Blood Work

'You must be Dr Walker.'

'It's Kate, please.'

The woman stepped back and gestured with her arm. 'Come in, Kate.'

Across the road Paul Archer rolled down his window and stared at the door as it closed behind the pair of them. He put a hand subconsciously to his nose.

There was nothing kind in his eyes.

Roger Yates was sitting behind his desk in a plush office. It was a partner's desk, green leather on the top with a rich patina on the wood which only comes after a few hundred years. There was nothing repro about the office. The paintings on the wall were originals and insured for many thousands of pounds. Roger believed that the outward expression of wealth was one of the main pleasures in life. What would be the point of being as rich as Croesus if poorer people weren't made aware of it? It would be like having a supermodel figure and wearing a burka, if you asked him. Sackcloth and ashes were all very well for the Jesuits and the Presbyterians but his shirts were made in Jermyn Street of silk, not hair, and he always turned left when boarding an aeroplane. Not that he wasn't a generous man. He gave more than most people's salaries to charity each year, and he always made a point of buying the Big Issue. And he was popular. For some reason his opulent lifestyle and big gestures didn't engender envy in people. He bought himself a new jag every year and had never had it keyed once. The Big Issue seller always smiled when he saw him, not at all resentful that his watch alone could have housed him in fine style for a year.

Maybe it was down to his good looks. He had always been a handsome man, six foot tall, a generous head of hair. Naturally perfect teeth housed in an effortless smile, and blue, honest eyes that held your gaze and commanded trust.

Roger was an accountant. He'd been to Harrow and Oxford and somehow felt he should have done something more glamorous as a career. But he came from old money, and the Yateses had been in finance in one way or another since the Great Fire of London; Roger's career had been mapped out for him long before his name had even gone down for prep school. In truth, he was secretly glad of the arrangement, not that he'd ever really admit it to himself, because Roger liked order in his life. He liked to know what the next day would bring, what the next week would bring, what the next year would bring. He liked to be in control. He liked discipline. Which is why the morning, which had started badly – he had had to cancel a golf tournament, something he had been looking forward to all year – had gone from bad to worse, and the reason for it, the one main thing in his life that Roger wasn't content with and seemed powerless to do anything about, was now standing, larger than life and twice as ugly, in front of his desk.

'Roger,' Delaney said.

'Jack, what the hell are you doing here?'

'I've been great thanks. How about yourself?'

Roger leaned back in his chair, his scowl deepening. 'Let me think about that for a moment. How have I been? Well, I'll tell you.' He held his hand out to count off on his fingers. 'Firstly I had to cancel a golf tournament this weekend. And that's because . . . Secondly my wife is coming out of hospital. My wife who was stabbed by a homicidal nut job that you brought round to my house.'

'I didn't bring him round.'

'And thirdly,' Roger Yates continued, pointing his fingers at Delaney, 'I have to take care of your daughter, because her father is a drink-sodden car crash of a man with the social responsibility of a mentally damaged animal.'

Delaney fought the urge to punch him. 'I do feel responsible.'

'You bloody well should do.'

'And I am grateful.'

'As I told you before, Jack. Many times. You can show that gratitude by keeping out of my sight.'

'I need a favour.'

Roger sat back in his chair, genuinely astonished. 'You are bloody joking?'

Delaney pulled out a piece of paper with an address written on it and put it on the desk in front of him.

'I want to know who owns this building, who built it and who sold it. I want the financial trail.'

'And you can't do this through your own department, why?'

'Because it's linked to Sinead's death. The people responsible for your sister-in-law's murder.'

Roger looked at the paper but made no move to pick it up. 'I don't think so.'

Delaney looked at him for a moment. 'You want me to tell Wendy you refused to help?'

Roger glared at him for a moment before snatching the paper up. 'Get the hell out of my office.'

Delaney glared back at him for a moment then nodded, turned his back and walked out the room, closing the door loudly behind him. Roger Yates simmered with fury for a moment then picked a golf ball off his desk and hurled it against the opposite wall, narrowly missing a Chagall which was worth more than Delaney's annual salary. He looked at the address written on the piece of paper then snatched up his telephone and punched a button.

'Sarah, I've got a job for you.' He sighed angrily. 'Well, cancel it. This is urgent. My office, now.'

He slammed the phone down. 'Fucking Irishman!'

Helen Archer sat down in a chair which she had carefully placed opposite the sofa where Kate was sitting, took a sip of her tea and looked at her visitor with puzzled eyes. 'I don't see why we need to talk about him. The court case is in a couple of days.'

'I know.'

'And you're with the police, you say?'

Kate shook her head. 'I work with the police. I'm a doctor.'

'You're a police surgeon?'

'I used to be. Not any more. I'm a forensic pathologist.'

The frown on Helen's forehead deepened. 'I don't understand. Has somebody died?'

Kate took a deep breath. 'I think your husband might have raped me.'

Helen looked at her, shocked. 'What do you mean you think he might have raped you?'

Kate shrugged, blinking back tears. 'I think there were drugs involved.' She wiped the back of her hand across her eyes. 'A date-rape drug. Rohypnol, something like that . . .' She paused for a moment. 'Like he used with you.'

Helen flinched. 'How do you know that?'

'Like I said, I work with the police,' Kate said. 'I looked at documents. I shouldn't have done, but I needed to know about him. I needed to know if it was true.'

Helen stiffened, lifting her chin, challenging. 'Is that why you came here? To see if I was telling the truth.'

'Not that. To see if it really happened with me. I want to know about him.'

'You want to know about Paul?'

'I'm sorry.'

Helen Archer sighed, her fingers clutching her ring, the knuckles white. She took a deep breath. 'Don't be sorry,' she said finally. 'None of this is your fault.'

'I'm still sorry. You have enough to deal with.'

'I know what it's like to not be believed. To have a man rape you and others believe him when he denies it. I know what it's like to be attacked. To be attacked by a man you trusted, who you once loved.' Helen blinked back tears now. 'I know what it's like to be hurt.'

Kate bit her lower lip, not noticing the pain, and said again, 'I'm sorry.'

Helen came across and sat beside her on the sofa. 'It's not your fault,' she said, taking Kate's small, cold hand in her own. And Kate cried now, the tears running down her cheeks.

The curly-haired man leaned back against the wall and looked with disdain across the road where a group of office workers had gathered for a cigarette. The smokers' room was now al fresco by law after all. He had never been a smoker. He had tried it once, buying a pack of ten Camels off a boy at school when he was twelve years old. He had only smoked one of them and hadn't cared for it at all, never felt the urge to smoke again. In his book it was a sign of weakness. He looked at his watch. One o'clock. He slipped headphone buds into his ears, turned on his portable radio and listened to the headlines he had been waiting for.