The Advent Killer (2 page)

The bathroom door burst open as she lunged through.

She slumped against the thin laminate, hearing it crackle against her weight until she became still. The room was quiet now, save for her short, snatched breaths. But DCI Antonia Hawkins was still desperately willing herself not to throw up.

She took off her jacket and draped it over the edge of the bath.

Breathe.

But the text message loomed again in her mind, and she felt her stomach tighten. She stumbled forwards, tripping over the towel she had left on the bathmat earlier, dropping her mobile. It clattered to the floor, skidding into the corner out of sight.

Hawkins reached the toilet, bracing herself with a hand either side of the bowl. Two strings of saliva hung from her mouth. She fought another urge to heave, catching a glimpse of her reflection in the water below, diluted mascara already running down reddened cheeks.

Do
not
be sick
.

She slumped against the bath, resting her head on the toilet seat, still breathing in quick, shallow bursts. She brought a hand to her face, pinching her temples, swallowing between breaths. Then she caught a sour lungful
of rim block. Her senses sharpened and the urge to vomit left her at last.

Hawkins heaved herself up onto her knees and sat back on her heels, breathing more slowly now, wiping her mouth with her palm.

One week until Christmas.

She tore off a piece of toilet paper and stood up shakily to see into the mirror above the sink, dabbing at her make-up.

Fair enough
, she reasoned with her reflection: an experienced Met Police detective – supposedly used to dealing with the ridiculous pressures of homicide investigation – should not have been reduced to this pitiful state by a simple text message. But sod’s law was currently doing a fantastic job of turning her first case in charge as acting Chief Inspector into her worst nightmare.

She fought down the fear that she was completely out of her depth.

She could
do
this: she had to. Her career depended on it.

Hawkins bent down to grope in the corner behind the toilet, locating the stray handset and dragging it out. She wiped the dust off it and pressed the home button to illuminate the screen, relieved to find it crack-free. But the preview of the text was still there, beside the missed call icon.

Her phone had been on silent when it rang earlier, before she noticed the text that had sent her, reeling, towards the bathroom.

They’ve found number three.

She paused, unable to tell from the preview whether the text contained any further information; unsure whether she wanted to know even if it did. Apprehension flared as she began swiping the screen to unlock the phone.

Then it rang.

She jumped, almost dropping it again, cursing herself for being so tense.

The number was withheld, but Hawkins knew who it was before she answered. ‘Hello?’

‘Hawkins.’ There were never pleasantries with Chief Superintendent Kirby-Jones. ‘I hope you’ve heard from Barclay.’

She cringed. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘I was forced to contact your subordinates because I couldn’t reach you directly. Your trainee detective constable was the only one who answered.’

As far as Hawkins was aware, it was still acceptable for her to have her phone on silent in her own time. She made an attempt at an apology, anyway, but he cut her off. ‘As you’re aware, we have a third victim.’

‘Sir.’ She paused, uncertain if she wanted the inevitable answer. ‘Is it him?’

‘The body was found two hours ago by a cleaner, so details are light, but all the preliminaries match – lone female, at home, approximate time of death, method of incapacitation. There’s room for error, but do you doubt it?’

She didn’t want to respond. ‘No, sir.’

‘If this one links with the first two, your investigation will be upgraded to serious incident status, code name Operation Charter.’

Hawkins closed her eyes. Three victims; one assassin. Which meant the perpetrator had just bagged the official designation reserved for the truly psychopathic fruit-loop elite.

Serial killer
.

As soon as the press got hold of information like that, media scrutiny would turn, full beam, on those leading the investigation.

And she was in charge.

Hawkins was fighting back fresh bile as Kirby-Jones continued, and she tried to focus on what the DCS was saying.

‘I’ve instructed Barclay to collect you, plus reinforcements, on the way to the scene. He has directions and basic information, and he’ll be with you any minute. You’ll need to contact the rest of your team on the way. Clear?’

‘Yes, sir.’ She began frantically trying to repair her make-up in the mirror with her free hand.

‘Remember, Detective, the public is watching.’

The line went dead.

Hawkins stood, looking at her patchwork foundation in the mirror, with the words
chief investigating officer
repeating over and over in her mind.

After a moment, she lowered the phone and quickly finished her make-up.

She rattled downstairs just in time to see an unmarked Vauxhall pull up outside.

Shit.

She walked into the hall and checked herself in the mirror, pausing to wrestle her dark brown mane into a clip.

The car’s horn sounded outside, and Hawkins moved
to the door, taking a deep breath and smoothing her crumpled suit. She picked up her bag. Vanity would have to wait. Right now, she had the biggest case of her career to deal with.

But she surprised herself with a smile as she stepped around the boxes Paul had left behind when he’d moved out a few months earlier.

They were the least of her worries.

DCI Hawkins closed her front door and stood under the porch, digging in her bag for her umbrella. It was only fifteen yards to the car, thanks to a patch of communal grass outside her house, but the rain was horrendous.

She angled her brolly into the downpour and headed for the dark blue Insignia idling beside the pavement. The wind was bitter, and she opened the passenger door with relief.

‘Thanks for the lift.’ Hawkins dropped into the seat, dumping her umbrella in the foot well and yanking on her seatbelt. ‘You know where we’re going, right?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’ DC John Barclay revved the engine as they roared away from the kerb, tyres fighting for grip. ‘Hampstead.’

‘Very upmarket.’ She glanced at her wiry young driver, deciding against asking him to slow down as they slewed onto the main road. Traffic was light and they needed to get there.

She was relieved to note that the trainee detective constable looked a little overwhelmed, too: his shirt collar was rucked up, and he had a thin, white line around his mouth.

She wasn’t the only one who left home in a hurry.

‘John.’ She indicated the same area on her own face. ‘You’ve got some toothpaste …’

‘Oh.’ He licked a finger and began wiping. ‘Gone?’

‘Yeah.’ Hawkins edged away when his hand brushed her leg as he changed gear exiting a bend. He probably hadn’t intended it.

They rode for a few seconds in silence before Hawkins produced her mobile. ‘I’m just going to call Frank and Amala.’

‘Already taken care of.’ Barclay tapped his earpiece. ‘They’re meeting us there.’

‘Great.’ Hawkins rebagged the phone. His proaction meant she’d have her full unit at the murder scene early on: essential to secure the maximum number of witnesses. Instead she found her notepad and started making an investigation plan, resting on her knee.

‘So,’ she breezed, stoking the positive atmosphere, still writing, ‘I hear you got a call from the chief super.’

‘Yes.’ Barclay said as they idled at some lights, the rhythmic thump of the windscreen wipers compounding his lack of elaboration.

She annotated a couple of tasks on her pad before glancing at him, ‘What did he say?’

John looked over, almost as if he’d forgotten about her. ‘There’s another body, ma’am. According to early reports from Scenes of Crime, she died at some point yesterday morning.’

Sunday.
Just like the others.

The lights changed and they moved off.

‘So who was she?’

Barclay coughed. ‘Ever heard of Jessica Anderton?’

‘The politician’s wife?’

Of course she knew of Jessica Anderton, and her
husband, Charles. The charismatic people’s champion of the Labour party and his stunning young socialite, ex-model wife were never far from the headlines. A celebrity-obsessed public had battled recently to buy the Gucci handbag Jessica had donated to a charity auction; they’d queued for hours to buy
Hello
magazine when it ran exclusive photos and an interview with the couple prior to their wedding. Even the opposition’s repeated allegations that the Andertons’ marriage was a poll-friendly sham had tailed off in recent months.

‘Blimey.’ Hawkins tried to hide the trepidation in her voice. ‘What about MO?’

‘That’s him.’

Hawkins looked across to see Barclay pointing ahead. Then she remembered Kirby-Jones’ instruction to collect reinforcements on their way to the scene.

Barclay pulled over to the kerb. ‘Just like the DCS said – thirties, slim, unnecessary facial hair.’

Hawkins squinted through the rain bouncing off the windscreen, trying to get a look at her newest team member. A man waved and jogged out from under the cover of a bus shelter, holding a newspaper above his head and a mobile to his ear, weaving his way through the sea of suited nine-to-fivers.

He finished his call and slipped the phone inside his suede jacket as he pulled open the rear door of the car and got in.

‘DCI Hawkins?’ His accent was clipped, Belfast probably. ‘DS Eddie Connor.’

‘Call me Antonia.’ They shook hands between the seats. ‘And this is our trainee, DC John Barclay. Thanks for coming at such short notice.’

‘Well, your man didn’t disappoint the press, anyway.’ Connor pulled the rear door shut as he held up a moist copy of the
Daily Mail
.

Hawkins twisted in her seat. ‘
Will Killer Strike Again
?’ She read the headline aloud in her best movie-trailer voice, feigning nonchalance. ‘Where would we be without the great British press to stir up some decent, nationwide panic? Can’t wait to see what happens when those arseholes hear about our latest.’

‘They already know,’ Connor said. ‘I just spoke to a friend of mine in Scenes of Crime. The media were there before
him
.’

‘Fantastic.’ Hawkins looked at Barclay, about to suggest they shouldn’t hang around, but there was no need. He opened the throttle and accelerated back into the flow of early morning London traffic.

‘So where have you joined us from?’ Hawkins said over her shoulder, bracing herself between floor and armrest as Barclay swung out to overtake a meandering waste-disposal lorry.

‘CID.’ Connor raised his voice over the din of the worsening thunderstorm hammering the Vauxhall’s roof. ‘Flying Squad. I put in a transfer request ages ago, but nothing happened until your chief super rang me this morning. I’m on your team until further notice. Apparently my application only just got to him, but I think it’s more to do with the shit that’s about to hit the fan in Downing Street.’ He laughed. ‘In fact, things happened so fast that nobody’s asked for my gun back yet.’

‘You’re a specialist firearms officer?’ Barclay looked around.

‘Murder, shooters and fast cars,’ Connor said. ‘Everything a boy dreams of when he joins the force.’

Hawkins caught his grin and returned it. Having an armed SFO on the team would be a definite bonus if and when they caught up with the killer.

‘This a pool car, is it?’ Connor waited for confirmation before he began brushing the water out of his hair onto the upholstery. ‘So, tell me what the
Daily Mail
doesn’t know.’

‘Two previous victims,’ Hawkins explained over her shoulder. ‘Both female, both killed at home on consecutive Sunday mornings. First was sixty-three-year-old Glenis Ward, who drowned in her bath. We thought it was suicide initially as there were no superficial signs of foul play. Glenis’ alcoholism was common knowledge – it was why she had to “retire” from her job as a cook – and the recent diagnosis of bowel cancer was considered depressing enough to have pushed her over the edge. Turns out she was attacked in her hallway before being dragged upstairs to the bathroom.’

Hawkins caught a sign for Belgravia as it flashed past. They were close. ‘Then, exactly seven days later, a forty-eight-year-old former care-worker called Tess Underwood was beaten to death with a baseball bat. And when I say beaten to death, think major bones being systematically broken one by one from her shins upwards. The coroner said she didn’t die until the killer reached her head, and even then only thanks to an intracranial haemorrhage caused by a direct blow to the face, which rammed a shard of skull into her cortex.’

‘Nice.’ Connor’s tone was suitably disgusted.

Hawkins registered it, pleased with his reaction to gruesome details too familiar to raise eyebrows among the existing members of her murder investigation team.

They hit traffic at the Royal Thames Yacht Club, and Barclay looked at her for approval to use the lights. She nodded, flicking the switch for him. The Vauxhall’s siren attacked the air and Barclay kept going, swerving into the empty oncoming lane to clear the jam.

‘Proper fucking action at last.’ Connor’s head appeared between the front seats, like a kid arriving at Disney World. ‘So, what’s he done to this latest girl?’

‘I think,’ Hawkins turned to Barclay, ‘we’re about to find out.’