampstead as did the third. The escorting isn't the link, it's the hospital itself.'

Kate pointed at the computer monitor. 'And there's something else. Look at this picture that was posted on the web. Sally Cartwright left me a note, something she'd picked up on. Asking me to check our forensic records.'

Diane walked round. 'What is it?'

'Look closely at this picture of the second victim. You can just about see the foot of the photographer reflected in the bit of mirror that the killer left.'

'And?'

Kate held up the photo from her file. 'And in this one you can't see anything. The mirror is clear, no reflection. No foot.'

Delaney shrugged. 'So? What does that mean?'

'The second is from our files and the first isn't. We don't have it. It means that whoever it was who put these pictures up on the Internet in the first place hasn't hacked into our files. Because that photo wasn't in our files in the first place.'

Diane nodded, taking it in. 'So that means-'

'Christ!' Delaney interrupted her as the implications hit him. 'Where's Sally Cartwright?'

Skinner ran a hand over his head. 'She said she had a hot date tonight.'

'Michael Hill.'

'That's right,' Skinner answered him. 'Danny Vine wasn't too happy about it, been moaning all afternoon.'