Blood Work

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.'