by Mark Pearson
Delaney nodded at the young woman ‘Bowlalong’ had just gestured at. She was Kate’s former assistant, when Kate still worked as a forensic pathologist, until she decided she preferred working with the living to the dead and quit. Lorraine was a shy woman, with an expressive face that blushed readily. She was blushing now as Delaney nodded to her and he found himself wondering, not for the first time, why she was in a job like this. Kate had explained to him that Lorraine couldn’t cope with people dying on her, but didn’t want her medical training to go to waste.
‘Here you go, sir.’
Delaney turned round as DC Sally Cartwright handed him a styrofoam cup of coffee. Another attractive young woman working amongst the dead. He would probably be called a sexist pig, but it seemed wrong to him somehow. He didn’t articulate the thought.
‘Cheers, Sally,’ he said instead.
‘Any further forward?’ she asked the pathologist.
‘Not till we get back to the lab.’
‘What about the skull injuries?’
‘The doctor thinks they’re post-mortem.’
Derek Bowman nodded. ‘Like as not the workman with his spade.’
‘Maybe,’ said Delaney. ‘Maybe not.’
Lorraine delicately lifted the rotting book from under the dead man’s arm. She placed it to one side on a plastic sheet. The book was leather-covered, black originally by the look of it, although slimed with mud and moisture from the years it had lain with the man in the ground. She brushed away some of the mud on the cover with a stiff brush, revealing the object mounted on the book’s cover.
A crucifix.
‘Indeed, detective,’ said Doctor Bowman as he looked back at the fractured skull of the dead man. ‘Maybe not the workman’s spade at all.’
30.
PATRICIA HUNT RUBBED some cream onto her hand.
‘You should see a doctor, darling,’ said her husband, watching her, concerned.
‘I’ll be fine, I ran it under cold water straight away; don’t fuss, Geoffrey.’
‘When I heard you scream, I didn’t know what had happened.’
‘I know, dear. It was nothing.’
‘But how did you spill it on your hand? That’s not like you at all. I’m supposed to be the clumsy one.’
‘I’m tired. And I’m not as strong as I used to be. My hand shook holding the kettle, that’s all.’
She looked away, unable to meet his eyes.
Geoffrey would have responded, but he suddenly went into a paroxysm of coughing, his whole body shaking as he held a handkerchief to his mouth.
His wife looked across at him, her hand forgotten. ‘I told you, you shouldn’t have gone out there this morning.’
He took a moment or two to catch his breath, his breathing ragged and wet. ‘There was work to be done.’
‘Standing here in the kitchen in the dead of night. With no slippers on, in the freezing cold. No wonder you’ve got a cough.’
‘Fresh air never killed anyone, Patricia.’
His wife looked at him for a moment. ‘You know that’s not true!’
Jack Delaney walked through A&E reception towards the intensive-care units, talking on his mobile telephone and ignoring the hostile glances that he was getting from the hospital staff as he passed.
‘I’ll give you a call when I’m heading in. Thanks, Tony, appreciate the heads-up.’
He closed the phone and put it in his pocket.
‘The ball rolling?’ asked DC Cartwright.
‘Yeah, a bloody big ball made of stone, and heading straight for me.’
‘Indiana Delaney.’
‘Yeah, only I might not make it out of the tunnel this time, Sally.’
‘Who was on the phone?’ she asked, trying to make the enquiry as casual as possible.
‘Detective Inspector Tony Hamilton, Constable,’ said Delaney, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. ‘Didn’t you and he …?’ Delaney wiggled his hand suggestively.
‘No, sir, we didn’t,’ said Sally Cartwright, feeling a blush rise to her cheeks despite herself.
‘Oh, I thought—’ continued Delaney, amused.
‘Well, we didn’t!’ Sally repeated, ending the discussion. ‘Seems he’s the go-to man for any investigations involving you, sir.’
‘Seems that way, but you’d be wrong.’
‘Oh?’
‘Diane arranged it. He’s part of the investigation team anyway. Much better him than that little prick Richard Stoker.’
‘True. I don’t like that man. And Tony Hamilton did save your life a few months back.’
Delaney smiled at her as he pushed the swing doors at the end of the corridor open. ‘Sure now, I had that covered.’
Sally gave him a little jab in the arm. ‘Of course you did, boss. And besides, it was your picture on the front of all those papers, not his.’
‘Jeez, don’t remind me.’
At the end of the summer Delaney had made headline news when he had rescued a young boy. The boy, Ashley Woods, had been kidnapped by a woman who had herself been kidnapped some fifteen years or so earlier. When she escaped she returned to Harrow to seek revenge. Whilst killing those she thought responsible, she also took the little boy, the grandson of one of the men in the group. As the killings mounted, Delaney had nearly been killed himself before rescuing the boy and making the front pages all over again.
‘Just saying, sir …’ said Sally Cartwright, amused at her boss’s discomfiture.
‘Well, don’t.’
‘Either way, it’s probably a good thing he is the one investigating you.’
‘It’s not an investigation – it is a preliminary inquiry to ascertain whether there is a case for formal investigation, at which time it will be turned over to the appropriate people.’
‘Which isn’t going to happen, is it?’
‘God knows, Sally. God only knows what that toerag Bonner did or didn’t do.’
‘Never trusted him myself. Too good-looking, with sleazy eyes.’
‘Right.’
They arrived at the intensive-care unit. A doctor, a very petite woman, and a nurse stood outside the first room. Delaney glanced inside. An elderly Chinese woman was lying on a bed, with drips and heart monitors attached.
‘I’m Detective Inspector Jack Delaney,’ he said. ‘And this is my assistant, Detective Constable Sally Cartwright.’
‘Lily Crabbe, the consultant registrar,’ said the doctor, a woman in her late twenties, but didn’t hold her hand out. The nurse, an older man, nodded but didn’t speak.
‘How is she?’
Dr Crabbe flicked a glance through the window. ‘She’s an elderly woman. We’re keeping a close eye on her.’
‘Was she attacked?’
‘That is more in your line of expertise, surely?’
‘The inspector means were there any signs of assault?’
‘There are bruises on her arms and legs, and her head has suffered some trauma.’
‘So she could have been attacked?’
‘She could have been, Detective Inspector. We ran an ECG scan and it looks like she has suffered from some form of stroke. That could of course have occurred if she was being assaulted. It could also have occurred and caused her to fall. Her injuries would be consistent with that.’
‘Even though there was snow on the ground?’
‘Hard snow, it was cold out there this morning.’
‘Yes. And the pavement would have been frozen. How do you rate her chances?’
‘I’m not a loss adjuster, Detective. She has a chance, but she is not in a good place right now.’
Delaney nodded, pointed to the next room along and walked towards it. ‘And the homeless man?’
‘Bible Steve.’
‘You know him?’
‘He’s been in before. The ambulance crew recognised him.’
‘How is he?’
‘To be honest, Detective Delaney, the fact that he is alive at all is what I would
class as a minor miracle.’
‘How so?’
‘He was attacked some time in the night, as far as I can tell. It was cold this morning, it was below freezing last night. He was knocked into a comatose state. God knows how long he spent out there. He’s been living rough on the streets for years. He had a blood alcohol level that was through the roof. He should be dead, in my opinion.’
‘Somebody else’s opinion too, it would look like,’ said Sally Cartwright as she looked through the window. Bible Steve had as many tubes and monitors attached to him as the Chinese woman next door. But his hair was matted with dried blood, where it was visible; the rest was hidden under a thick white bandage wrapped around the top of his head. ‘My diagnosis … that looks like a clear case of attempted murder.’
‘I would hold fire on the “attempted” if I were you, Detective Constable,’ said the young doctor.
Delaney turned back to look at her. ‘You don’t think he’s going to make it?’
‘It’s not looking good for him, given what I said earlier. He’s in a coma. I’m not sure he has the health to pull himself out of it.’
‘There’s nothing you can do to help?’
‘We’ll do everything we can, of course. But short of further divine intervention, I am afraid his chances aren’t good.’
‘Why would someone want to kill a harmless old street person?’ asked DC Cartwright.
‘He’s not harmless, Sally. Look at his knuckles. “Slimline” Matthews tells me Bible Steve is a bit of a fighter.’
‘Let’s hope he is,’ said Dr Crabbe.
‘I still don’t get it. Why would someone want to murder him?’
‘This is London, Constable,’ said Jack Delaney. ‘Who needs a reason!’
31.
DR LAURA CHILVERS came out of the police surgeon’s office, her face drawn, her eyes still haunted, her pupils dancing nervously.
‘I’ll make sure this is given top priority, Laura,’ said Kate Walker reassuringly as she followed close behind.
‘I don’t want anyone knowing, promise me,’ Laura whispered, leaning in and gripping Kate’s arm tightly.
‘I already have promised.’
‘I know you have, sorry. It’s my head. I can’t take it all in.’
‘I understand, Laura. It’s a perfectly natural state after what you have been through.’
‘It’s just the paperwork, I don’t want you getting into trouble.’
‘Let me worry about that. I have plenty of favours I can call in.’
‘Thanks, Kate. For everything.’
‘I haven’t done anything. But I will. Anything that’s needed.’
‘I appreciate it.’
‘Go home, take a shower, get some rest. I’ll call you as soon as I hear anything.’
Laura shook her head, trying to compose herself. ‘I don’t know if I want to go home. An empty house?’
‘Take a shower here, then. I know it sounds trite, but it will help.’
Laura knuckled her fist, furious with frustration, against her temple. ‘I just wish I could remember.’
‘I know you do.’
‘Christ, though, Kate! Maybe it’s best if I don’t.’
Kate stroked her arm.
‘Go and take that shower. You’ve got something to change into?’
‘I brought clothes. I know what the procedure entails, don’t I?’
Kate gave her arm a final rub. ‘You have my number. Just give me a call. Any time.’
Laura nodded and headed off. Kate watched her for a moment and then went back into her office.
Laura was pushing through the door into the corridor leading to the staff changing rooms when the sound of someone running made her spin round, terrified for a moment.
‘God, Dave!’ she said. ‘You nearly gave me a heart attack.’
‘Sorry, Dr Chilvers, but I need to speak to you.’
‘What about? This isn’t a good time right now.’
‘I tried phoning you at home, on your mobile.’
‘I’ve been busy.’
‘You’re not rostered in for today?’ said the sergeant, puzzled.
‘I had things to take care of.’
‘We’ve got things to take care of too.’
‘Spit it out, Sergeant. Like I said, this really isn’t a good time for me.’
‘It’s Bible Steve.’
‘What about him?’
‘He’s lying in an intensive-care bed, Laura.’
Her hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh, my God, what’s happened to him?’
‘We don’t know.’
‘I knew you should have kept him in last night.’
‘We have to be very clear on what happened last night.’
‘I am.’
‘You asked me to keep him in, but you also said he was fit to be released.’
‘He was. But it was freezing out there, and you said he doesn’t always stay in the shelter.’
‘I know. But we’re not a homeless refuge.’
‘I do know that.’
Dave Matthews looked at her. ‘Are you all right, Laura?’
‘Of course I’m all right, what do you mean?’
‘You seem very distraught.’
‘I’m a doctor, Sergeant! Forgive me for being concerned if someone who was under my care is now in an intensive-care bed.’
‘He was under both our care. We charged him and released him on your judgement—’
‘And?’ snapped Laura, interrupting.
‘And,’ he continued pointedly, ‘another woman was found unconscious beside him, and is also in that same unit fighting for her life.’
‘I don’t understand?’
‘We don’t know if he attacked her or not. So, like I say, we have to be very clear about what happened last night. His state of mind when we released him. His blood alcohol levels were sky-high this morning.’
Laura’s eyes danced nervously again as she ran a hand through her dishevelled hair. ‘He must have got hold of some more.’
‘Bible Steve may have killed that woman.’
Laura blinked, taking it in. She ran a hand through her bedraggled hair. ‘What happens next?’
‘Detective Inspector Delaney is at the hospital now. If Bible Steve recovers, he’ll take a statement and we’ll take it from there, I guess.’
‘And if he doesn’t?’
‘There’ll be an inquiry. But our hands are clean, aren’t they?’
Laura didn’t reply for a moment or two. ‘I may go to the hospital myself. See how he is.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe I feel responsible.’
‘But you’re not, are you?’
‘What if I missed something?’
‘Let’s find out why he collapsed, and what happened to the woman, before we decide who’s to blame.’
Laura nodded distractedly. ‘I’ve got to go,’ she said and hurried off towards the changing rooms.
Sergeant Dave Matthews watched her for a while, absent-mindedly scratching his chin and unaware that he was doing so.
32.
GEOFFREY HUNT STOOD up from adjusting the thermostat on his electric radiator mounted on the back wall, and stretched his aching back once more.
He was in the studio that he had built in the garden. It had been made from breezeblocks, with split-beamed pine logs clad on the front and stained wooden panels on the inside, so that it looked like a log cabin. His wife had called it his folly, and she didn’t just mean in the architectural sense. Inside it was very comfortable, with a dark-stained wooden floor that was covered with colourful rugs. A stable door looked out to the garden, the top half open when the weather allowed. A large desk stood in front of a broad panelled window beside the door. An antique captain’s chair rested in front of the desk. On the walls were a clutter of photographs and memorabilia. His wife, his family, old friends. Bookshelves lined one side-wall of the cabin; they were full of jumbled books. Geoffrey liked to r
ead, almost as much as he liked to write.
On his desk top stood a modern laptop that his wife had bought him for his birthday a couple of months ago. The truth was, though, that he never felt comfortable using it. A stack of notebooks stood beside it. One open. He was supposed to have started transcribing what he had written so far of his latest story from the notebooks into the computer. But he hadn’t. He hadn’t even turned the laptop on. He sat at his desk and slowly moved the pen, which lay on the open book, in a circle with the index finger of his right hand. The other truth was that he hadn’t picked up a book to read in two weeks and hadn’t written a single word, either.
But he liked coming out to his studio. It gave him space to think, even if he didn’t like the thoughts that came to him. He looked at the wall to his left. A large crucifix was centred above the desk, and below it another small bookshelf. These books were kept neatly. A collection of his diaries over the years and, at the end, a copy of the Bible. Given to him when he was seven years old by his favourite aunt.
He took it from the shelf and held it in his hands for a moment, his thin fingers trembling as he felt the weight of it. He placed it down on the desk and laid his right hand on it, tracing the outline of the crucifix stamped onto the cover. The fading gold leaf was as much testimony to that ritual as it was to the passing of the years.
The door opened and Patricia came in, bundled in an oversized duffel coat, her feet in blue wellingtons, a large university scarf wrapped around her neck. She held a plate in her hand with a sandwich resting on it.
‘You shouldn’t have come out in this weather, Patricia,’ her husband said.
‘And neither should you. Here, I’ve brought you a sandwich,’ she said, placing the plate on his desk. ‘And a thermos of tea. Got to feed the creative mind.’
‘Thanks, darling,’ he replied and then coughed into his hand.
Patricia looked at him fondly and shook her head. ‘Why you can’t work inside I’ll never know.’
‘It’s as warm here as it is there. The radiator works a treat. Probably warmer, if anything.’
