Blood Work (28 page)

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.