My Bloody Valentine (Alastair Gunn) (21 page)

‘I’m not superstitious,’ she told him. ‘It’s why God hates me.’

She moved across to part the internal blinds, and peered into the operations room outside her office at Becke House. Since her previous check, Aaron Sharpe had joined Amala and Mike. It was 8.19 a.m.

She turned to face Hunter again, thankful that the psychological profiler was more eager than some of her team to address their latest killer’s deeds. She’d left a message on his answerphone the previous afternoon. But Hunter hadn’t responded directly, at least until Hawkins arrived at work early that morning to find him waiting in her office. The forty-three-year-old ex-counsellor was renowned within the Met, his insight having cut investigation times on dozens of cases over the years and, in Hawkins’ first experience of working with him, helped them to bring down a psychopathic killer.

She regarded Hunter. He had something of Lieutenant Columbo about him, being as typically disinterested
in sartorial affairs as your typical genius, but with a compelling manner that distracted from his crumpled attire. His gravelled tone and creviced physiognomy might have made another man seem older, but resolutely black hair and a youthful gait kept him looking young. As usual, under different circumstances, Hawkins would have welcomed his company. In reality, his appearance meant they were about to grapple with another potential nightmare of a case.

‘So, to recap’ – Hunter noticed his shirt was hanging out, and tucked some of it back in – ‘we have three victims, the first two separated by four months, and the second pair by just three days. But all the targets had served time, and all three died during the early hours in public places, from head trauma inflicted with what appears to be a domestic hammer.’

‘That’s about the size of it.’

He looked down at the copy of the
Sun
on Hawkins’ desk and gave an appreciative grunt, ‘Great headline.’

She followed his eye line, never keen to credit the press, who would soon be sensationalizing every turn in the case. But she couldn’t disagree: the nickname used by several of that morning’s papers was appropriate for a man who liked to bring the hammer down on convicted killers:

THE JUDGE
.

And, unfortunately, the media now knew that the deaths of Rosa Calano, Sam Philips and Matt Hayes
were connected. One red top had already adorned its centre pages with the heading M
URDER
E
PIDEMIC
H
ITS
L
ONDON
. So strong was the symbolism of the pre-Christmas string of murders that it had taken very little effort from the press to reignite widespread alarm. Mercifully, in contrast to the one in Hawkins’ previous investigation, this killer wasn’t targeting apparently random members of the public, although, if the papers thought fresh panic would help boost sales, that’s what they’d try to create.

Awareness of that fact had prompted Hawkins’ decision to release overnight an official Met statement regarding the case, including the composite e-fit of the main suspect, appealing for any witnesses from the previous scenes to call in. That information had been looping on the news channels every fifteen minutes since, though even an optimist would have called the response tepid so far.

And yet, the stellar anxiety Hawkins had felt when her previous case began dominating the headlines was gone. It had been the largest serial-killer case in the UK for decades, as well as her first big murder investigation as acting DCI. Of course, this operation wasn’t looking exactly routine, but her apprehension had been replaced, unexpectedly, by a calm determination to chip away at the case till something broke.

She’d already spent time that morning with Vaughn, discussing the third murder, having decided to extend
him the same courtesy as she had Tanner. Mike was right: if she convinced herself they were enemies, she might end up making them both exactly that.

It still surprised her how much more comfortable such meetings were when your chief superintendent treated you like an intelligent adult instead of a petulant child, as had been the case with his predecessor – although her own, less fretful approach might also have helped lighten the tone.
There was nothing like a claustrophobic brush with death to provide perspective once you returned to the daily grind.

‘Okay.’ Hunter perched on the corner of Hawkins’ desk. ‘Let’s look at this guy’s motivation. He obviously has issues with people who’ve killed one way or another in their own right. But if the victims don’t appear to be personally linked, the next possibility is that it involves their crimes.’ He thought for a moment. ‘How much remorse did each of his targets show?’

‘During their trials?’

‘At all.’

Hawkins thought for a moment. ‘It’s not something we’ve looked at specifically, although apparently Hayes was in pieces about the kid he ran down, even made appeals to the family for forgiveness – not that it was granted, of course. I don’t really know about Calano, but Philips didn’t show much of anything, by all accounts; she just shut the world out.’

‘Odd.’ Hunter’s gaze drifted away.

‘Why do you ask?’

He looked back at her. ‘Well, my first guess would have been that our killer is castigating his targets for their actions. Had they all demonstrated a lack of remorse, for example, our self-empowered subject might feel justified in punishing them for that. However, as that doesn’t seem to be the case, my next suggestion would be to look at how they might have benefited from the leniency of others.’

Hawkins frowned. ‘You mean, did they get off lightly in terms of sentencing?’

‘Exactly.’ Hunter gave her an appreciative nod. ‘Was there controversy regarding the length of each jail term?’

‘Actually,’ she thought back, ‘you might be on to something there. Extenuating circumstances were cited by the legal teams in every case. Calano was under eighteen and not fully qualified, Philips had been raped by her victim, and Hayes was only doing twenty miles per hour at the time of the accident, the kid’s bike had no lights and nobody could actually
prove
he was drunk.’

‘And the length of each sentence was adjusted accordingly?’

She nodded.

Hunter’s eyebrows twitched. ‘Then, as unexciting as it sounds, I’d surmise that what we have here is a pretty straightforward case of vigilante justice. It’s possible our killer believes these three people avoided fair sentences for causing the deaths of others. He thinks they
still owe a debt to society, and he’s taken it upon himself to redress the balance.’

‘Ignoring the irony of his method, of course.’ Hawkins shook her head. ‘Don’t you just love psychopath logic?’

‘Actually, I’m glad you mention it, because that’s our next problem.’ Hunter’s tone was grave. ‘I’m afraid this killer’s own rulebook creates a paradox for him. If he’s dispensing what he sees as justice to those who kill without then serving sufficient penance, his actions place him in that very position. He’s racking up quite a body count but, for the moment at least,
he
isn’t being held to account.’

Hawkins felt a headache coming on. ‘Which means?’

‘That he, by his own estimation, is moving further and further beyond redemption. One way around this would have been to do it once or twice and hand himself in. Another would be suicide. Unfortunately, the longer he goes without doing either, the more likely the last possibility becomes.’

‘Don’t tell me.’ Hawkins looked straight at Hunter. ‘Unless we stop him, the Judge will just keep on killing.’

40

Heads turned and the clamour in the operations room at Becke House died down as Hawkins emerged from her office, with a copy of the
Sun
in hand and Simon Hunter in tow.

She creaked across to position herself front and centre, quickly checking she had a full team in attendance.

To her right, Mike perched on the edge of a desk. Directly ahead, Amala Yasir sat like a finishing-school prefect next to the cross-legged Frank Todd. On the floor in front of both were steaming coffees from the canteen. Lurking almost out of sight behind them was Aaron Sharpe. Nearby, Steve Tanner stood with arms crossed and his legs oddly wide, like an aspiring superhero. Beside him, Hunter had pulled up a chair.

Hawkins cleared her throat. ‘Good morning. Thanks for being on time.’ She glanced around, catching a few eyes. ‘As you know, developments in this case have been gathering speed. Our killer has provided us with a third irreparably dented skull, earning himself a bit of media branding.’ She held up the paper. ‘The press are calling him the Judge.’

She waited for her team to digest the implications of
that before going on. ‘Of course, body number three also nets him a code name. And it seems our chief super has a sense of satire, because you will come to know this as Operation Appeal
.
’

Yasir raised a tentative hand. ‘Does that mean we’re about to have reporters back at the gates, ma’am, and fresh panic on the streets?’

Hawkins waved at the sergeant to lower her arm. ‘I’m confident we can avert that sort of panic this time. That’s why I chose to go public overnight; some of you may already have seen the TV coverage. A controlled release of information means that at least the public get the facts and not some hyped-up media fallacy designed to incite terror.’

She glanced around the group. ‘I’d rather not be dealing with a third body, but at least its appearance allows us to establish a pattern for this killer.’ She turned to the newly added photograph on the whiteboard behind her. ‘This is Matthew Hayes. Forty-two-year-old ex-estate agent, killed, as you know, just after two o’clock yesterday morning, on his way home from the local off-licence, by the increasingly familiar hammer blow to the temple.’

Todd interrupted. ‘Why
ex-
estate agent?’

‘Good question. Ex because, just like the previous two victims, Hayes had just finished a stretch inside.’

There were slow nods as she went on. ‘Which pretty much eradicates the possibility of coincidence. This guy is targeting ex-cons, so we should be able to convince the public they’re not at risk.’

‘Don’t rate your chances there, like.’ Todd laughed at his own comment and glanced around for support. Finding none, he looked back at Hawkins, resorting to a frown. ‘So what was this one banged up for?’

‘Steve’s been looking at that.’ She turned to their latest team member. ‘Would you mind?’

‘Of course.’ Tanner straightened, uncrossing his arms and moving into everyone’s view.

‘Thanks, Antonia.’ He positioned himself in front of the investigation board, turning back to face the group. ‘I spent yesterday evening looking at the case file and doing the rounds of Hayes’ family and friends.’

He reached for his briefcase, producing a handful of newspaper clippings, and began attaching them to the whiteboard as he spoke. ‘Last December Matthew Hayes’ life was going well. He’d just lined himself up for promotion by sealing a couple of big property deals, which he and his colleagues celebrated with a few drinks at a local pub. Hayes left early, taking his Mercedes from the car park and heading for home, just ten minutes’ drive away.

‘On his way he hit fifteen-year-old Mark Williams’ – Tanner pointed to the photo of a teenage boy – ‘who was riding his push bike without lights on a dark residential street two minutes up the road. Then came Hayes’ moment of madness: he drove away instead of calling for help. Another driver found Mark within minutes, but it was too late. Coppers caught up with Hayes at home the next evening thanks to witnesses,
but an eleven-month jail sentence was just the start of his problems. His wife, Jodie, threw him out before he’d even been sentenced and has stopped him seeing his kids, seven-year-old Tom and four-year-old Rebecca, since. Hayes had recently threatened legal proceedings for access.’

‘But’ – Aaron Sharpe’s head emerged briefly from behind Frank Todd – ‘how did he get off with just eleven months?’

Mike took over. ‘I checked that out. Seems there’s no charge in your screwy British law for killing someone in a hit and run, or for turning tail afterwards. Hayes even kept his damn licence. Derisory sentence he
did
get was for causing death by dangerous driving, and for possibly being over the drink-drive limit at the time.’

Yasir raised her hand again. ‘
Possibly?
’

‘Yeah,’ Mike said. ‘There were no witnesses at the scene, and nobody saw Hayes have more than two drinks at the pub. He drove away after hitting the kid, and the cops didn’t catch up with him till the next night, so his test sample was clear.’

Headshakes and snorts of disbelief went round the room.

Tanner continued. ‘Still, some say what goes around comes around, and he’s definitely paid for it now. But even before that the man was sinking. He came out of prison to find his wife living with someone else, still refusing him access to his kids. His job was gone, too.
So maybe it’s no surprise he turned to drink.’ He explained the condition of Hayes’ flat, and the statements from his neighbours suggesting that he was on a one-way ticket to alcoholism.

Hawkins held up the case file. ‘Anyway, it’s on the system, so you’d better familiarize yourselves with the report. It covers events on the night of Hayes’ death, as well as the investigation into his own offence.’

‘So’ – Todd’s Geordie burr went up an octave – ‘what did this fella do to upset the Judge?’

‘That’s still up for debate,’ Hawkins said. ‘The victims don’t appear to have been connected, but if we can establish a link we’ll be a lot closer to taking this guy down. I’ve asked Steve to lead some research into potential connections between the victims’ murders and their pasts, but it’s also possible these attacks could be to do with the law itself.’

‘Fortunately’ – she motioned to the man sitting on her left – ‘we’re privileged once again to have some support.’ She introduced Hunter, who shuffled across to explain his notion about a killer bent on addressing the inadequacies of a lame judicial system. Ominously, the killer’s potential motive prompted dry but approving murmurs from Todd and Sharpe.