'Keep an eye out. The new super has a bug up his arse about smoking. Anyone would think it's against the law.'
'It is, Diane.'
She smiled and fired up a cigarette and opened her window slightly. 'So, what have you got for me, cowboy?'
Delaney shrugged. 'Nothing new. The body is at the morgue.'
'What's your instinct? Sexual predator? First date gone wrong? Homicidal maniac?'
'I don't know, boss. A lot of anger there, that much is clear.'
'Killed in the woods, or dumped there?'
'The doc reckons she was killed where we found her. The blood-spatter patterns seem pretty conclusive.'
'Did she give a time of death?'
'Last night.' He shrugged. 'Hopefully we'll know more after the post.'
Diane took a drag on her cigarette and looked at him. 'And what did you get up to after I dropped you off?'
'I went home and tucked myself straight up in bed like a good boy.'
'Yeah, right.'
He smiled, but his eyes were flat. Remembering.
Delaney hunched the collar of his jacket around his neck and leaned back, shielding himself from the wind as he lit the cigarette that was his excuse for getting off the train. The dark-haired woman in the carriage had reminded him of Kate. It wasn't her. Wasn't remotely like her, apart from the hair. But he couldn't keep her out of his mind and, suddenly claustrophobic with his thoughts, he had hurried through the closing doors, shouldered through the crowds, up the escalator and out into the fresh, cool air.
Eight o'clock at night and it was already dark. The black clouds overhead were pregnant with rain, a real burst of it looked imminent, but the pavement was bright from the street lamps and the wash of light that spilled from the broad windows of WH Smith which Delaney was leaning against. He stood there for a moment or two, watching people hurry across the road and into the safety of the station. He watched a woman in her forties with dyed, ill-kempt, blonde hair and a red vinyl jacket walk near the phone boxes, scanning the eyes of approaching men, looking to make a deal, needing another fix and not caring about the weather.
Delaney finished his cigarette and walked back to the station entrance. A couple of stops up the Northern Line and he'd be in Belsize Park. Back home. Only it didn't feel like home to him and he was not sure it ever would. He paused at the entrance. Maybe he should do as his boss suggested. He'd had quite a few drinks already but he was a very long way from being rat-arsed. He shook another cigarette out of a packet and lit it, feeling his heart pound in his chest, and came to a decision. He blew out a stream of smoke and started walking. Away from the station towards the British Library. He crossed over the road, running to dodge the traffic, and walked a couple of hundred yards up Pentonville Road towards Judd Street and went into a pub on the corner of the two roads. An Irish bar, a proper one, not a diddly shamrock theme pub. The warmth and the noise wrapped around him as he entered, the light was bright but, for a change, Delaney didn't mind that. He walked across the scuffed wooden floor to the long, scruffy bar and ordered a large whiskey and a pint of Guinness from the freckled woman in her thirties who was stood behind it. He had downed the whiskey before the Guinness had settled and ordered another one. He was sipping it a little bit more slowly when a soft, hot, moist voice whispered in his ear.
'Hello, stranger.'
He turned round and took another sip of the whiskey, looking into the cool, green eyes of the woman who had sat on the stool next to him. Her hip
