himself back into the world. ‘I hear you.’
‘Good,’ she said. ‘I’ll check back with you later in the week. In the meantime, make sure you keep your social life and work life separate. OK?’
‘Fine,’ he replied, managing to fake a slight smile. ‘It won’t happen again.’
She dismissed him with a shake of her head. ‘I’ll see you later,’ she said, and headed for the exit – watched all the way by Langley as he studied every inch of her body.
When she was gone he spun around, hoping to find the customer and pick up where he’d left off, salvage something from the day. The store was empty; she was gone. ‘Fuck,’ he swore under his breath as the anger swelled, making his head hurt. He needed something. He needed something soon. Something to allow the thoughts in his head to become reality instead of beautiful images of what could be. He needed to feel skin and flesh in his hands as a sculptor needs to feel wet clay. Needed to feel blood run between his fingers as an artist needs to feel paint. He needed another victim.
Donnelly stirred late – his eyes flickering open, then closing again as they registered the grey winter light seeping in through the windows. Through the fog of the previous night’s drinking he began to realize he was not alone in his bedroom and that it was his wife who’d opened the curtains and was now talking to him. Though he couldn’t yet make out what she was saying, he could tell from her tone that she was lecturing him. Slowly her words came into focus.
‘Dave,’ she pleaded. ‘You’ve got to get up. You’re late for work.’
‘Jesus, Karen,’ he complained. ‘What time is it anyway?’
‘Getting on for nine o’clock. I’ve got to get Josh to school. The others have taken themselves off. Christ,’ she moaned as she got closer to him. ‘You stink of booze. Where were you last night?’
‘Eh?’ he bought himself some thinking time. ‘Just had a few beers with the boys,’ he lied. In fact he’d remained drinking in the Lord Clyde until it came time to head off for London Bridge Station – stopping at the Barrow Boy and Banker en route for a couple of scotches – then catching a train home, only to stop at his favourite pub in Swanley, Kent, for more shots. By the time he got home it was all he could do to walk. ‘We picked up a new case,’ he elaborated on his lie. ‘Looks like a bad one. Thought we’d grab a few while we had the chance.’
‘Looks like you had a few too many,’ she pointed out. ‘What’s happened to you lately?’ she asked. ‘You always used to be up with the birds. Now you struggle to get up at all. You sure you’re OK, love?’
‘Aye,’ he tried to laugh it off. ‘I told you. Just not as young as I used to be, eh?’
‘Maybe you should lay off the booze for a bit,’ she suggested.
‘Aye,’ he played along. ‘Maybe.’
‘Right,’ she announced. ‘I’m officially out of time. I’ve got to go. Fix yourself something to eat and get cleaned up,’ she ordered. ‘And then take yourself off to work or Corrigan will have your head.’
‘Don’t worry about Corrigan,’ he tried to reassure her. ‘He needs me more than I need him.’
‘Not like this, he doesn’t,’ she warned him. ‘We’ve been married a long time and if there’s one thing you’ve taught me about the police it’s that no one is indispensable – not even you. Plenty more detective sergeants in the sea, I should imagine. I’ll see you later.’
Donnelly grunted a reply as he watched her stride from the bedroom. For a second he considered going back to sleep, but knew if he did he’d be out for hours. Instead he forced himself to sit up and swing his legs over the side of the bed, grimacing and groaning with every movement. He rubbed his face with both hands, feeling the stubble ‘Jesus,’ he complained and stood on unsteady feet, the nausea of the morning after the night before taking its revenge.
He headed downstairs in his old T-shirt and boxer shorts, flicked the kettle on and thought about eating something to counteract the lingering effects of the alcohol, but couldn’t stomach the idea of food. A wave of nausea hit him and made him close his eyes, but the darkness allowed images to invade his mind – images of bullets ripping through Jeremy Goldsboro, pinning him to the side of the van until he slid to the floor spitting blood. Donnelly snapped his eyes open. ‘Fuck,’ he cursed his own memories. ‘Leave me alone,’ he found himself pleading. ‘Leave me alone.’
He checked his watch and winced at the time. His mobile would soon be ringing with people wondering where the hell he was. He needed to get straight and he needed to do it quickly, but he couldn’t eat and coffee alone only intensified the tremors in his hands. His eyes wandered to the kitchen cupboard where the spirits were kept – a cupboard that until recently had rarely been disturbed other than at Christmas. He told himself it was self-medication, safer than antidepressants, but in his heart he knew what he was becoming. He opened the cupboard looking for the vodka – much harder to smell on the breath than scotch. A shot or two of the clear, oily liquid and he’d be good for a few hours. Even with a few drinks on board, he could do his job better than most. Mouthwash and mints would disguise the truth well enough until he could find a reason to be out on enquiries and head off to a pub close to his home. But this wasn’t going to be another routine day helping other teams and units with their enquiries; this was a new murder investigation, so the pressure would be on and people would expect him to be visible and vocal – the old Dave Donnelly.
‘Shit,’ he cursed and reached for the vodka, his fingers connecting with the glass of the bottle then recoiling – the magnitude of what it meant cutting through his clouded mind. The last time he’d taken a drink first thing in the morning had been a stag do over twenty years ago. This was different. This would mean losing himself – possibly forever. ‘No,’ he told the room, and shut the cupboard door. ‘No.’
Sean walked along the sterile corridor that led to the morgue at Guy’s Hospital. It wasn’t an easy place to find, hidden away from the main hospital complex, out of sight from the public and staff alike – neither of whom wanted to be reminded of the grimmest possible outcome for a loved one or a patient. But he knew the route well, having walked it many times in the past. He paused for a few seconds outside the large rubber doors at the entrance, took a deep breath, then entered.
Inside the morgue, six sparkling metal trollies were lined up in two banks of three. Two had bodies on them, hidden under clean, pressed, green hospital sheets, whereas the others were empty. Only two sudden deaths today for Dr Canning to explain. People who died of obvious natural causes, the old or terminally ill, were not deemed suitable for his special attention. Sean saw Canning hunched over the naked body of a young white male, his face close to the dead man’s skin. Satisfied, he straightened up and began to scribble notes on the pad held in his hand.
Sean recognized the corpse, though as ever it looked different from the crime scene photographs – less garish and vivid, and somehow less real. Like a yellowish, rubber imitation of a real, living person.
‘I see you’ve met William Dalton?’ he asked loudly enough to distract Canning from his examination.
‘Indeed,’ Canning answered, glancing up from his notes. ‘I heard this one was yours.’
‘Yes, it was passed to SIU because of the probable link to another murder.’
‘Tanya Richards,’ Canning confirmed. ‘I’ve read the file, but haven’t seen the body. She hasn’t
