'Jimmy, it's Jack. I've got Michael Hill. He's dead. He had a gun. We struggled. He lost.'
'Glad to hear it.'
'Don't be too glad. He didn't tell me where Sally Cartwright is.'
'I've got another address, Jack. One from his original application. His aunt's. She died recently.'
'Where is it?'
'About a quarter of a mile from where you are. Priory Road. Number thirty-two.'
'Put it out. I'll make my way there. And get an ambulance sent over here.'
'You reckon he needs it?'
'It's for the nurse. At least we saved one of them.'
Delaney walked over to the Michael Hill's supine body. He took the tranquilliser gun off him and put it in his pocket. Then wiped his own gun and put the dead man's hand over the grip of the gun, fitting his finger in the trigger guard. He squeezed the dead man's hand a couple of times and then used it to throw the gun on the floor about three feet away.
He walked back to Kate. 'You didn't see any of that. We struggled. His gun went off.' He ran his fingers through his hair, realising his hands were still trembling and there was nothing he could do to stop it.
Kate stepped forward and hugged him. 'You can't save everyone, Jack.'
Delaney kissed the top of her head. 'I can try.'
Kate looked up at him and ran her hand over his unshaven face. 'What am I going to do with you?'
'I've got to go. The ambulance and the others won't be long. Will you be all right waiting here?'
'Just find Sally, Jack.' She kissed him. 'And be careful.'
Delaney nodded at the body. 'He's dead, Kate.'
They're both dead, he thought, as he walked off into the wind and rain not daring to let himself believe that Sally Cartwright was still alive.
Michael Hill's aunt may have only been dead a short while but her house had already been stripped of furniture; a painted dresser in the kitchen, a bed in one of the upstairs bedrooms, some old clothes hanging in a musty wardrobe. But nothing apart from that. Just dust and damp.
Delaney toured the rooms once again to see if he had missed anything. But he hadn't. The house was empty.
He pushed the front door shut and leaned against the porch wall; using his body to shield against the wind, he lit a cigarette. He took a deep drag and played back in his mind what Michael Hill had said before he shot him. He was a force of nature, he'd said. And before that he said he wasn't finished. No. He hadn't. His exact words were 'We're not finished'. The women being mutilated, the man not. The whole Jack the Ripper nonsense. 'We.' He cursed as he fumbled for his phone.
We. There were two of them.
'Shit!'
Detective Inspector Robert Duncton of the serious crimes unit thundered up the stairs, the men behind running to keep up. Half of them were in flak jackets and armed. He got to the top of the stairs and walked along the external corridor. He was not in a good mood. White City had been pissing all over his investigation again. Little men trying to play with the big boys. One of them, Jack Delaney, had just shot dead the prime suspect and was now claiming that Michael Hill was acting with a partner. That there were two of them. If they had made a mistake in letting the first one go it was the sort of thing that could wreck a promising career. And Robert Duncton's career was very promising indeed. At least it had been up until today.
