Blood Work Part 17

The woman shook her head. 'You just missed him.'

Delaney cursed himself. 'Army-type clothes and a woolly hat?'

'That's right. He's gone. But he's been with me all the other times.'

'Can we come in, Mrs Bradley?'

'The woman shook her head nervously. 'I'm having my Weetabix.'

Delaney would have responded but his phone rang, startling him out of his introspection, and he snapped it open. 'Delaney.'

'Jack, it's Diane.'

'I'm on it.'

'Never mind that. Where are you?'

'Chalk Farm, why?'

'Good. I need you to get to Camden Town.'

'What's going on?'

'We think there might be another one. And it's bad, Jack. Really bad.'

'Give me the address.' He listened as Diane gave him the details and closed the phone. 'Come on, Sally, we're out of here.' He turned back to the old lady. 'We'll be back.'

They hurried back down the stairs and Delaney pulled out his phone again, hitting the speed dial. It rang for a few times, again, and then cut into Kate's voice message again. He snapped the phone angrily shut. 'Where the b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l is she?'

'Sir?'

Delaney hadn't realised he had spoken aloud. 'Don't worry about it, Sally, just get us to Camden.'

Just as a human face is a map, in most cases, of the kind of life a person has had a sad, happy, hopeful, despairing a so a building has a personality every bit as decipherable. Grosvenor Court in Camden Town was built in an era that had more hope than it deserved. Hope that experience soon wiped off its facade, just as the bright green paint was now faded, scabby and sore.

The apartments were built on three sides of a square, with a car park in the middle. A single police car blocked the back entrance. Sally pulled Delaney's Saab to a groaning stop alongside the police car and they both got out.

It wasn't even lunchtime yet but Delaney was yawning expansively. He had hardly slept the night before. After Kate had left him in the Holly Bush and wouldn't answer her door to him he had gone home, where, for the first time in four years, he didn't even contemplate drinking himself into his usual oblivion. But the night had brought no relief in sleep, as he knew it wouldn't. It was part of the price he had to pay.

Danny Vine was waiting at the bottom of the stairs with Bob Wilkinson and the police photographer, Delaney couldn't remember his name, and a couple of SOCOs. They were waiting for Delaney to see the scene before recording every detail. Bob nodded at Sally and Delaney as they approached. 'I hope you haven't had breakfast.' He wasn't joking.

Delaney didn't reply. He hadn't eaten since the bacon sandwich he had had for lunch yesterday, but sensed this wasn't the time for small talk. He could see it in the pale faces of the three men watching him.

'Who called it in?'

'The cleaner. She walked in on it. Staggered back and fell down the stairs. Nearly broke her neck. She came round in the ambulance and the paramedics alerted us.'

Delaney walked up the stairs and two uniformed policemen at the top stood aside. Their faces were drained, one was shaking visibly. Delaney pushed open the door and stepped into the darkness of the room, Sally following closely behind.

Delaney's eyes didn't need time to adjust to see what lay on the floor. What had once been a human being was now rendered into a thing of slaughter and his world tilted on its axis once more. Delaney's heart felt like it had been gripped by a hand made of frozen steel and he gasped out loud. He fought to catch his breath. He wanted to tear his eyes away from what he was looking at but couldn't. Among all the blood and ripped flesh, among the blood sprayed on the walls and the tissue splayed over the floor and the guts strewn like the wet, grey tubing of a squid's tentacles, was what was left of a once beautiful woman; she had hair the colour of blue midnight, lips as sweet as an Elgar cello concerto and a scarf trailed around her naked body soaked in her blood. A long, thick and multicoloured scarf, just like Doctor Who used to wear.

'Kate . . .' Delaney's voice was a tortured whisper.

And the roaring in his ears was like an ocean now.

Delaney gagged, again, and turned and stumbled from the room. Outside he turned and half ran, half fell to the end of the walkway, where he bent over and retched, sank to his knees, coughed and retched again, gagged until there was nothing left in him to throw up.

Superintendent George Napier looked at his wrist.w.a.tch and took a sip of coffee. One of the first things he had done when taking over the office was to bring in his own espresso coffee maker. A hand-pumped La Pavoni machine, a design cla.s.sic in shiny chrome. He ground his own beans, a particular coffee he ordered over the Internet called Jumbo Maragogype a the elephant bean. He swallowed and sighed. One cup of real coffee and ten minutes to himself, if he could organise it, was a small luxury he could rarely afford.

The telephone on his desk rang and he deliberated for a moment or two before answering but finally s.n.a.t.c.hed it up.

'Napier.'

He listened for a moment, the frown on his forehead deepening. He nodded finally. 'I'll take care of it.' He replaced the phone in its cradle and sighed as he looked at his cup of coffee. The moment was ruined. 'b.l.o.o.d.y Irishman!' he said and slammed his hand on his desk, causing his phone to rattle and his precious coffee to spill out on the perfect order of his highly polished desk. But Napier didn't even register it. 'd.a.m.n them all,' he said and slammed his hand down again.

'It's not her, sir.'

Delaney could barely hear the words. He wiped the sleeve of his jacket across his mouth and looked up to see Sally standing above him. 'What?'

'It's not her, sir. It's not Dr Walker. It's her scarf, by the looks of it, but it's not her. That woman. She's wearing a wig.' She could barely get the words out. 'She was wearing a wig.' She corrected herself.

Sally took a step towards him and then had to put her hand on the wall. She looked down to the car park below. Taking a few deep breaths herself. Her face was the colour of a white lily pressed in an old hymnal.

Delaney took a long swig of water from the bottle that Sally had just given him and wiped his mouth as Diane Campbell came up the steps and walked over to join them.

'You got anything for me?'

Delaney shook his head. 'Just got here, Diane.'

'Is it the same guy?

Delaney shrugged. 'It's the same kind of butchery. Worse than the first.'

'Is he escalating?'

Delaney gestured helplessly. 'Seems to be, but honestly, I don't know, boss. We're pretty much in the dark here.'

'What about the suspect? The flasher?'

'We've tracked him down but he wasn't at home.'

'Why don't you get out of here and go and find him then?'

'Shouldn't I stay here, process the scene?'

'I've got it covered. The super is on his way over, cowboy. He wants your b.a.l.l.s in a chocolate fountain and served up at the amba.s.sador's party.'

Delaney grimaced. 'The guy from the hospital made a complaint?'

Campbell shook her head dismissively. 'You can tell me about it later.' She jerked her thumb back towards the murder scene. 'For now we have more important things to worry about than some paediatrician you've been having a p.i.s.sing compet.i.tion with. Now f.u.c.k off before he gets here.'

Delaney gestured to Sally Cartwright and led her back down the stairs. Campbell watched them leave for a moment and then put a cigarette in her mouth and then barked at the uniform standing by the open door. 'Get me a sodding light!'

Delaney held his warrant card up again for the old lady at the door to read, but she knew very well who he was. She backed away resignedly as Delaney and Sally walked in. Delaney told the two uniforms that were with them to wait outside and keep an eye out for Ashley Bradley, and if the little b.a.s.t.a.r.d ran they had better d.a.m.n well catch him.

Mrs Bradley led Delaney to the back of the flat to her grandson's bedroom. Delaney didn't consider him likely for the two killings. It was a very big step from flashing nurses on the common to murder and mutilation. It did happen of course. Serial killers were often profiled as having been cruel to animals in their youth, going on to s.e.x offences like peeping through windows and flashing before maturing into full-time psychopaths. It was pretty b.l.o.o.d.y rare for it to happen overnight, mind.

The door to Ashley Bradley's bedroom was locked and his grandmother didn't have a key. Delaney didn't even apologise as he used his shoulder to smash the door open. But what he saw inside made him rethink the matter entirely and curse himself for every kind of fool in G.o.d's cruel Christendom.

Superintendent George Napier stood at the top of the stairs at the flats in Camden Town, glaring at Diane Campbell as she took another satisfying drag on her cigarette.

'Is that absolutely necessary?'

Diane jerked her cigarette back at the crime scene where the suited-up SOCOs were now processing every square inch. 'Have you seen what he did to her in there?'

'You know d.a.m.n well I haven't.'

Diane took another drag on her cigarette and pointedly blew out a long stream of smoke. 'Talk to me about it when you have then.'

Napier looked far from happy but let it rest. 'Where's Delaney?'

'Following up a lead.'

'I've had a complaint that he a.s.saulted a paediatrician at South Hampstead Hospital yesterday morning and then physically threatened him again today.'

'I'm sure he had his reasons.'

'I don't give a d.a.m.n if he had his reasons or not. I will not have members of my police force roaming around a.s.saulting members of the public.'

'I'll have a word, sir.'

'You'll do more than that. I want him suspended pending a full inquiry.'

'Why don't we get his version of events before we do anything?'

'The man's a loose cannon, you know that, Diane. But he's gone too far this time. I want him closed down.'

'Can't do that, sir.'

'You'll do as you're d.a.m.n well told. This ain't Dodge City, Chief Inspector.'

'Why don't you tell that to the press?'

'What are you talking about?'

Diane pointed her cigarette behind the superintendent. 'Melanie Jones seems to think the killer has some kind of connection with Jack Delaney. She wants to liaise with him about it.'

George Napier swore under his breath as he turned round to see Melanie Jones and her cameraman coming up the stairs towards them.

'How the h.e.l.l did she know about this?' he hissed.

'Seems the killer has a thing about her too. Likes to call her up for cosy chit-chats.'

Napier turned his back on the approaching reporter. 'Jesus Christ, Diane. This kind of thing can ruin careers.'

'If Jack is suspended, sir, I guess she can deal with you.'

Napier glared at her. 'You've made your b.l.o.o.d.y point, Diane. Let's not push it, eh?'

Delaney stood in the centre of the small room. A bed in the corner, a wardrobe, a desk with a laptop computer on it and a digital camera beside it. A stack of p.o.r.nographic magazines at the base of the bed with a waste-paper basket beside it full of old tissues. He picked up a couple of the magazines and flicked through the t.i.tles, voyeuristic stuff mainly, peeping Tom-type shots. Posed for the camera as though the subject was unaware the camera was there. And every spare inch of every wall of the room covered with photographs. Photographs of women genuinely unaware they were being photographed. A lot of them from South Hampstead Heath. A lot of them in nurse's uniform.

Sally waved a hand under her nose. The odour in the room was overpowering and distinctly unpleasant. The smell of stale s.e.x. Solitary, self-administered s.e.x. She crossed to the curtains, opened them and after struggling with the catch managed to release the window, letting a little fresh air into the room. She glanced at the waste-paper basket and grimaced at Delaney. 'The greatest love of all.'

But Delaney wasn't listening, he was staring at the photos on the wall.

'Have a look here, Sally.' He was pointing at a photo on the wall near to the desk. It was of a dark-haired woman dressed goth-style and walking on the South Hampstead common.

Sally looked at the picture. 'It's hard to tell, sir. The make-up makes them all look alike. Goths, I mean.'

Delaney tapped at the picture. 'Blow this up and I'll bet you we'll see a belt buckle with two green men on it.'

'It does look like her.'

'Check all the others.'

Sally and Delaney methodically worked their way along the photos. After five minutes Sally stopped and looked at a picture.

'I think this is the second one, sir. She's got blonde hair, but I think it's her.'

Delaney walked across and looked. The hair colouring was different but the face was the same, she was dressed in a nurse's uniform from South Hampstead Hospital. It felt like someone had punched him in the stomach. He deserved it. 's.h.i.t!' he said.

'Sir?'

'We let the sick f.u.c.k get away.'

There is a connection between life and death. Delaney believed in that, if he didn't believe in much else. When he was four years old and living in Ballydehob, he had been bundled out of the house one day during the summer holidays. His two older, twin cousins, Mary and Clare, had taken him down to the old railway viaduct over the river. It was a scorching hot day and he had been given ice cream and lemonade in the village, then taken down to the river and up on the viaduct where they allowed him to pick up pebbles and throw them into the water cascading far below.

A crow had landed on the spur of green land under the entrance to the viaduct where they were standing, high overhead and just by the lamp post. The girls, older than him by some eight years, looked on Jack as their own little walking, talking doll. They told him that the crow was actually a raven. When Jack threw a pebble and it took off squawking in the air, the girls had said that it was a bad omen. The raven was an omen of death. And Jack, as susceptible to superst.i.tion as an Irishman from Cork is wont to be, believed them. But when they returned home late that afternoon, with the sound of laughter and bustle coming from the house like it was almost Christmas, Jack, swinging between them, dangling from their longer arms like a curly-haired monkey, picked up on the atmosphere and smiled even more broadly for no reason at all. But as soon as they entered the chaos of the house it became clear why Jack was being treated to a trip out with his beautiful cousins. His mother had given birth to a daughter. A young sister for Jack. And although he didn't really understand what was going on he knew it was a special day.

Before the day was spent, however, eleven o'clock at night with the moon hanging low and enormous in the summer sky like a swollen exotic fruit, his silver-haired grandfather, eighty-three years old, had died. And Delaney would never see a crow or a rook again without shivering slightly, although in his heart, deep down, he knew the raven had not been meant for his grandfather. But there was a cycle to life, and death was part of that. Jack grasped that from a very early age.

How that connection worked, though, in the case of the murdered and mutilated woman that had been obscenely decorated with a scarf just like Kate Walker's, Delaney wasn't quite so sure. But he knew evil wasn't an abstract concept.

He was far from hungry. After what he had witnessed a short while ago he felt as if he might never eat again. But his energy levels were low and his brain told him he needed nourishment, so he was standing outside the burger van chain-smoking and trying to wash the memory of what he had witnessed from his mind. He held his cigarette to his lips and realised his hands were still shaking. He couldn't keep the images away and he knew what would be written in the pathologist's clinical report.

Her left arm was placed across the left breast. The body was terribly mutilated . . . the throat was severed deeply, the incision through the skin jagged, and reaching right round the neck. The body had lost a great quant.i.ty of blood. There was no evidence of a struggle having taken place. The scarf was draped around her savaged neck. There were two distinct, clean cuts on the left side of the spine. They were parallel with each other and separated by about half an inch. The muscular structures appeared as though an attempt had made to separate the bones of the neck.

The abdomen had been entirely laid open: the intestines, severed from their attachments, had been lifted out of the body and placed on the shoulder of the corpse; while from the pelvis, the uterus and its appendages with the upper portion of the v.a.g.i.n.a and the posterior two-thirds of the bladder, had been entirely removed.