Hard Evidence

Delaney couldn't stop himself from yawning, and covered his mouth as he watched Bonner speaking with DC Sally Cartwright, who had finished her morning's beat in uniform and was now officially on her first day with CID. She had changed into a smart charcoal-grey suit and wouldn't have looked out of place in an estate agent's. He was not at all surprised that Bonner was paying her far more attention than her older ex-colleague. Bob Wilkinson could be a regal pain in the backside, Delaney knew that, but he liked his honesty and his straightforwardness, and most important of all he trusted his instincts. An old-fashioned copper. If Bob Wilkinson said someone was dodgy then you could bet your defunct Irish punt that they were.

The whisper of bored conversation came to a halt as Delaney's immediate boss walked into the room. Chief Inspector Diane Campbell was in her forties, she wore her bobbed hair like a helmet and her make-up like an act of war. She snapped a critical look at Bonner, whose schoolboy smile slid quickly off his face like a fried egg off a greasy plate.

'What have we got, Bonner?'

'Jenny Morgan, ma'am. She's been missing since after school yesterday. That's nineteen hours.'

'And it's only just been reported?'

'That's right, ma'am. This morning. Her father. Single parent.'

'Why did he take so long?'

'We're looking into it. But from what the relief told me, he's not the sharpest pencil in the case.'

Campbell looked across at Delaney. 'So I gather. The father, Howard Morgan. Has he been charged for the assault on Greville?'

Bonner shook his head. 'Not yet.'

'Good. Because there are potential political implications here.'

'Ma'am?'

'Somebody leaked the information about Greville to the press; we're all being looked at here.'

'Maybe it's not us that should be looked at.'

'Try and persuade Greville not to pursue, for the moment at least. I gather he wasn't seriously injured?'

Delaney coughed and spoke up, his voice hoarse. 'No. And to be honest, he's not my top priority at the moment.'

'If we do have a top priority, it's what I tell you it is. We all clear on that?'

Bonner smiled. 'Pellucid, ma'am.'

'Shut it, Sergeant.'

'Ma'am.'

'Delaney. I want the father, Howard Morgan, on TV as soon as possible, and I don't want any confusion over the issues involved here. We clear?'

Delaney nodded. 'Pellucid, ma'am.'

A hint of a smile almost twitched Campbell's lips but she managed to contain it.

'Apologies to those of you who were about to go off shift. But the super wants all hands to the pump until that little girl is found. Anyone got a problem with that?'

No one did. She looked over at Delaney again. 'Keep me posted.' She moved briskly from the room and Delaney moved to the front, taking charge of the meeting.

'You heard what she said. Time is critical here. We've already lost nearly a day because of her father; let's not lose any more. I'm going to talk to Morgan. Meanwhile, I want background checks. I want to know everything about him, and I want to know everything about his daughter. School friends, boyfriends, hobbies, clubs, the lot. DC Cartwright, you're with me.'

'Sir.'

Her face lit up a little at being called DC for the first time. Delaney pointed at DI Jimmy Skinner, a tall, thin, pale-faced man in his thirties who spent every hour he could find playing internet poker. 'Jimmy, I want you to speak to Greville.'

'Is that to be a polite conversation?'

'You heard what the boss said?'

'I did.'

Delaney turned to Inspector Audrey Hobb, early fifties, two years off her thirty and looking forward to retirement.

'Audrey, I want all your available uniforms out on the street with pictures of Jenny. Young girls don't just disappear in broad daylight; somebody must have seen something.'

'Let's hope so.'

The group got to their feet as though dismissed, but Delaney held his hand up.

'Hang on a minute. There's one more thing.' He pointed to the picture on the left of the noticeboard. 'Jackie Malone. Some of you are familiar with the case. She had a boy sometimes in her care, Andy. We think he's with his uncle, Russell Martin, but we want to make sure. DS Bonner will organise some photos. When you're out on the street, I want you to show his photo too. Okay, Audrey?'

'Fine by me.'

Bonner leaned in. 'You think the chief will like it, sir?'

Delaney ignored him. 'Okay, that's it. But one last thing. We all know how these cases sometimes turn out, and we all know how critical time is. The longer we take, the less chance we have of finding her alive. But this isn't going to be one of those cases. We're going to find that girl. We're going to do everything to make that happen, and we are going to take her out of harm's way. We clear?'

'Sir.' The response was immediate, and, galvanised, the briefing room emptied. Delaney fumbled a couple of painkillers from a small bottle he kept in his pocket and sighed. It was going to be another long day.

7.

Delaney stopped at the water cooler in the corridor outside the briefing room and poured himself a clear plastic cup's worth. The gurgling of the cooler as it dispensed the water matched the gurgling in his stomach. Whiskey and late-night kebabs, not a good combination. He looked out of the window up at the massive flyover that poured traffic into the city like a Roman aqueduct sluicing sewage. The water was cool at least and did something to ease the throbbing in his forehead. Bob Wilkinson joined him at the cooler, pouring himself a cup.

'You look like shit, boss,' he said.

Delaney winced. 'Everyone's a detective.'

'I'll stick with the uniform, thanks. Leave the glory-hunting to the likes of you and young Sally Cartwright.'

Delaney snorted. 'Glory. Right.'

'Any word on Jackie Malone?'

Delaney shook his head. 'The post-mortem's tomorrow. Might give us something to go on, but I doubt it.'

'It's not like the books.'

'Rarely.'

Bob Wilkinson moved as if to leave, then hesitated, looking back at Delaney.

'What is it?'

'Just thought you ought to know…'

'Go on.'

'There's a bit of gossip going round.'

'About?'

'About you and Jackie Malone.'

'What about her?'

'That you might have been too friendly with her. Maybe you're not the best man to be looking into her murder.'

'And what do you think?'

'I think if I were Jackie Malone I wouldn't want anyone else on it.'

'Thanks, Bob.'

Wilkinson scowled. 'Yeah, well. I'm off to St Mary's to sweet-talk a paedophile.'

Delaney dropped his cup into the bin as the sound of purposeful feet clacking on the hard floor behind made him turn round. Sally Cartwright approached eagerly. She was joining him in interviewing Morgan and was clearly relishing her first day as a detective constable. As they walked along the corridor towards the interview room, he recognised the all-too-youthful enthusiasm that shone from her eyes and felt sorry for her. People came on the job for all kinds of reasons, and the ones who wanted to do good, who wanted to help people, who wanted to put something back into the community were the ones who suffered most. There might at one time have been a place for idealism in the Girl Guides, but not any more, and certainly not in the Metropolitan Police. Pest control, Delaney thought, that's all we are, glorified pest control, but at least stamping on bugs was something he liked to do.

Interview room number one was on the ground floor near the entrance. Usually used for talking to members of the public, taking witness statements and so on. For the serious villains the room at the back of the station near the custody cells was used. Windowless and soulless. Interview room number one at least had a window; even though it just showed the car park beyond, it let sunlight in and that made all the difference. Otherwise it was a bland square room with a mirror on the wall opposite the window, and a rectangular table with two plastic moulded chairs either side, in unapologetically seventies orange. Morgan sat with his back to the window and Delaney pulled out a chair for Sally and sat down beside her, giving Morgan an appraising look. Estate agents reckoned prospective buyers made their minds up about a property within minutes; it took Delaney a lot less than that with people. This guy had bent tattooed all over him. He could see it in the way he sat restless in the chair. His fingers mobile, rubbing his arms or smoothing the fabric of his oil-stained jeans. He was as comfortable in a police station as a pig in a slaughterhouse.