‘Good idea. See you back at the factory.’
An ambulance came into the car park at speed and stopped abruptly, spraying gravel behind it. Delaney turned to Sally.
‘Come on, constable.’
‘Where to?’
‘See if the sniper left any clues.’ He flashed her a sardonic smile. ‘Get out your magnifying glass.’
They stepped aside as the paramedics rushed past with a stretcher. Delaney and Sally walked back into the woods, past the clearing where Peter Garnier had falsely claimed to have buried the bodies of the dead children and further into the trees beyond.
A few steps into the darkened woodland and the numerous primeval ferns seemed to crowd together in a natural screen, the hubbub behind them fading away slightly. Delaney looked back to check his bearing and walked forward, trying to keep in a straight line. Sally followed behind. Mindful of the tumble Delaney had taken earlier, she picked her way carefully through the bracken and over fallen branches that littered the uneven ground.
‘How far away did that motorbike sound to you, Sally?’
The detective constable shrugged. ‘Close. Maybe a few hundred yards.’
‘And the shot? What kind of rifle do you think?’
‘I wouldn’t have a clue, sir. Why? Do you?’
‘Me? Fuck, no! I grew up in Southern Ireland, Sally. Not Belfast. Sounded like a car backfiring to me.’
‘Lucky you slipped when you did.’
Delaney looked back at her. ‘Don’t go paying any attention to what that bubbleheaded news monkey was saying.’
‘She might have had a point.’
Delaney snorted dismissively. ‘If that woman was any more full of shite she’d be a Portaloo at the fucking Glastonbury Festival, Sally.’
‘I didn’t know you were a Glastonbury fan, sir.’
‘There’s a lot about me you don’t know, Sally.’
Sally nodded quietly in agreement to herself. Probably best keep it that way, too.
Delaney walked further into the woods, stopping every now and then to look upwards. After a couple of hundred yards or so he stopped under a group of trees – thick oaks, the boughs gnarled and knotted. He looked upward, shielding his eyes with the flat of his hand, and then down at the ground. Sound was all around them. The sound of sirens in the distance and the clatter and shouts of police, uniformed and plain-clothes alike, as they searched for the shooter. But the sound of the motorcycle had faded away long enough ago for Delaney to believe they wouldn’t trace him. The area was a warren of woods and commons and led into the urban sprawls of Ruislip at one end and Northwood at the other. The shooter would be long gone by now. Delaney bent down to pick up a stick and moved some of the undergrowth away at the base of one tree.
‘Anything, sir?’
‘Nothing useful.’
He held the stick up, dangling a pair of women’s underwear from it. Then he flipped it down again, discarding them.
Sally grimaced. ‘And they say romance is dead.’
‘It is in Ruislip.’ Delaney looked up at the tree again and then used the stick to move more of the grass and bracken aside. He took out a pen and knelt down to pick something else up.
Sally leaned down to see what he was doing. ‘What have you got?’
Delaney held the pen forward. A brass shell casing hung on the end of it. ‘That’s what you call evidence, constable.’
‘How did you know where to look?’
Delaney pointed upwards. ‘There’s a broken branch there – newly broken, too. Not quite sturdy enough to take his weight, obviously.’
Sally looked up to where he was pointing. A medium-sized branch about four inches in diameter had snapped but not broken clean through: the white inner wood was in marked contrast to the moss-covered outer part of the branch. ‘He broke it while hurrying down, you think?’
‘Maybe. Maybe he broke it when he took his shot. Maybe that was why he missed.’
Sally nodded thoughtfully. ‘Yeah … maybe.’
Delaney took a small plastic evidence bag from his pocket, slipped the casing into it, sealed it and put it back in his pocket.
‘Let’s get back to the office.’
‘See what Melanie Jones has to say?’
‘No. I’ve heard enough from that woman today. I want to listen to any more shite I’ll stick prime minister’s question time on the radio.’
‘What’s the plan, then?’
‘The plan, Sally, is to go and talk to Roy Smiley, king of the burgers.’
