The Advent Killer (12 page)

‘Well, that was a waste of sodding time,’ Hawkins commented, as soon as they were out of earshot.

‘Don’t fret yourself.’ Connor opened the driver’s door of his Honda Civic. ‘It’s not as if it took long, and we got free biscuits. Love a custard cream, me. And, like you said on the way here, dead ends are good.’

‘Dead ends are all very well’ – Hawkins waved politely to the middle-aged woman still standing at the front door – ‘but if your hairdresser found this many, he’d shave your head.’

Connor was right, though. For a hot lead to develop so quickly into such a neat conclusion was unusual, even if it wasn’t the outcome she’d been hoping for.

Hawkins had felt more positive that morning when he’d come up with an address for Thomas Evans – the second of Jessica Anderton’s ‘acquaintances’ her husband had known about. Eddie had thought to dig where others hadn’t: with social services, whose Godalming branch listed an address for a Mr T Evans.

She’d even dared to hope that their unannounced visit to Evans’ Compton home might have provided them with a decent suspect at last.

An hour ago, however, when the door was answered by a dog-eared social worker, alarm bells had rung. Hawkins’ hopes had faded further when she and Connor were led
into a small front room, to be greeted by a despondent-looking Evans.

From his wheelchair.

A nasty motorcycle accident four months before had left twenty-four-year-old Evans with both legs amputated above the knees. He was more than prepared to talk about it, too, treating them to what she suspected had recently become a rueful life story. This included a string of underpaid jobs, his brief but torrid fling with Jessica, and culminated in a tearful account of the fateful day, accompanied by reports printed in two local newspapers and X-rays of his mangled legs.

All of which ruled him out as the killer.

Connor pointed the Civic back towards London. As they chatted about the case, Hawkins watched him glance repeatedly towards her side of the car.

He’d done it so often on their outbound journey that she’d concluded he was checking his mirrors and asked if they were being followed. His resulting explanation had been altogether more innocent.

This time he lasted until they joined the motorway. ‘Open the glove box there, would you?’

‘Already? You said twenty miles.’

‘Aye. But we’ve a big case on, and I’ve pressures at home.’

‘OK.’ Hawkins flipped open the refrigerated glove box and passed him a Mars bar. ‘They’re your teeth.’

‘Calm your knickers, chief. You can have my spare.’

‘No, thanks. Cold chocolate is like eating pavement. You really prefer it?’

‘You’ve no idea. That glove box is the reason I bought the car.’

They were both smiling when a sign for upcoming services caught her eye.

‘Lunchtime,’ she said. ‘Fancy an expensive, salt-ridden, partly-frozen sandwich?’

‘Nice to see years on the force haven’t tainted you. This might be the finest culinary outlet in all of central England.’

‘Flagrant use of optimism? Don’t remember the Met handbook entry on that one.’

Connor pulled onto the slip road as a cheerful melody from inside her handbag reminded Hawkins of the voicemail that had arrived while they were at Evans’ house.

She dialled her answer phone while he parked.

‘
Ma’am, it’s Amala. I’ve been to see the people who run the chat room Jessica Anderton was using. I’m really sorry, but the manager says there’s too much data for records to be kept of previous conversations, and he can’t release details of their privately registered customers. Call me when you get this
.’

‘If you want something done …’ Hawkins murmured, ending the call and turning to Connor. ‘Sorry, change of destination.’

The offices of Levitt International were spacious and clean, just like the rest of Uxbridge Business Park. Yasir stood quietly in the corner, having been invited to watch negotiations, while Connor waited down in the car, visible through the full height windows across the back wall.

As Hawkins and the sharply suited man behind the desk regarded each other through veneers of grace, the atmosphere in the room was heading decidedly south.

‘What can I do, love?’ Guy Levitt spread his arms in an expansive gesture. ‘I want to help, course I do, but I’m bound by the laws of customer confidentiality.’

Hawkins maintained her composure. ‘I understand that, Mr Levitt, but those laws don’t apply here. We aren’t looking to sell these people life insurance; we’re investigating three murders, and at least one of the victims was using your chat room.’

Levitt shrugged, creasing his lower chins.

Hawkins walked over to the framed collection of Levitt company logos. ‘You have quite an empire.’

‘I know.’ He winked at Yasir.

Hawkins pointed at the one for his payday-loan company. ‘Has this always been called Levitt-Cash?’

He frowned. ‘Yes.’

‘That’s interesting.’ Hawkins retook her seat. ‘Because I did some checking on the way over. We have a record of
a company called Instaloan, run by a Mr Guy Levitt, which folded in 2008 after being prosecuted for charging double its quoted interest rate.’ She paused, watching Levitt flush. ‘Now, I’m sure that was probably a different Guy Levitt altogether, but if I have to get a warrant in order to see your client list, I’ll specify full disclosure, which means we can scrutinize every aspect of your past and present operations. It might take a while, but I’m sure we can clear up any confusion.’

The wind whipped her hair across her face, and raindrops fell intermittently from the roof’s overhang above onto her head. But Hawkins wouldn’t have swapped her current position for anywhere indoors.

She inhaled gratefully as she pulled the cigarette from her lips, flicking ash at her feet, imagining the stress of the day being blown away with it across the concrete.

John had chosen the perfect moment to return her cigarettes – as soon as they’d arrived back from Uxbridge to team headquarters in Hendon – with the disk containing Guy Levitt’s entire list of registered chat-room users.

After having checked with a couple of the Met’s contracted technicians, Hawkins had accepted Levitt’s contrite insistence that no records were kept of individual conversations held in chat rooms, partly due to the sheer volume of information; mainly due to privacy restrictions. And while chances of the user list leading them to the killer were almost non-existent, stranger things had happened. She already had people working on it.

Another drag and the tension across her shoulders began to ease. She leaned against the wall of Becke House and closed her eyes.

Mike would crucify her for smoking again, but he was currently talking media strategy with the DCS, so Hawkins had sneaked out for one. Plus, indulging her
sordid habit in the face of a virtual hurricane would, she hoped, reduce any residual traces on her clothes.

‘You know that’ll kill you?’

Hawkins looked around and groaned.

Danny Burns.

‘Sorry to sneak up. Got a minute?’

‘Not for you.’ Hawkins reluctantly stubbed out her cigarette and strode towards the security door. ‘Are you not good with hints?’

She’d already ignored three of his attempts to call since yesterday morning.

‘Antonia, wait, please.’ He tried to block her path. ‘I keep trying to tell you – I don’t want information. I’m trying to
give
you some.’

She stopped. ‘What?’

‘That’s why I rang yesterday.’ He dug in his coat pocket and handed her a folded piece of paper. ‘I wanted you to see this.’

Hawkins looked at him, still cautious. ‘What is it?’

‘Read.’

She took the sheet of paper and opened it. A moment later she looked up. ‘We get stuff like this all the time – don’t you?’ She watched the reporter’s face for signs of a wind-up, but there were none. ‘That’s it? A note from someone claiming to be the killer, containing information that was printed in
yesterday
’s papers? You don’t have to be a genius to work out it’s a hoax, do you, Danny?’

‘Well, normally – and thanks for the vote of confidence – I’d agree. But that email arrived two days before Jessica Anderton died.’

Ten minutes after their initial conversation, Danny Burns sat opposite Hawkins in the police canteen, cradling the coffee she had paid for.

They were just ahead of the lunchtime rush, but the queues were starting to build. Conversations among the desk monkeys who hadn’t noticed a chief inspector sitting in the corner involved the usual banter, while those who had the best of the overtime ribbed those who wouldn’t get to see their children before New Year.

But Hawkins was oblivious as she read the message for the fourth time.

Police,

It is with regret that I involve the media, but everyone deserves to know the truth. And my message must be heard.

 

It is a sad indictment of modern society that people no longer take responsibility for their actions. The only way to make people listen any more is to shock them. My method is rather effective, I’m sure you’ll agree.

 

I apologize for the use of a Taser, it really isn’t consistent with my ethos, but it does allow me to edify my subjects prior to their big moment. Glenis Ward and Tess Underwood have paid for past transgressions, but their deaths will serve no purpose unless others learn from their mistakes.

 

To reinforce this education, more demonstrations will follow,
while this message will ensure that, this time, everyone is paying attention.

 

My next example will sacrifice her impudent existence this Sunday. She has already sealed her fate, but there is still a chance for everyone else.

 

Nemesis

 

The message left only two possibilities. Either information had leaked earlier than they realized and this was a sick joke by someone pretending to be the killer. Or it was real.

Either way, whoever sent the message wanted it seen by the public.

She looked at Danny and pointed to the details at the top of the page. ‘This is the email address it came from?’

‘Yeah, but it’s just some anonymous free account. It could have been sent from an internet café in Delhi for all the traceability of an email like that.’

‘Why send it to you?’

‘With a reputation like mine, why not?’

‘OK, so why don’t I have a dozen other reporters lined up outside holding the same email?’

‘In my business,’ Danny said, ‘the more exclusive something is, the more attention it gets. Anyway, everyone knows where to go if you want to stir things up. I do work for the
Mail
.’

‘So why bring it to me?’

‘You’re leading the investigation.’

‘Come on, Danny, I know your sort better than that. What do you
want
?’

He returned her stare for a moment, and she saw the
mischief flicker in his striking blue eyes. His sense of fun had enticed Hawkins to offer him her number after their first meeting, but that had been prior to her discovery of what his job was.

She didn’t return the grin that appeared on Danny’s face before he replied: ‘I wanted to check the start of the sixth sentence with you.’

Hawkins read the sentence again. ‘“I apologize for the use of a Taser.” So what?’

‘It’s the only element not mentioned in any of yesterday’s papers. There’s nothing in any of them about any Taser. I checked.’

Hawkins read the line again.
Was he right?

‘Earth to Antonia.’ Danny waved his hand in front of her face. ‘Do you know anything about a Taser?’

‘All right, yes, he used a Taser on all three victims. You’re sure none of the papers mentioned it?’

‘Oh, I’m sure. So it’s genuine?’

‘Looks that way.’ She flicked at a stray crumb and sent it spinning from table top to floor. ‘OK, let’s assume the note’s real. The question now is what we do about it. How many other people know about this message?’

‘At this very moment, just you and me.’ Danny shrugged. ‘By tomorrow morning, anyone who picks up a copy of the
Mail
.’

Hawkins felt her jaw drop. The message referred to events from a week ago, but the killer’s promise of further deaths could still create increased alarm among the public in two days’ time.

‘You’re
printing
this?’

‘Teed up and ready to go.’ Danny sounded excited. ‘I
just needed confirmation it was the real thing. The boys in the office are gonna love me!’

‘Danny, please tell me you’re joking.’

‘Reporters never joke about stories this big. That guy increased our sales by nineteen per cent last week. Imagine what
this
’ll do to them.’

Hawkins struggled to stay calm. ‘I’m afraid this is evidence now. I can’t allow you to print it at all.’

‘Sorry, Antonia, we’ll have to discuss that one in court. This is far too big to suppress. Nemesis, whoever he is, is bang-on about one thing – people have a right to know.’

Hawkins just stared. Even if she arrested Danny, there was no way to prevent the information from appearing in tomorrow’s paper.

‘But because I’m a nice guy,’ he continued, ‘I’ll also give you a head start on tomorrow’s
main
headline.’

‘What the hell are you talking about now?’

‘Well.’ Danny sat back and looked up at the ceiling. ‘Now we’re sure this is real, I assume you’d like a peek at the email I received from Nemesis this morning.’

He hailed a cab outside the train station and sat back, thinking about the day’s events as Brighton’s regimented streets began sliding past the window. It was satisfying indeed when meticulous planning began to pay off.

The cab idled at a junction before they turned left onto a short stretch of dual carriageway.

‘Had a good morning, have you, mate?’ The cabbie craned his thick neck, trying to make eye contact, but gave up and resorted to looking at him in the rear view mirror instead.

He felt himself smile.

‘Oh, yeah? Let me guess. Involves a bird, does it?’

He met the man’s gaze for an instant and nodded.
Several, actually
.

‘Well, good luck to you. My missus buggered off years ago, said I was more interested in football than I was in her.’ He braked sharply, then jabbed two fingers at another driver. ‘Yeah, and you, mate!’

‘Now,’ he continued, ‘I’m Claret and Blue to the core, but it’s hardly an obsession like she made out. I’d understand if I was one of those armchair types, you know, never been to a match, but I froze me nuts off on them terraces every weekend for years when I was a kid. I’ve got every single Hammers scarf back to nineteen—’

The driver’s inane words faded to a distant murmur.

Soon his message would spread panic across the capital, creating a smokescreen for him to operate behind. As far as the police were concerned, he posed a threat to every woman in London, which meant that by Sunday night their resources would be stretched to breaking point. The Met was already panicking.

But when his next victim fell in a city fifty miles further south, they’d go into meltdown.

He relaxed in his seat and stared out through the windscreen. A stream of queuing cars flashed past in the opposite lane as the cab coasted along. The only sound was a faint rumble from the tyres. It felt warm in the taxi, and he rested his head against the door pillar. Was the driver still talking? He could no longer tell.

Darkness surrounded him, the world asleep. To the right, his parent’s bedroom door was closed, and ahead, the stairs stretched down into the lower hallway. Behind him, his bedroom door stood open.

He glanced back at his toys, but they remained motionless. There was no sign of the little girl. He listened again, hearing the wind as it swirled around the building, and the grandfather clock ticking solemnly in the hall. But nothing else.

Downstairs and back without being discovered. It was risky, but his mouth was dry, and he imagined the jug in the fridge. On Saturdays, his father went to the Baxters’ farm, which meant the milk he brought back would still be creamy and fresh.

If he made a sound and heard someone get up, he would follow up with a louder noise to ensure both his parents woke. Punishment wasn’t generally as bad if his dad was there.

He reached back and eased his bedroom door closed behind him. At least if anyone got up, it wouldn’t be obvious that his room was
empty. Then he slid forwards, his socks silent against the floorboards.

He took an indirect route to the top of the stairs, avoiding the creaky board that had caught him out in the past.

He paused at the top step, beside the toilet door, peering down into the darkness. The point of no return. If his mother appeared in the doorway now, he could still disappear convincingly into the bathroom. But as soon as he placed a foot on the staircase, that option was blown.

Being discovered at any stage after that meant he’d be hiding the bruises for a fortnight.

After a few more seconds of reassuring silence, his right foot slid gently off the top step and hovered just above the next. He paused, concentrating on the regular beat of the clock downstairs, timing the transfer of his weight onto the lower step to coincide with the louder of its alternate clunks. The first step went well, as did the second, and soon he was making good progress, stepping onto each one of the fifteen stair treads on every fourth clunk.

He reached the ground floor and stood in the hallway, heightened senses divided between the stairs beside him and the corridor ahead.

A few more yards and he would reach the next point of relative safety, when he could close the kitchen door behind him. At that stage, even if his mother crossed the landing, there would be no immediate sign that he’d left his room, and he could enjoy a few refreshing mouthfuls of milk before making the return journey to bed.

But he wasn’t safe yet.

He advanced carefully along the hall, keeping to the right, pausing at the steps leading down to the lounge. It was unlikely that his mother would still be downstairs, but it was always best to check. He leaned around the corner and peered in.

The room looked empty, although the main sofa – where she often
slept during the day – faced away from him. Was she lying there, hidden from view?

He broke cover and crossed the wide doorway, feeling the vibrations through the soles of his feet as he arrived at the grandfather clock on the far side. He stopped and glanced up at its big white face. 12:47, well past midnight. A time when the likes of him should be fast asleep.

He could hear the mechanism turning inside the case, scrape and whine, back and forth, marking every second that passed. In thirteen minutes it would strike one o’clock. Luckily the chime was broken, so that a small clunk, like a heavy coin dropping into a wooden moneybox, was the only noise it made. If he was caught, it wouldn’t be down to the clock. He winced, remembering the last time his mother had found him downstairs at this hour.

But he had come too far to turn back, so he continued, sliding along some floorboards, stepping over others, until he arrived at the kitchen. Where he stopped dead.

For the first time he could remember, the kitchen door was latched.

A door in the house being latched was not unusual in itself, but the mechanism on this particular one was stiff, as it was rarely used.

He paused, trying to work out how seriously to take this minor detail. He hadn’t expected this, and it was difficult to predict how loud disengaging the catch would be.

He could turn around now and head back to his room, but the thirst was still there, and the fastened latch probably didn’t mean anything bad. He needed to be sure, though, so he leaned forwards and pressed his ear against the wood of the door.

At first he couldn’t make out the sound, but then, yes, it was faint, but it was definitely there.

A whimpering, punctuated by short, sharp intakes of breath.

Somebody was in the room.

He took a pace backwards, instinct telling him to leave. But something gripped him.

He glanced along the hallway before he stepped back to the door and listened again. It sounded like somebody was in pain.

Forgetting risk, he reached up to lift the latch.

‘
Wakey, wakey.
’ A distant voice. ‘
Oi, mate!
’

The air turned cold.

‘
Mate, we’re here
.’

Light blinded him. He raised a hand to shield his eyes and blinked, trying to re-orientate himself.

‘Take a pill, mate.’ The driver stood over him with the cab door open. ‘Didn’t mean to give you a heart attack. You said the corner of Westfield Avenue, yeah?’

‘Yes, just … just wait.’ He rubbed his eyes. He sensed the man’s stare, had to get out.

‘Here.’ He thrust the first note he found at the driver, pushing past him and out onto the street.

‘Fare’s only eleven fifty,’ the driver called as he hurried away. ‘You want change?’

He didn’t reply. He knew where he was now, remembering the place he had told the driver to stop: a few minutes’ walk from his destination. He cursed the fact he had to be careful; couldn’t afford for his plans to be cut short because some idiot taxi driver was able to identify him, and where he had been. He had to calm and re-centre himself. But he was shelterless here: exposed. There were people on the streets and in passing cars. He felt them stare as he stumbled along, head down.

He began humming the tune his father used to whistle
in the fields. It hadn’t changed in all the years before he left, and was still comforting somehow.

He walked on, suppressing sickening history, trying to focus on the route he had memorized from an online map the previous afternoon.

Within minutes, his efforts were rewarded as the overtones of music became audible in the distance. And, as the residual effects of sleep faded altogether, he rounded the final corner and stopped.

Before him, a vast plain stretched towards the horizon, interrupted only by a sprawling assortment of canvas and steel.

Old Glad Soul’s Roadshow
.

A temporary sign saying ‘Christmas’ was nailed above the name, a clumsily drawn arrow denoting its intended insertion between the final two words.

People rendered minute by distance queued at the entrance, waiting to join others in the confines of the provisional city.

And, somewhere among them, Summer Easton moved inexorably towards her destiny.