Part 20 (1/2)

'It's Bob Wilkinson.'

'Go on, Bob.'

'You might want to get down the nick.'

'You got him?'

'Yeah, you were on the money. But I'd get down here quick if I were you. The s.h.i.+ny boys from serious crime are all over him.'

'We're on our way.'

Delaney put his hand on Kate's arm and steered her out. If she felt displeasure at his touch she didn't display it. 'Who have they got?' she asked.

'Ashley Bradley.'

'He's the killer?'

'He had pictures of both victims on his walls and he's a cla.s.s-A pervert, we know that.'

'Why the b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l would he take my scarf though?'

Delaney fished his car keys out as Kate locked her front door behind her. 'I don't know, Kate.'

But he had an idea.

Ashley Bradley sat uncomfortably on the hard, plastic chair. The central ridge cut into him painfully. He wasn't wearing underpants, he never did when he went out on a mission, but he now wished that he had been. He s.h.i.+fted again and adjusted himself.

Delaney watched, through the one-way mirror, as the suit- and tie-wearing finest from the serious crime squad interviewed him. He flicked the switch so he could hear the words.

'You want to tell us about the photos on the walls of your bedroom?'

'It's not a crime.'

'Yes it is, Ashley.'

'No it's not. It's perfectly legal to take pictures of people in public places.'

Delaney was amazed, as ever, at the calm arrogance of degenerates caught right in the act. People who looked at child p.o.r.nography were only doing it for research. Convicted child abusers claimed it was a form of love as ancient as humanity. Delaney would have liked to have gone into the room and given Ashley Bradley some tough love right then. The kind that draws blood.

His mobile phone rang and Delaney, seeing the ID, flicked the switch off on the intercom.

'What have you got for me, Roger?'

'The properties in Pinner Green. A development company was set up to buy out the existing businesses there and convert them to luxury apartments. Took about a year to set up. The petrol station, independently owned, was the last to be sold. Given the time of the development and the time the last of the luxury apartments were sold at the height of the market two years ago . . .'

'Go on.'

'We're looking at millions of pounds' worth of profit.'

'And who owned the development company?'

'An outfit called Blue Heaven Property.'

'And who owns that?'

'It was just set up for this venture. But it links to a sh.e.l.l company called Hunter Developments.'

Delaney sighed. 'Get to the point, Roger.'

'That's just it, Hunter Developments, like I say, is a sh.e.l.l company. The trail leads offsh.o.r.e. Financed out of the Cayman Islands.'

'And what does that mean?'

'It means we don't know who owns the development company.'

'And there's no way of finding out?'

'None that I'm capable of.'

'How then?'

'I don't know, Jack. These guys are probably operating outside the law. This is your area of expertise. You deal with it.'

The line went dead. Delaney closed his phone and cursed. He may not know who was behind what happened, yet. But at least now he had motive and that was a start. He flicked the intercom switch on and listened to Ashley Bradley flatly denying any involvement in the murders. As he watched him, and listened to him speak, Delaney thought he was an unlikely candidate for a serial killer. But then he was also aware that they didn't always hunt alone. Yes, sometimes they had an accomplice, someone who had graduated up from flas.h.i.+ng at cantankerous nurses and filming the undergarments of unwary shoppers at shopping malls. But, if the smart-suited and career-enhanced coppers interviewing the suspect had asked for his opinion, he would have said that Ashley Bradley wasn't involved at all. He could read people, that was his talent above all else. And, although he had thought, when he first saw the photos Bradley had on his wall, that he had made a big mistake in letting him pa.s.s them on the stairs, listening to him now he didn't think he had. They had the wrong man. He'd put money on it.

Upstairs, Kate Walker was sitting in Jack Delaney's office, at his desk, and drinking a cup of coffee from his mug. If someone had told her this morning she would be doing that she would have thought them mad. At the moment though she didn't have time for introspection. She was looking at the preliminary report from Dr Patrick Neally, her colleague who had attended the murder scene earlier that day. She had asked her a.s.sistant to email it through. Strictly speaking she should have gone to him first, but she didn't have the time for professional niceties. And, in any case, she was working out her notice, so she thought, stuff it! She also had the photographs and notes from the scene of crime, which she was leaving till last. The report didn't make for good reading. Whoever had done this to another person was beyond reason. The mutilation was sickening even to her, who had seen enough horror over her years as a forensic pathologist to despair of the human race entirely. This was a degree of magnitude more gruesome than anything she had ever seen.

But it was to get worse.

Delaney was walking down the front staircase, heading for the exit to the car park. He needed a cigarette. Actually he needed a drink. Not needed it, he rationalised, but wanted it. When did want become need? he wondered. When you had no control over your desires? Well, that was something he always had. Not like the sad b.a.s.t.a.r.d being interviewed right now.

What Delaney needed to do was think, and the quick spikes of nicotine in his blood helped him do that. He was fumbling in the right-hand pocket of his leather jacket for his cigarettes when George Napier walked up to him, a smile on his face, Diane Campbell right behind him, not smiling at all.

'Delaney.'

Delaney's heart sank. Napier smiling. Not a good sign. 'Guv.' He nodded at Diane, who raised her eyebrows back. 'Ma'am.'

'Good work today, Delaney. Nipped him in the bud.'

'Sir?'

'Bradley.'

'I don't think we should get ahead of ourselves, sir.'

'Now is not the time to p.i.s.s on your own parade, Delaney.'

'I'm sorry?'

'We have a press conference set up. We want you to make the statement.'