Hard Evidence by Mark Pearson Read Free Book Online Page B

great job. Does she
have a computer?'
    Morgan didn't answer, and Sally prompted him
gently. 'Does she have her own computer, for
schoolwork?'
    'In her bedroom. She has one in her bedroom. I
don't know how to use it.'
    For the first time, maybe, Delaney felt a twinge
of sympathy for the man.
    Sally continued to smile encouragingly at
Morgan, good cop to Delaney's bad. 'Do you
mind if we take the computer, Mr Morgan?'
    'Why would you do that? She needs that. She
told me she needs it for her homework. All the
kids have got them.'
    'I know.'
    'When she comes home, she'll want to know
where it is. She'll be home soon, won't she?'
    'We hope so.' Sally had a soothing voice, like
soft honey. Delaney found himself thinking that
she'd probably make a good mother some day;
Howard Morgan was just like a child in a lot of
ways.
    'Sometimes people use their computers like
diaries, Mr Morgan,' she said. 'They write things
in them.'
    'I don't know. She never showed me.'
    'It might help us find her.'
    'Take it then. I just want her home. She should
be home.'
    Delaney considered Morgan for a moment or
two but could see nothing in his eyes that he
hadn't already seen in his own. The thought didn't
reassure him.
    There are all sorts of places where the dispossessed
and the helpless of London gather. Abandoned
warehouses, filthy underpasses, old churchyards
tucked away in shameful Victorian decay right in
the heart of the city, although the city, of course,
has no heart. Bob Wilkinson knew that for a fact.
This was a city that killed people. Literally. You
could kill a person with a building as easily as you
could with an axe – he didn't know who said that,
but he agreed with the sentiment. Bob would have
liked to take an axe to some of the people he had
to deal with in his job on a daily basis. He
watched as Bonner sniffed disdainfully and looked
down at the inert body of a young girl. They were
in an underpass, a late-night drop-in for the
substance- and alcohol-abusers who had nowhere
else to go. In the winter it would probably kill
them, but in the summer it kept them out of the
rain and out of the noses of late-night theatregoers
on Shaftesbury Avenue. Didn't keep them
out of Bonner's nose, though, and it was a smell he
clearly didn't much care for.
    He toed the young girl roughly with his shoe,
looking at the picture of Jenny Morgan that he
held in his hand.
    'Easy, Sergeant.' Bob's disapproval was clear in
his voice, but Bonner ignored him and kicked the
sleeping girl again.
    'Wakey, wakey.'
    The young girl turned her head and blinked
angrily up at Bonner.
    'Why don't you fuck off?'
    It wasn't Jenny. Bonner nodded at her and put
the photo back in his pocket.
    'All right, princess. Back to your beauty sleep.'
    Bonner and Wilkinson walked on through the
subway that led from the hospital to where their
car was parked. The girl called after them.
    'Hang on, copper, you got any change?'
    'Yeah,' Bonner called back and carried on
walking.
    Bob looked at him and shook his head. 'You're
a piece of work, you know that.'
    'That's a piece of work, Sergeant, to you.'
Bonner grinned.
    'And you can kiss my arse,' Wilkinson muttered,
not quietly.
    Bonner pretended he hadn't heard it. 'We
haven't got time to fuck about, Bob. That little girl
needs to be found; it's about getting the job done
quickly.'
    'I bet your girlfriend loves that approach.'
    'My women love everything about me.'
    'Course they do, sir.'
    Bonner strode quickly up the subway stairs as
Wilkinson followed behind, thanking Christ on a
bicycle that he was getting out of the job soon.
    Delaney looked around Jenny Morgan's room. It
was sparse, neat. No posters of boy bands on the
wall. No pink furry ponies or glittering costume
jewellery. No Keep Out signs. No notebooks with
doodles on the cover and I heart this or I heart
that. No photos of horses, or best mates hugging
each other in photo booths designed for passport
pictures. No jewellery boxes or musical boxes or
clothes strewn on the