"Blood Work" - читать интересную книгу автора (Pearson Mark)

DAY THREE

The rain had stopped sometime in the middle of the night. But the ground wasn't cold enough yet to freeze, and so the paths that ran through Hampstead Heath like veins through a body were slick with wet mud and leaves. Gillian Carter, a twenty-seven-year-old bookshop assistant, picked her way carefully down one of the paths. Not an easy task as the dog she had on the other end of the lead, a Briard, weighed nearly as much as she did and had the energy of a roomful of pre-school children on a diet of Red Bull. A bird clattered out of the trees ahead and the dog leapt after it. Gillian Carter, faced with the choice of losing control of the dog or herself on the slippery downward slope, chose the former and let the lead fly from her hand.

'Jake!' she called after the dog, but he was focused on the bird swirling upwards through the air and soon disappeared deep into the bracken. Gillian stopped to catch her breath and sighed. It wasn't even her dog. She was looking after him for some neighbours whilst they went for a holiday to Tenerife. Lucky buggers, she thought, as she skirted around a particularly large puddle on the path. She didn't envy them Tenerife, just the sun. Gillian would kill for a week of sunshine. She absolutely detested England in the winter, and even though every year she promised herself a trip to sunnier climes, she had yet to deliver on that promise.

'Jake!' she called again as she followed his trail through the bracken, more in hope than expectation, but was pleasantly surprised to see the frisky dog bounding up to her. There was some cloth in his mouth.

She bent down to take it from him and realised that it was a Burberry scarf. Some chav and his girlfriend getting jiggy with it on the heath, she speculated with a disapproving quirk of an eyebrow. Although, to be fair, in this weather she admired their resilience, if not their respect of urban social niceties.

She would have turned back to the path but the dog trotted into a small clearing ahead and barked at the prostrate and motionless figure of a small, bald man.

'My God!' Gillian gasped and ran over. She knelt and tried to find a pulse in his neck. She couldn't be sure but she thought she could feel the faintest of murmurs. She pulled out her phone and dialled emergency services. Slipping out of her Barbour jacket, she laid it under the man's head. Thank goodness that he was wearing such a thick coat, she thought, because even though it made him look like an ancient, hairless Paddington Bear, it had probably saved his life.

Kate Walker knew she shouldn't do it, but, as she sat at her friend's computer terminal, she couldn't help herself. She typed in the access code Jane Harrington had, under duress, given her, and typed in DELANEY to pull up his hospital records. She knew enough not to trust anything the staff at the hospital had told her. She wasn't a relative; she didn't know exactly what she was. Girlfriend didn't sound right. Partner was a bit formal for what they had had. Mother of his child, she decided, that was what she was, and that gave her rights.

The first hit came up with Siobhan Delaney.

Not the rights to look at confidential medical records, maybe, but the man she loved was recovering from an operation and she wanted to know how bad the damage was, she justified to herself.

But not the right to read his ex-wife's records. Kate found herself unable to click the screen away and carried on reading it instead. That night had defined Delaney, after all, for the last four years. It had certainly defined their relationship, if such it was. And so, moral qualms pushed aside, Kate read the report.

Everything was much as she knew it to be. His pregnant wife, suffering heavy blood loss, was rushed into theatre. They had performed an emergency C section. The baby, and subsequently the mother, had died. The procedures seemed in order, everything but the outcome was in order.

Apart from one thing.

She read the document again and wished she never had.

Kate closed down the computer screen. She'd read the reports on Jack's injury. He had been incredibly lucky. The bullet had passed through the lower part of his left shoulder, it had broken no bones and was well clear of any organs. Had the police not arrived when they did, she reflected, it was quite likely that whoever had shot him would have crossed the road and finished the job. And her with him, likely as not. She shivered at the thought.

The door creaked open and Jane Harrington came back into her office, carrying a couple of mugs of coffee.

'Keep meaning to get some WD40 on that,' she said.

'I'm sorry?' Kate looked back at her, not at all sure what she had said.

'The door. Needs some oil.'

Kate took the coffee and took a sip. It was welcome. She had been up all night. Waiting for Delaney to go into surgery. Waiting by his bedside after the operation. At seven o'clock she had called her friend. She needed to do something, even it was just to see his records for herself. Things were spiralling out of control, that much was clear. And Kate needed to do something. She needed to try and take control. And the one thing she did know about was medicine.

Her friend observed the way she held both hands round the coffee mug, as if to warm more than her fingers. 'How is he, Kate?'

'He's going to be okay. For now. The bullet did as little damage as possible under the circumstances. He must have an guardian angel looking over him.'

'Or the other kind.'

'What do you mean?'

'He's not had a lot of luck just lately, has he?'

Without being aware she was doing it, Kate ran a hand protectively over her stomach. 'Maybe that's all about to change.'

'What about you?'

'What about me?'

'With everything that's going on, Kate. Have you made any decisions?'

Kate took another sip of her coffee. 'Yeah, I've decided I'm not going to take any more crap in my life.'

He was at the bottom of a deep pool, but the light streaking down from the green disc ahead was bright and strong, the gravel and pebbles beneath his questing fingers were dappled with it. They shone like precious stones. Jack held his breath as he searched. He had to find it, that one special pebble. He had to find it and put it back in its rightful place and then everything would be all right. The world would be right again.

He didn't know how long he had been under but he felt the stale oxygen in his lungs swelling his chest painfully. He let a slow trickle of air bubble from his lips as he raked his fingers through the stones. He tried to fight back the rising panic as the carbon dioxide in his lungs now put a dull throbbing in his head. He let out another trickle of air and with one last scan of his straining eyes he realised he had failed in his mission, for now at least. He kicked his legs and swam up to the ovoid shape, the underside of his rowing boat. But as he neared it and tried to put his hand up to pull himself out, a thick arm descended, wrapping around his neck and keeping him beneath the water. His legs thrashed wildly as stars started exploding before his eyes, he knew he had to break free, he couldn't hold his breath any longer. He had to break free or drown. But he couldn't. He couldn't loosen the grip.

Delaney eyes flew open in panic, he tried to breathe but couldn't. Then the man standing over him, dressed in a white doctor's coat, released the grip on his throat slightly and Delaney gulped in hungry swallows of air.

The man grunted, letting Delaney breathe but keeping an iron grip on his throat, keeping him pinned to the hospital bed. 'You got a good reason why I shouldn't kill you here and now?'

'No. But you have.'

'That a fact?'

Delaney shrugged as calmly as he could under the circumstances. 'Seems to be, Norrell.'

Norrell glared at him and finally grunted again. 'I'll make a deal with you.'

'Go on.'

'I'll let you live and I'll even tell you who was behind the petrol station job. Who it was that got your wife killed.'

'The shooter.'

Norrell shook his head. 'The shooter was just a tool. You want the man who set the whole thing in motion.'

'And in return?'

Norrell shook his head. 'Nothing.'

'Nothing?'

'You're a loaded gun, Delaney, I'm just pulling the trigger.' Norrell took his hand off Delaney's throat. 'It was Mickey Ryan.'

Delaney rubbed his sore throat. The man really did have hands like hams. 'How do you know?'

'He came to me first. I turned him down.'

Delaney was impressed. People didn't turn Mickey Ryan down. He was as close to an organised crime godfather as west London had. From a small-time drug dealer, he had built his empire up over the years like a Richard Branson of sleaze. Serious crime had been after him for years, but he was clever, his money was invested offshore. Put into holding companies. Shells. It made sense he was behind the property deal in Pinner Green. Never mind the downturn, as far as Delaney was concerned property prices were still the crime of the century. No wonder scum like Mickey Ryan was involved.

'Why'd did you say no?'

Norrell shrugged. 'My dad used to work for him when I was a kid. He treated my mother like a piece of shit.'

'Right.'

'I mean she was a piece of shit. But…' He shrugged again.

'So what do you expect me to do?' Delaney asked.

'Do what you do best.'

'Which is?'

'Fuck people's lives up.'

Norrell looked at his watch and winked at Delaney. 'This place isn't good for my health. I'll see you around.' He strode out of Delaney's private room.

Delaney thought about pushing the alarm button by the side of his bed, then discarded the notion. He knew why Norrell had just volunteered the information. He might just as well have put a gun to Mickey Ryan's head himself. There was a contract out on Norrell and if Delaney removed Ryan he also removed the contract. Delaney didn't like the idea of being used by Norrell, but in the end, in the grand scheme of things, he didn't much give a shite either. Mickey Ryan was a dead man walking. That was all that mattered. It was time to cut off his feet. Delaney lay his head back on the pillow and closed his eyes, strangely peaceful. The waiting was over.

He had taken the day off and so had plenty of time to prepare. His lizard-skin cowboy boots had been polished to a high shine. His black jeans had been neatly ironed, as had his white shirt. He held the shoestring tie in his hand and snapped it a couple of times. Form and functionality.

He had just had a long bath and was planning to have a nice relaxing morning. He was going to need plenty of energy tonight. He lay back naked on his bed and flicked the leather tie at his penis. He immediately started to stiffen and he flicked it again, harder this time. His hand moved down and he held himself for a moment, and then took his hand away. It was all about release. It was all about control.

Delaney groaned, his eyelids twitched and then fell still once more. He was in that halfway stage, not quite awake, not quite asleep, when you know your dreams have hold over you, but you are powerless to let them go.

The smell was universal. The noises in the dark. Hospital. Other hospitals.

Jack Delaney was nine years old. He was walking back from school alone. His best friend Rory had been off sick with measles and he was forbidden to visit him. Jack was okay with that. He had seen kids with the measles right enough and he could do without them. He'd catch up with Rory when he was well.

Like Jack, Rory was big for his age, bigger even than Jack. Everyone said when he grew up he'd either be a policeman or professional wrestler. It was their joke. What Rory wanted to do when he grew up was be a carpenter like his da. Heck, his ma always joked, sure enough he could just pick the trees out of the ground, he'd have no need for lumberjacks for his raw materials. Rory took it in good humour, you had to keep the women on your side.

Jack agreed with him on that one. He didn't know what he wanted to do when he grew up, though. They talked about it often enough but he couldn't fix himself on anything. Fireman one week. A soldier a few years back before the Troubles had flared up in earnest. Sometimes he secretly dreamed of being a priest. Jack could see himself standing up there in the pulpit, holding everybody in awe as he railed and castigated. He was not so hot at the academics, however, and he saw how the black crows knew everything about everything, and that must take an awful lot of book studying and the like.

He bent down to pick up a pebble form the path. He threw the stone high in the air to clatter down on the salt-crusted stones on the beach below, when he heard the cry. And he recognised the voice.

He rushed down the path and around the corner. And there, sure enough, was Liam Corrigan, his cousin. Liam was a couple of years younger than Jack, a few inches shorter, and was surrounded by four older boys with mischief on their faces and sticks in their hands. Jack could see that Liam had tears in his eyes and a small trickle of blood running down his nose.

Jack knew the other boys. All MacWhites. All trouble. Like the family had always been. Jack turned to the eldest. 'Brave of you to be taking on the one boy.'

Barry MacWhite looked at Jack and grinned, strolling over to him. 'You want to join in, do you? Do you want some of-'

But he never finished the sentence as Jack had smashed his fist furiously and suddenly into the older boy's nose. The boy dropped squealing to his knees, Jack snatched the stick from his hand and turned to the three remaining MacWhites.

'Come on then, ya gobshites.'

He waved the stick in front of him and pushed Liam towards the road. 'Get out of here, Liam.'

And as his young cousin ran off the road for help, Delaney turned and faced the others, an anger beyond his years burning in his eyes and the other youths circled him as warily as a pack of dogs would approach a wounded wolf.

Had help not arrived when it did, things might have gone a lot worse for Jack than it did. But that was just the first time he ended up in hospital because of his cousin Liam. On that occasion it was for a fractured wrist. On the second occasion it was for something far more serious.

'He's coming round.'

Jack heard the voice and tried to open his eyes. He felt as if he had been run over by a herd of cattle. Every muscle in his body ached. But most of all there was a stabbing pain in his side.

'God bless you, Jack. You've done a marvellous thing.'

Jack blinked his eyes and could just about make out his aunt looking down at him, smiling gratefully.

'Is he going to be all right?' he asked.

'Yes, Jack,' his aunt said, taking his hand and patting it. 'He's going to be just grand. You both are.'

The fact that she crossed herself immediately after saying it might have given others cause for concern, but Jack Delaney was sixteen years old and invincible.

'You've saved his life, Jack. You've saved his life,' cried his aunt, bursting into tears.

Jack shrugged. 'Sure, it was only a kidney.'

A hospital trolley laden with pills and syringes and God knows what else clattered past his bed and Delaney cursed silently. The thin tendrils of sleep that were clinging to him were severed by the sound. He was awake now, he was in pain, and he was going to have to deal with it.

He leaned his head further up the pillow and groaned, the last few images of his dreams lingering in his consciousness. Why had he been dreaming about his cousin Liam? Why had he been remembering those incidents? It wasn't just being in hospital. Delaney groaned again and raised himself to sit up in bed. He ran his good right hand over his bandaged shoulder and strapped-up left arm and grimaced. Who was he kidding? He knew exactly why he was thinking about Liam. He threw back the covers and slid his legs to the floor. Standing up and wincing at the pain in his shoulder, he looked at the clock. Way past time. The pain forgotten as he picked up his clothes from the chair beside his bed.

As an alarm bell sounded, Kate and Sally ran concerned down the corridor and into his room.

Kate couldn't believe her eyes. 'Bloody, stupid, bloody man!'

'Where's he gone?'

'I don't know, Sally. You're the detective. Where do men with no brain cells go?' Kate snapped.

Sally shrugged. 'Paddington Green?'

Kate glared at her. 'Yeah, not funny.'

They went back outside and Kate stopped one of two nurses who were hurrying down the corridor. 'What's going on?'

'A prisoner's escaped from the secure room.'

Kate sighed. 'Don't tell me – Kevin Norrell.'

The nurse nodded. 'The officer who was guarding them is seriously hurt.'

'And the other prisoner here? The one with the broken jaw?'

The nurse looked at Kate, shocked, as if she could hardly believe the words that were coming out of her mouth. 'He's dead.'

Sally took Kate's arm. 'You don't think Jack's busted Norrell loose?'

Kate shook her head, her voice trembling with anger and fear. 'I don't know, Sally. Let's find the stupid man.'

Melanie Jones sat at her desk writing on her computer. She read what she had just written and then highlighted and deleted it. It was all garbage. This was supposed to be her big break and what did she have to show for it? They had a guy in custody who they figured was good for the murders, but she had listened to his voice at the police's request and she couldn't be sure it was the man who had telephoned her. She had no idea what Delaney had been doing with his comments about deformed genitalia in his press statement either. She had dealt with the police enough times to know that they didn't release that kind of detail. If she didn't know better, she would have said he was deliberately trying to rile the murderer. But if he was already in custody, what was the point? She thought ironically about the title of the book she had in mind. Intimate Conversations With a Serial Killer. Some intimacy! She'd exchanged about ten words with the man. And the main part of the book, looking at the investigation through the eyes of the lead detective, had gone tits up as well. The suspect had been arrested by plain clothes and not only had Jack Delaney been taken off the case it looked like he had been taken out for good. Some nutter, probably an ex-girlfriend and good luck to her, had shot him and left him in intensive care in South Hampstead Hospital. Be just her luck if he died on her as well. So much for the New York office and the dream job. She had seen herself as a modern-day Truman Capote; as it was she was turning into more of a Lois Lane. Everything happened when she wasn't there, and her Superman turned out to be an Irish drunk whose IQ was no higher than her shoe size.

'Shit,' she said aloud, for the thirtieth time that day. And then the phone rang.

She picked it up, suppressing a yawn. 'Melanie Jones, Sky News.'

The lilting brogue on the other end of the line jolted the yawn into oblivion.

'Roses are crap, me darlin'. Violets are shit. Sit on me face, and wriggle a bit.'

'Delaney?'

'Ah no, sad to hear he's not well.'

'Who is this?'

There was laugher on the other end of the line and the accent changed to English. 'Well now, it's not Santa's little helper. But I could be your lucky charm.'

And Melanie recognised the voice, belatedly hitting the record button built into her digital phone system.

'I'm listening.'

'www.truecrimeways.com.'

'What's that?'

'The password is Whitechapel and your birthday.'

'But what is it?'

The line went dead and Melanie was left listening to a single persistent tone. She blinked for a moment as though mesmerised and then hung up the phone, her fingers flashing across her keyboard with more enthusiasm than she had had all morning.

Delaney winced, held his side and leaned against the wall of the visitors' centre. He put a cigarette in his mouth and searched through his pockets for a box of matches. He twisted his hand to the other pocket and picked out the box with his fingertips. He pulled the box open with his teeth and managed to get a match out. But how he was going to strike it he had absolutely no idea.

'Jack Delaney!'

He looked across and cursed as he saw Kate Walker and Sally Cartwright bearing down on him. Great, he thought, double tagged.

'What the hell do you think you're doing?'

'I'm trying to have a cigarette, Kate.'

Kate glared at him. 'I thought you'd given up?'

'I did. I'm very good at giving up. I do it all the time.'

'You should be in bed, boss,' Sally said, taking the box of matches off him and lighting his cigarette.

Kate shook her head, resigned. 'You realise Norrell has escaped.'

'Yeah, I know.'

'It's not safe for you, Jack.'

'He's not going to do anything to me.'

'How can you be so sure?'

'I just know.' Delaney drew deep on his cigarette. 'Sally, I need you to drive me.'

Kate sneered. 'Are you mad? You're not going anywhere.'

'I have to.'

'For God's sake, Sally, talk some sense into him.'

'Where do you want to go?' Sally asked.

'I'll tell you in the car.'

Kate stepped between them. 'No, if anybody is driving you it will be me.'

Delaney looked across at Sally, then shrugged with a little smile and kissed Kate full on the lips, who was too startled to back away. 'No, I've got another job for you to do.'

'What?'

'There's a man in intensive care. I saw him on my way out and recognised him. He was shot on Hampstead Heath last night. Near where we found the first victim.'

'I thought the latest theory was it was a Jack the Ripper copycat, killing prostitutes.'

'Maybe we were supposed to think that. He was shot in the same area with a tranquilliser rifle. I don't believe in coincidences, Kate. Check it out, find out if it's the same tranquillising drug.'

'What does it mean if it is?'

Delaney ground his cigarette under his heel. 'I have absolutely no idea.'

He turned to Sally. 'Come on, Constable, you can drive.'

Sally shrugged helplessly at Kate and followed him to the car.

George Napier hung up the telephone. He was far from pleased. Serious crimes had just released Ashley Bradley on police bail. On top of that Kevin Norrell had escaped from the police guard at the South Hampstead Hospital. And if that wasn't enough, Delaney had gone walkabout too. Napier opened the bottom drawer of his desk cabinet and pulled out a bottle of milk of magnesia. He had just taken a healthy swig, when Diane Campbell walked into the room. Why couldn't she keep a damn leash on her Irish bloody inspector? he'd like to know. Was it too much to ask?

Diane read his expression and nodded, at the bottle. 'Ulcer?

Napier grimaced. 'Indigestion.'

'It's going to get a lot worse.'

'What are you talking about?'

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 amp; 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.

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.'

'That a fact?' Delaney moved the gun forward aiming at his forehead.

'You had the balls, Irishman, you'd have done it already. Your wife was in the wrong place at the wrong time, that's all. If someone hadn't interfered she'd still be alive today, wouldn't she? That's down to you.'

Delaney's finger tightened on the trigger as he put his left hand on his right shoulder. 'You should have killed me when you had the chance.'

'Yeah, well, can't get the staff, isn't that what they say? But I've got a better man on the case now.'

Delaney smiled unimpressed. 'Who, Nigel here?'

'No,' said Mickey Ryan. 'Him.' And pointed behind Delaney.

Delaney couldn't stop himself from turning round as he felt a presence behind him, and reacted unable to conceal the surprise at who he saw.

'Liam?'

'Sorry, Jack.' And his cousin hit Delaney on the side of the head with a narrow leather cosh.

He dropped to the floor like a hanged man with the noose cut.

Jimmy Skinner rang the bell for a third time. There was still no answer. He looked around him then picked up the door ram he had brought with him just in case, and smashed the door open. A Siamese cat screamed at him and went howling and hissing past his legs, nearly knocking him over. He guessed the operation it had had, whatever it was, had been a success.

Inside the maisonette the smell was pretty bad. The cat obviously hadn't been let out for a couple of days. He walked into the lounge and opened the windows. On the mantelpiece there was a photo of a woman. He picked it up and looked at it closely, he could see a slight resemblance to the woman he had seen on the website but he would have never recognised her. The woman in the photo had mousy hair and wore little make-up. She smiled shyly at the camera. No wonder nobody had phoned in after their televised appeals for information about her. In the kitchen the cat's litter tray needed to be cleaned out. Skinner crinkled his nose, picked up a black leather Filofax from the kitchen table and took it back into the lounge.

He flicked through the pages and turned to the diary section. She had kept a list of appointments with clients. One of the names, Paul Archer, jumped out at him, but he couldn't put his finger on why. Seemed he liked rough games and she had refused to see him any more, blacklisted him with her contacts too. He filed the name away. Somebody had a grudge with her, that much was obvious. Another part of the Filofax was day-to-day diary stuff. After half an hour he flicked back to the contacts section; he sighed and closed the Filofax and walked over to a table that had a collection of framed photographs on it and picked one up. It showed two women, one in her twenties and one in her thirties. Hands around each other's waists and smiling at the camera, as if they knew their profession was to be judged now by the quality of that smile as much as it was by the service and care they provided.

And he realised as he looked at the photograph that they had all got it completely wrong.

Delaney felt like someone had taken a heavy hammer and struck him on the head. It was definitely time for a new job, he thought. Somewhere warm. Somewhere quiet. But, as he cracked open his bloodshot eyes, he realised that new employment prospects were the least of his problems. His hands had been tied behind his back and he was sitting in a lock-up garage somewhere, propped uncomfortably on a wooden chair. The door opened and Mickey Ryan walked in, followed by his cubic minder and his traitorous fucking cousin. If Delaney could have worked up the saliva he would have spat at him.

There was a metallic clang. Delaney looked across to see the gorilla of a henchman putting a toolbox on the workbench that ran along the whole left-hand side of the garage. The man made Kevin Norrell look human, he realised with a shudder.

'You might wonder why you are still alive, Delaney.'

'Must be my guardian angel.'

Ryan laughed, his blue eyes sparkling with amusement. 'I wonder if you'll still be laughing when my man here goes to work on you with a pair of needle-tooth pliers.

Liam stepped forward. 'Nobody said anything about that.'

'Nobody points a gun at me and gets away with it. You're going to learn that, Delaney. And that grassing tub of lard Norrell is going to be next.' He turned to Liam. 'Put one in his gut, give him something to think about.'

Liam raised the pistol he had been holding in his right hand, a semi-automatic with a silencer. Delaney could see no mercy, no compassion in his eyes as he pulled the trigger.

The minder made a sound like a dog swallowing a fly and dropped to the floor, a hand fluttering towards his heart but not making it. Liam pointed the gun at Mickey Ryan.

'The fuck you think you're doing?'

'The fuck you think I'm doing?' Liam retorted.

Ryan shook his head. 'We had a deal.'

'I don't make deals with scum. Gut shot, wasn't it?' He pulled the trigger again, and Mickey Ryan dropped to his knees, squealing and holding his stomach. 'Hurts, doesn't it?'

Ryan's face had gone purple and he hissed between his teeth, but if they were words they were not intelligible.

Liam grabbed a Stanley knife from the toolbox and slashed the ropes binding his cousin.

Delaney stood up and wobbled on his legs. He had to hold on to his cousin's arm before he could steady himself. 'What's going on?'

Liam smiled. 'I made some calls after you left. Figured out what was what and realised you'd be way out of your depth.'

'I had it covered.'

'Sure you did, cousin. But you weren't going to kill him, were you?'

Delaney didn't answer.

'Which means that one way or another he would have ended up killing you.'

'Maybe.'

'No maybe about it.'

'What did you have to hit me for, then?'

'You might be ten kinds of death-wish on legs, Jack, but I still enjoy my life. I did what I had to do. And you should be grateful, so take a Panadol and shut the fuck up with the whining already.'

Ryan gurgled again, hissing through wet lips, his face contorted with pain.

Liam turned to Delaney and held the gun out. 'Do you want to do it?'

Delaney made no move to take the pistol. Liam nodded then fired two bullets into the kneeling man's head. He slumped sideways and the gurgling stopped.

Delaney looked at the dead body. He wasn't sure what to think any more. 'What now?'

'Now, cousin, we walk away from here.'

Delaney shook his head. 'We can't. There's DNA all over the place. You go. Leave me the gun.'

Liam reached into his overcoat and pulled out a large brown packet. 'Did you know Mickey Ryan was in big with the old IRA? Back in the seventies?'

'No.'

Liam nodded. 'Back in the day he made a fair few bob out of it. Pissed a fair few people off too. People who didn't take the laying down of arms at all happily. Formed new groups.'

'The Real IRA?'

Liam shrugged. 'Amongst others. Either way, he's on a list. And this…' he tossed the packet on the workbench, 'is the boys' old friend.'

'Semtex?'

'There won't be enough left of Mickey Ryan, his sidekick, or this garage to fill a teaspoon.'

Delaney nodded. It didn't feel like closure. He just felt empty.

'I guess that makes us even, Liam.'

'Hardly.' He handed back his mobile phone. 'Thought you might like this back.'

'Thanks.' Delaney flipped it open and pushed the speed dial for Kate Walker.

'Jack, where the hell have you been?'

Liam smiled, he could hear every word. 'What is it with you and feisty women?'

'Are you still at the station?' Delaney asked Kate.

'Yes, I'm still here.'

'Good, stay there. I'm on my way in.'

Sally Cartwright looked at her watch for the fifth time.

'Has he stood you up, Sally?'

'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.'

'Who's Michael Hill?' Kate asked, puzzled by their tone.

'He's the scene-of-crime photographer, Kate. He took those pictures and if there is one on that site that isn't on our files then he took that one too, and made a mistake when he was putting them up on the Net.'

Diane stabbed her cigarette in the air. 'We've got the bastard then.'

Delaney shook his head angrily. 'Not yet we haven't.'

Kate Walker stood up. 'For Christ's sake, Jack. Are you telling me he's got Sally?'

'He doesn't know we're on to him. There's no need to panic.'

Diane Campbell shook her head. 'He's been playing games with you all along.'

'It doesn't fit the pattern, Diane. She never worked at the hospital.'

'And what if she mentions what she asked Kate to look into?'

Delaney didn't answer her, what colour left in it was draining from his face.

Jessica Tam smiled at the sour-faced receptionist as she headed for the exit but, as usual, got nothing in response. The woman had been working there long enough to recognise most people by now, but there was no sign of it on her stony face. Maybe she reserved the smiles for the doctors and consultants, in that regard she wouldn't be unlike many others that worked at the South Hampstead. Seemed to her that if you didn't like people, being a receptionist wasn't exactly the best job in the world. Jessica loved people, loved helping people in need, and for her nursing wasn't just a job, it truly was a vocation. Shame it didn't pay any better, though, she couldn't help thinking as she stepped out into the cold car park not at all surprised to see it was raining again. Be nice to be able to save up enough to buy a better car. One that had heating that worked properly, that didn't steam up every time in wet weather. One that would start first time in the winter. She looked up at the sky above her, far too dark for this time of year. It was nights like these she wished her paternal grandfather hadn't come all that way and fallen in love with an English barmaid. Mind you, if he hadn't come to England, she thought with a little wry smile, she wouldn't have been born.

She slipped her handbag off her shoulder and fumbled for her car keys, thinking to herself that her car might be a bit of a heap, but at least she didn't have to walk across the common and through the heath. She shuddered thinking of the poor woman who had been found there and said a silent prayer for her colleague Mr Collins who was probably one of the nicest registrars she had ever worked with. A loving father, a kind and generous man. She couldn't even begin to imagine why anyone would want to hurt him. Her hands shook slightly as she tried to fit the key in the car door and fumbling she dropped them to the ground. She bent over and startled slightly as a man stepped up from behind her and snatched them up from the ground. She looked up a little scared, but then smiled, relieved, as she saw who it was.

'Dr Archer. You startled me.'

Paul Archer smiled back at her, his brown eyes almost black in the gloom of the poorly lit car park. 'Then for that I do apologise. I really must make it up to you in some way.'

Jessica Tam held her hand out for her keys and Paul Archer smiled once more.

Some pleasures are to be savoured. Michael Hill thought. Some to be played out over time, like a symphony. But some morsels you want to rush at, devour and move on to the next.

He looked at the blonde woman, dressed only in her underwear, one hand hanging from a manacle. At the moment she was unconscious, but she would be awake soon enough. Would he do her quickly like the others, or would he leave her for a while? She wasn't part of the original plan but then she had made herself part of it, wrote herself into a leading role when she was only supposed to be a supporting extra. Jack Delaney's eager-eyed sidekick, lusting after the Irishman like the rest of them. Asking questions, beavering away, keen to get on the arrogant prick's good side. She had asked one question too many, however, and the thought of how Delaney was going to react to what was going to happen to her… well, that was just going to make it all the more enjoyable. He smiled at the prospect and then collected himself, he needed to focus, there was other work to do first. He went to the side table and picked up a dark, curly-haired wig and put it on. Looking at himself in the mirror on the wall he smiled again. The perfect disguise. Jack Delaney, eat your heart out. 'Hey, cowboy. Time to ride,' he said out loud.

A coughed laugh behind him made him spin round.

'You're really pathetic, you know that? You're not a tenth the man he is.'

Michael Hill spun round and shook his head angrily. 'The way I see it, one of us looks pathetic, but it isn't me.'

Sally grimaced as she tried to loosen the manacle on her wrist.

'Hurts, doesn't it?' He held up his right wrist. 'I should know. My aunt used to hang me from the manacle and beat me when I was a child.'

'That's a tattoo, Michael.'

'Shut up!' he barked angrily at her and slapped her.

'And you never lived with your aunt as a child.'

'You don't know anything about me.'

Sally fought to keep her voice level, she had read the books at college. She knew that people like him got off on fear. It was all about power and control. The moment she showed herself as weak, the moment he smelled her fear, was the moment she was lost. 'I'm a detective, dickhead. I don't just go out on dates with men without finding out about them first. Your parents died when you were ten years old and your twenty-one-year-old sister took custody of you because your aunt was registered blind.'

'I told you to shut up!' He raised his hand as if to slap her again but then dropped it, his voice almost a whisper. 'You don't know anything about me.'

Sally softened her own voice. 'I know that you're scared, Michael. But it's not too late. You can put a stop to this. You can get help.' Her eyes pleaded with him. 'Let me help you.'

Hill walked across to the table again and picked up a length of cloth, then stepped forward and tied the cloth round her mouth. He leaned in and whispered in her ear. 'I've someone to take care of first. But I'll be back for you. Then we'll see who's scared.'

Sally twisted her head away, the feel of his moist breath in her ear far worse than the slap he had given her.

He headed to the corner of the cellar and up the steps. Sally stared at him defiantly until the small square of light disappeared as he closed the hatch above.

Sally howled with rage as best she could through the tight gag, then slumped against the wall. Her eyes scared now, filling with tears as fought to keep control of her bladder. She wasn't sure she had done the right thing provoking him, but she knew one thing: if she was going to die it wasn't going to be without a fight. After a few minutes working her jaw she managed to loosen the gag, enough to shout for help, but as her voice echoed in the thick walls of the cellar she realised it was a futile exercise. No one was ever going to hear her. She twisted her wrist once more, grunting with pain and desperation as she tried to slide her hand through the manacle.

And failed.

Delaney hung up the phone and shook his head. 'He's not at home.' An army of flak-jacketed officers had descended on Michael Hill's flat. But there was no sign either of him or Sally Cartwright.

Diane lit up another cigarette. 'He may not be meaning to hurt her.' But her voice betrayed her true feelings.

Kate walked across from the printer. 'This is a list of everyone working at the South Hampstead over the last year. And the smaller list is ones who have all at one time worked with the three victims so far.'

Delaney scanned the small list – names, addresses and phone numbers – and two of the names jumped out at him straight away: Paul Archer and Jessica Tam. Jessica had been one of the team who had fought so desperately to save his wife's life. He remembered her genuine grief that they hadn't been able to save either of them. He remembered her kind words, her genuine solicitude. He remembered her small, delicate body, her almost oriental features. Most of all he remembered her gentle smile and her humanity. And then he remembered what had been done to the other two women.

He snatched up the phone, looked at the list and punched in a number. It rang for a while before it was answered.

'South Hampstead Hospital.'

'Can I speak to Jessica Tam please?'

'She's off shift, I'm sorry. You've missed her.' The voice at the other end of the line was curt.

Delaney hung up and looked at the list again. She didn't live far from the hospital. He dialled her home number, it rang for a while but there was no answer. He stood up and hunched as best he could into his jacket.

'Come on, Kate. You can drive.'

'Let uniform deal, Jack,' Diane Campbell said, a warning tone in her voice. 'You are in no fit condition to do anything.'

'I can't just sit here, boss. By the time we get there she'll be home.'

'He's right, Diane,' Kate said as she stood up and put her own coat on.

Campbell sighed and lit another cigarette, calling out from her perch by the window as they walked to the door. 'Jack…'

'Yes.'

'Just be fucking careful.'

Jessica Tam fought desperately to stay awake as the man above looked down at her with the cold smile of an executioner.

It had all happened so quickly: she had opened her door, hardly registering the dark-haired man standing there before he had moved quickly forward, there was a sharp prick in her neck and her legs had gone rubbery beneath her. Unable even to speak she had been bustled back into her house, the door kicked closed behind them, and she was laid on her couch. As the man looked at his watch, like an anaesthetist waiting for a sedative to take hold, she knew all too well what was going to happen next if she lost consciousness; she could see it in the absolute chill of his eyes. If she could just fight it. Keep awake, then there was hope. But she could almost feel the rhythm of her heart slowing. She tried to lift her head, but it felt as if a sandbag had been placed over it. Maybe it had. Her eyes flickered open very slightly, she tried to seize the light, draw herself up along it. But she just felt so tired. So very, very tired. Her eyes closed again and she half formed the thought to fight it, to open them again, and then the thought died.

Kate pulled her car behind a Land Rover parked on pavement outside the nurse's house, and cut the engine.

'You wait here, Kate,' Delaney said.

'I'm coming with you. No arguments.'

Delaney shrugged and regretted it immediately as spikes of pain shot through his battered shoulders. They got out of the car and walked towards the house. Delaney looked through the back windows of a blue Transit van that was parked outside, but he couldn't make anything out, the windows were too deeply tinted.

Inside, Michael Hill couldn't believe his eyes as he crouched low and looked through the window. Jack Delaney and his bitch of a girlfriend walking towards the door. How the hell had he tracked him down? The man had the detecting skills of a blind goose. So far everything had had to be laid out on a plate for him. He hefted Jessica Tam under one arm and lifted the tranquilliser gun, which he had reloaded, in the other. There was nowhere to go. He pointed the gun at the door and waited.

The doorbell rang. He stayed motionless. It rang again. He could hear Delaney move around the side of the house, peering in the windows, but he wasn't visible in the hall. The bell rang a third time. He held the nurse tighter to him, grateful that she was so small.

After another couple of minutes he heard footsteps moving away. Then a car engine starting up and the car pulling away. He let out the breath he had unconsciously been holding and propped his arm under Jessica Tam and around her waist. Walking her to the door as if she had had too much too drink.

He opened the door and manoeuvred her clumsily towards his vehicle. He was halfway there when Delaney stepped around from the side of the van and pointed a pistol at him.

'Your exhaust pipe is still hot.'

Michael Hill stiffened, holding the gun against the petite nurse's head.

'I'll kill her.'

Delaney looked at the man's curly brown wig. Could see the madness dancing in his dark eyes. He had no doubt at all that he meant what he said.

'You pull that trigger and you're a dead man.'

'Maybe I'm a dead man anyway. But we're not finished here yet. I'm a force of nature, Delaney.'

Delaney looked at him and wondered at his own hesitation. Earlier that day he had been unable to kill a man responsible for the death of his wife and the death of his unborn baby. Something in him had changed, that much was clear. A couple of months ago he wouldn't have hesitated. He'd have put a bullet in each of Mickey Ryan's kneecaps first and then put one in his head. He looked at the frail woman who had tried so hard to help him all those years ago. He was powerless. He looked at the expression in the man's eyes facing him. He took a step closer, saw the pupils grow wider as though the man had come to some kind of decision. He moved slowly towards the man, positioning the barrel of the gun in the centre of his forehead.

'Drop the gun, Michael.'

'Look into my eyes, Delaney. You know I'll do it.'

Delaney looked in his eyes and then pulled the trigger. Michael Hill's head snapped back in a way the spine wasn't designed for. His dark brown wig fell off and as he crashed to the floor with his arms held out, his head landed with a wet, slapping thud, jolting one of the brown contact lenses he was wearing loose. He now had one brown eye and one blue and looked, Delaney thought, with his blond hair and white face exactly as David Bowie might have looked if he had carried on with the heroin.

The nurse, Jessica Tam, had fallen from his lifeless arms and was now laid across his body in an unnaturally intimate manner.

Delaney barely registered the sound of car tyres as Kate pulled back into the driveway. He picked the nurse up in his arms and carried her over to the car. Kate opened the door for him to lay her on the back seat and then leaned over her to check her vital signs. She put a finger on her carotid artery and then bent over to listen to her breathing.

'She's got a strong, steady rhythm, Jack. She's going to be fine. Just drugged, that's all.' She looked over at dead figure of Michael Hill and shuddered. 'Are you okay?'

Delaney looked down at his hand, which was trembling now and nodded. 'I'm fine.'

He pulled out his phone, and turned his back to shield himself from the wind as he made a call.

'Jimmy, it's Jack. I've got Michael Hill. He's dead. He had a gun. We struggled. He lost.'

'Glad to hear it.'

'Don't be too glad. He didn't tell me where Sally Cartwright is.'

'I've got another address, Jack. One from his original application. His aunt's. She died recently.'

'Where is it?'

'About a quarter of a mile from where you are. Priory Road. Number thirty-two.'

'Put it out. I'll make my way there. And get an ambulance sent over here.'

'You reckon he needs it?'

'It's for the nurse. At least we saved one of them.'

Delaney walked over to the Michael Hill's supine body. He took the tranquilliser gun off him and put it in his pocket. Then wiped his own gun and put the dead man's hand over the grip of the gun, fitting his finger in the trigger guard. He squeezed the dead man's hand a couple of times and then used it to throw the gun on the floor about three feet away.

He walked back to Kate. 'You didn't see any of that. We struggled. His gun went off.' He ran his fingers through his hair, realising his hands were still trembling and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

Kate stepped forward and hugged him. 'You can't save everyone, Jack.'

Delaney kissed the top of her head. 'I can try.'

Kate looked up at him and ran her hand over his unshaven face. 'What am I going to do with you?'

'I've got to go. The ambulance and the others won't be long. Will you be all right waiting here?'

'Just find Sally, Jack.' She kissed him. 'And be careful.'

Delaney nodded at the body. 'He's dead, Kate.'

They're both dead, he thought, as he walked off into the wind and rain not daring to let himself believe that Sally Cartwright was still alive.

Michael Hill's aunt may have only been dead a short while but her house had already been stripped of furniture; a painted dresser in the kitchen, a bed in one of the upstairs bedrooms, some old clothes hanging in a musty wardrobe. But nothing apart from that. Just dust and damp.

Delaney toured the rooms once again to see if he had missed anything. But he hadn't. The house was empty.

He pushed the front door shut and leaned against the porch wall; using his body to shield against the wind, he lit a cigarette. He took a deep drag and played back in his mind what Michael Hill had said before he shot him. He was a force of nature, he'd said. And before that he said he wasn't finished. No. He hadn't. His exact words were 'We're not finished'. The women being mutilated, the man not. The whole Jack the Ripper nonsense. 'We.' He cursed as he fumbled for his phone.

We. There were two of them.

'Shit!'

Detective Inspector Robert Duncton of the serious crimes unit thundered up the stairs, the men behind running to keep up. Half of them were in flak jackets and armed. He got to the top of the stairs and walked along the external corridor. He was not in a good mood. White City had been pissing all over his investigation again. Little men trying to play with the big boys. One of them, Jack Delaney, had just shot dead the prime suspect and was now claiming that Michael Hill was acting with a partner. That there were two of them. If they had made a mistake in letting the first one go it was the sort of thing that could wreck a promising career. And Robert Duncton's career was very promising indeed. At least it had been up until today.

He waited for two of the armed officers to position themselves either side of the door and hammered on it with a fist as heavy as his heart.

Ashley Bradley's grandmother peered out. 'Can I help you?'

Duncton took her by the arms and moved her outside. 'Is he here?'

'Ashley?'

'Yes, Mrs Bradley. Is your son here?'

'No, he's not in right now. And he's my grandson.'

Duncton gestured and the armed men piled into the house. A few seconds later they emerged shaking their heads.

'I told you,' said Mrs Bradley.

Duncton sighed. 'Where is he, then?'

'He's gone to the cinema. Some film he wanted to see. He loves romantic films.'

Delaney jogged painfully back the way he had come and had to stop by a bus shelter to catch his breath. He leaned against it as he pulled out his packet of cigarettes, cursing at the awkwardness of only having one arm to use as he fumbled one into his mouth. A handsomely dressed middle-aged couple walked past, putting as much room between him and them as possible. Delaney didn't blame them. He used the flat of his hand to brush some of the dust from his trousers. He sneezed. He lit his cigarette and sneezed again. And then he realised, the cigarette almost falling from his mouth, but not quite. 'Idiot!' He almost shouted it.

The middle-aged couple ahead looked back, but Delaney didn't even register them. He began running back towards the house he had left just five minutes previously. Running in real earnest now.

Ashley did like romantic films. Quite often in the early screenings it meant there was a fair scattering of women in the audience. Single women who didn't want to come later and feel jealous of the happy couples sitting all around them. Ashley could relate to that. He settled back and enjoyed the trailers. His overcoat was pulled lightly together, his jeans were unbuttoned beneath it and with a hole already cut in his right-hand pocket he was good to go.

While he had been sat there she had already eaten a hot dog and was now munching her way through a bin-sized bucket of popcorn. Not that he was objecting, he liked to hear women eat. He enjoyed listening to the wet sounds her lips made as they slapped together, the little, almost inaudible groans of pleasure as she swallowed.

He gave himself a little preparatory stroke. The next trailer was for a Sandra Bullock film. Ashley Bradley was a big fan of Sandra Bullock. Had been ever since Demolition Man, when she ran around in her tight black pants and futuristic cop outfit. Ashley had had a really bad couple of days and he figured he deserved a treat. And treats didn't come much better than Sandra Bullock in tight clothing. He closed his eyes for a moment, picturing her in her uniform, when the sound of men running loudly down the gently sloping aisle made him snap them open again.

Robert Duncton and four of his men stopped opposite Bradley's seat, fanning out, two of them training semi-automatic pistols at him.

'Get him.'

The other two leaned in and yanked him up. His coat flew open, his jeans dropped, and his penis, semi-priapic, twisted and scarred, wagged in the direction of the woman sitting next to him.

She looked at it, screamed and promptly threw up.

Ashley's day wasn't getting any better.

Nor was Detective Inspector Robert Duncton from Paddington Green's. 'Get him out of here,' he shouted, stepping back and wiping some of the splatter from his once immaculate trousers.

Delaney pushed open the front door that he had earlier forced and walked in again, listening for any sounds, but there were none. He flicked the light on and walked down to the kitchen. He turned the light on in the kitchen and looked at the floor. It was as clean as he remembered it. Too clean. There was no dust on it. He walked across to the dresser that was positioned in the far corner opposite the sink and leaned against the wall at a diagonal. He put his hands either side of the base unit and pulled. It was sitting on a rug and came away surprisingly easy. He pulled it a little further out and looked behind it. There was a trap door.

Bingo.

He bent down, put his finger through the ring and pulled it open and called out.

'Sally.'

'Sir, you can't come down here.'

'It's all right, Sally, it's just me.'

Delaney took off his jacket and walked down the stairs.

'You can't see me like this.'

'I can't see a thing,' said Delaney. 'It's like the black hole of Calcutta down here.'

'Don't mention Indian restaurants.'

Delaney could hear the fragility behind her laugh, he reached out with his jacket and she managed to drape it around her shoulders. Delaney went back to the bottom of the stairs and fumbled for the light switch. He found and turned it on; a bare bulb flared up overhead. It was a small wine cellar. Empty apart from a side table, a mirror and his young assistant who was manacled to the wall, her arm raised like an overeager child with the answer to a difficult question in class.

'Did he hurt you, Sally?'

She shook her head. 'He took me to another bar for a drink. He must have slipped something in it, because I remember feeling suddenly woozy and I hadn't drunk that much. He said he'd drive me home. The last thing I can remember is getting into his car. And then I passed out.'

Delaney took a hold of the ring set into the wall with his one good hand and tried pulling it. It wouldn't budge. He managed to loosen the manacle a little, but not enough for Sally to free her hand.

'Don't worry, Sally, we'll get you out.'

'Michael Hill, sir. Did he hurt anyone else?'

'No, and he's not going to hurt anyone again. He's dead.'

'Good!'

Delaney nodded. She was right. He headed back to the steps. 'I'm going upstairs to find something to get you free with.'

Delaney walked up the stairs and into the kitchen and stopped dead as he saw the rifle pointing at him.

He looked at the person holding it and held his hands up. She looked familiar to him but he couldn't place her at first. And then he did. She was the receptionist at the South Hampstead Hospital. She wasn't smiling.

'Put the rifle down,' he said.

The woman smiled and there was poison in it. 'I don't think so.'

'Who are you?'

'Not that it's going to matter to you, but my name is Audrey Hill.'

Delaney nodded. 'Michael Hill, he's your husband?'

'No, Detective Delaney. He's my baby brother. I brought him up.'

'You know who I am then?'

'I know exactly who you are.'

'And you knew what your brother was doing?'

'He didn't do anything, Detective. He never does without my permission…' She looked at Delaney with flat eyes, and he felt a chill run up his spine. 'Not any more.'

Delaney swallowed drily, his mind racing, running through the options. He wasn't thinking so much about himself, he was thinking about the young, near-naked detective constable chained to the wall in the cellar beneath them. He had to keep her talking, he had to keep this madwoman away from her. He didn't know what he was going to do but he knew this much, she stopped talking and it was over for him. Over for both of them.

'Why then, Audrey?'

She moved closer to Delaney, her unblinking eyes staring at him like a entomologist might examine a newly discovered specimen. 'Neither of them suffered. They were all painless deaths. Anaesthetised and then a simple cut to the jugular. They died in their sleep.'

'And the surgeon?'

The woman shrugged. 'We were disturbed. I'll get back to him later.'

'What had they done to you?'

Delaney tried to edge closer to her but she raised the rifle and shook her head very slightly. 'This is a tranquilliser rifle, but it's loaded for very large animals. It's hard to describe the damage it would do to a human central nervous system.'

Delaney held up his hands, calming. 'Why did you kill them, Audrey?'

'Because of what they did to me.'

'What?'

'Were you aware that one in seven hundred people wake up during an operation under general anaesthetic, Detective?' she said.

Delaney wasn't. 'No,' he replied.

'You're paralysed, immobile, you can't move. Not even an eyelid. But you can feel. Feel the cold steel of the scalpel slicing into you. Feel your flesh parting as they open you up.'

Delaney didn't respond, it was putting it mildly to say that he already had a very bad feeling about this woman, he knew what she was capable of, after all. He could feel the anger and sickness radiating off her like the shimmering haze of a tarmac road in a heatwave.

Audrey Hill took another step closer to him. 'You can hear too, Detective Inspector. And that's the worst part of it. They were talking, the two sluts whispering to each other about clients they'd fucked. The surgeon talking about football to the vapid nurse. Talk, talk talk, When they should have been concentrating on what they were doing. The anaesthetist spotted something was wrong and put me under again, but by then it was too late.'

'I can understand it must have been a terrible experience-'

'You understand nothing!' She spat the words at him, the rifle shaking in her hands for the first time as her hands shook with fury.'

'They killed our baby.'

'What do you mean?'

'What do you think I mean? Our baby died!'

'Yours and Michael's?'

'We were a family. We were supposed to be a family. They took that away from us.'

Delaney looked at the rifle trembling in her hands, and held his hand up again, trying to keep the disgust from his face and voice. 'It's okay.'

'Nothing is okay. It was supposed to be routine but they made a mistake with the anaesthetic and had to deliver my baby by Caesarean section. I heard them!'

Delaney could see the madness and rage still dancing in her eyes. 'That must have been terrible for you.'

'He died because of their butchery. Then they performed a hysterectomy. Performed it without my consent.'

'They were trying to help you.'

'No.' Her voice was quiet now and Delaney didn't feel more reassured by it, in fact he felt the opposite. 'I am a trained veterinary nurse by trade, not a receptionist. I took that job just to get close to them, Detective. So I understand surgery. I heard them admit their mistakes. They murdered my baby and then they cut out my womb. So that's why, Detective. A life for a life.'

'And the mutilations? Did they deserve that?'

She smiled joylessly again. 'It's what they did to me.' Her eyes dropped to her stomach and the smile fell from her lips. 'They mutilated me.'

Delaney could hear the change in the tone of her voice. As if their conversation was at an end. He had to say something. Do something.

Audrey Hill raised the rifle a fraction, pointing at his heart now, as if she had come to a decision. 'Do you believe in God, Inspector?'

Delaney shrugged. 'Yeah I do. Someone has to be responsible for all this shite.'

She didn't smile this time. 'Now that we know how big the universe really is…' She shook her head puzzled. 'How can you believe in God? We're not ants. Were not even germs. So if there is no justice from God, we have to make our own, don't we?'

'It doesn't have to be like this.'

'It already is, Detective Inspector Delaney.'

Delaney heart thudded in his chest as he heard a familiar voice shout out.

'Jack,' Kate called from the front door. 'Are you in there?'

'Stay back!' Delaney shouted, almost screamed it. 'Just stay where you are.'

'Jack!'

Kate walked into the room and as Audrey Hill spun round and pointed the rifle at her, she froze in place.

'Maybe I'll just shoot her then.'

Delaney saw her hand trembling on the trigger, the madness in her eyes and stepped forward. Kate Walker was the woman he loved. He knew that now more than ever. He loved her and she was carrying his child. He wasn't going to lose another one. 'Jessica Tam isn't dead and Michael isn't bringing her here,' he said.

'What are you talking about?'

'I killed him. Michael's dead.'

The woman shook her head, shocked, as she spun round and trained the rifle back on him. 'You're lying!'

Delaney took another step towards her. 'I put a bullet in his diseased brain, Audrey. He's dead, it's over. Now put down the rifle.'

Delaney watched her hands tremble. He didn't know if it was a deliberate tightening of her finger on the trigger as the rifle fired, or if it was accidental. He didn't register the sound of Kate screaming, he didn't know that Sally Cartwright had come charging into the room and was throwing herself at Audrey Hill.

Falling to the floor, he didn't know anything at all.

He was already dead.