The Advent Killer (24 page)

‘OK, control, we’re two minutes away. We’ll check it out.’

Hawkins released the talk button on her Airwave handset and tucked it back in her coat, silently thanking Brian again, knowing he’d enjoy the box of Krispy Kreme doughnuts on their way to his office.

She moved out of the alley and took up the agreed position in full view. She thought better of leaning against the wall, her desire to blend in overpowered by her wish to avoid taking away a souvenir print on her clothes of what looked like recent graffiti.

Words like that were recognizable even when reversed.

Instead, she pulled a Marlboro from the pack, ambivalent as she raised the lighter, guilty as she savoured the first drag.

A woman appeared from around the corner to Hawkins’ left, laden with Lidl shopping bags that looked like a week’s worth of supplies for a small family. She was about Hawkins’ age, but her head hung low and she moved the same way as everyone else around there – as if all the hope had been sucked out of her. The woman edged towards the stone steps leading into the tower block and disappeared from view.

Hawkins drew on the cigarette again and looked up at the Heygate Estate. The seventies-built council flats were scheduled for demolition to make way for ‘regeneration
projects’. Hawkins remembered reading a local newspaper article about a number of the Heygate’s 3,000 residents who were campaigning against its destruction. They said tearing this place down would ‘destroy the area’s sense of community’.

Not to mention its endemic lawlessness and rampant drug-trade.

It was exactly the type of place where a cunning fugitive like Curtis Rickman might hide: at the bottom of a proverbial barrel even social workers thought twice about scraping.

But today, thanks to Brian, Hawkins had the chance to do just that. Bring Rickman in for breaching parole; hopefully nail a killer in the process. There were enough unaddressed blemishes on his record to justify holding onto him for a few days. And if Sunday morning began without another murder …

Events had unfolded just as they’d planned, with Hawkins responding to Norton’s low-key radio message as nearest available officer to Rickman’s suspected location.

Just then, she caught sight of Maguire as he picked his way through the mid-morning traffic further along New Kent Road. She crushed her cigarette underfoot and set off towards him, fastening her coat against the icy drizzle that was starting to fall.

She had called Mike before leaving Becke House, given him a brief outline of her meeting with Kirby-Jones, and told him about the added complication of Tristan Vaughn. She’d also apologized for hanging up on him the previous evening, and for her part in their latest argument.

There was no point complicating things further by telling Mike what she’d suspected him of.

He spoke first. ‘Thanks for calling. Look, I was out of line—’

She held up a hand. ‘It’s forgotten. We’re both tired and under pressure.’

‘So we’re good?’

‘What I mean is, can we discuss it later?’ She gave what she hoped was a reassuring smile. ‘We’re on a tight schedule here.’

‘Uh, since we’re talking about it … you sure this is a good idea?’

‘By
this
,’ Hawkins dropped her voice as two hooded teenagers passed, ‘I assume you mean apprehending Curtis Rickman, and yes, I’m sure. The DCS currently has my reputation filed somewhere between ‘Fawlty’ and ‘Hitler’. And yours is taking a hit in the press, too. But if we collar Rickman and he turns out to be the killer, we can both take our pick of promotions out of this mess.’

‘I get that. But if we’re right about this guy then he’s armed, Toni, and we don’t have back-up.’

‘Yes, but he’s not going to gun us both down on the doorstep in broad daylight, is he? And requesting back-up means our babysitter finds out. Then you can say goodbye to any credit for this.’

She decided not to mention that neither Rickman’s name nor this address was on the list of mail-order customers whose illegal Tasers had been intercepted. That didn’t mean he didn’t have one of the weapons, of course, but if Maguire knew, he might withdraw his assistance anyway.

‘Besides,’ she turned and headed for the entrance, ‘I’ve got you to protect me.’

‘Great.’ Mike followed. ‘What if he’s got ten of his buddies in there with him?’

Hawkins waited for him to catch up. ‘If it’s that bad, we’ll say we’re Jehovah’s Witnesses and come back with an army. But he skipped parole, Mike – there are points just for bringing him in.’

‘OK, Sheriff. I just hope you’re right.’

They entered the Heygate Estate and began ascending the stairwell. Bags of rubbish almost blocked the first landing, most torn open by rats or mice. The smell of urine was mild but constant.

They reached the fourth floor. Even at this modest altitude the wind had increased substantially, howling as it whipped semi-frozen drizzle into their faces, making them squint. Flat 424 would be around two-thirds of the way down the walkway, according to the sign.

The narrow balcony was deserted except for two blackbirds fighting over a takeaway food bag, and a scruffy-looking dog tied to a drainpipe. The mongrel, which had appeared to be asleep, stood and emitted a low growl as they passed.

Even the canine residents of this place had police-radar.

‘I’ll knock,’ – Hawkins pointed out the spy-holes mounted in most of the doors – ‘you stay out of sight. He’s more likely to answer the door to a woman on her own.’

‘That’s what worries me.’

As they passed, a heavy bass line became audible from inside one of the neighbouring flats. Hawkins wasn’t a fan of dance music, especially at this time of the morning,
but at least the thumping beat would help to mask their arrival.

Mike backed up against the wall to her left as Hawkins approached the door. A single window faced outwards from what looked like the kitchen, but she detected no sign of movement from inside.

She rapped firmly on the faded blue door and moved back against the balcony wall. It was only a few feet, but it would appear less threatening to whoever might answer. Plus it gave her vital extra seconds to respond should their reaction be aggressive.

Nothing happened. Hawkins knocked again, louder this time.

‘Who is it?’ A woman’s voice, tentative, just inside the door.

‘Met Police.’

A pause. ‘He isn’t here.’

‘Please open the door, madam.’

More silence preceded the noise of two serious-sounding deadlocks being released before the door swung slowly in.

‘He doesn’t live here anymore, OK?’

The woman in the doorway must have been somewhere in her thirties, but she wasn’t at all what Hawkins had expected. Dress code on the Heygate Estate was usually velour tracksuit or mucky jeans, unwashed hair and a skin condition. But the person now facing her looked quite out of place. The woman’s accent was more Home Counties than inner London, and she had a natural beauty unadorned by make-up, further subdued by a shapeless
grey jumper and floral skirt. A large necklace with wooden beads hung around her neck.

Hawkins ignored her statement. ‘Are you Karin Shelton?’

‘Yes.’ The woman flinched as a fresh round of bass heavy dance music kicked in from next door. ‘Sorry about the noise.’

‘I’m DCI Hawkins, and this is DI Maguire.’ Hawkins raised her badge as Mike moved in beside her. ‘
Who
isn’t here?’

‘Curtis.’ Karin’s eyes dropped as she said the name.

Hawkins noted her reaction. ‘OK, but we need to find him urgently. Do you know where he is?’

‘No.’

‘When did you last see him?’

‘Months ago.’ Karin’s hand moved to her stomach, as if she felt sick. ‘What’s he done?’

‘We need to discuss it with him, really. Where else could we try?’

The woman eyed her for a second before there was a faint bang from inside the flat. Instinctively, Hawkins tried to peer past her into the hallway.

‘He isn’t here,’ Karin repeated. ‘Come in and look if you want.’

Somewhere behind her a baby started to cry.

‘Well, if you don’t mind.’ Hawkins glanced at Mike, who shrugged.

They stepped inside and poked around while their host tended to her daughter. The dingy hallway had doors for a bathroom and single bedroom, and then opened into
the living space with a tiny kitchen stuffed in one corner. There was clearly no room in the flat for large amounts of storage space, but they checked cupboards and corners big enough to hide an adult, alert for stray clothing or possessions; anything to suggest that Rickman, or any other man, had been there recently.

‘Satisfied?’ Karin asked when they returned to the poky front room.

‘Yes, thanks.’ Hawkins scanned the room in more detail. At first glance the place looked like it was mid-decoration, the top layer of wallpaper removed to reveal patchwork generations of tastelessness beneath. The ceilings harboured years’ worth of cigarette staining. But there was no refurbishment going on here: this was
home
.

Mike squatted beside the baby’s bouncer. ‘Who do we have here?’

‘Olivia.’ Karin smiled as her daughter grabbed his finger.

Hawkins watched them for a moment. Perhaps this answered the question that had been bothering her since they’d arrived: if Rickman was an unscrupulous killer, then why was Karin, as someone who could conceivably help to convict him, still around?

She addressed Shelton. ‘Is Curtis the father?’

‘Of course.’ Karin frowned. ‘Though it didn’t stop him leaving us, just after she was born.’

‘That the last time you saw him?’ Mike stood.

Shelton nodded. ‘Four months ago.’

Hawkins softened her tone to match Mike’s. ‘The more you can tell us about him, the better.’

‘Right.’ Karin sat on the arm of her tatty sofa, fingers
working away at the beads on her necklace. ‘I’m sure you’ve seen his record, and I won’t try to say it’s all lies, because it’s not. But Curtis isn’t the monster people label him as; he’s just, sort of …
intense
. The stuff he cares about is all really important. It’s why I liked him.’ She looked at her daughter. ‘What’s all this about, anyway?’

‘I’m afraid we can’t tell you,’ Hawkins replied, realizing that if Shelton had seen Mike on the news, she might make the connection herself. She checked the room again; relieved to confirm there was no TV. She turned back to their subject. ‘Was he ever violent with you?’

Karin shifted uncomfortably. ‘Towards the end it was like he stopped seeing us, me and Olivia. So I confronted him. We argued and he lashed out.’ Pain entered her expression. ‘It was the only time, honestly. And he’d already gone when the police arrived, so I told them I’d over-reacted, because I knew the parole board would put him away again.’ She sighed. ‘I thought he’d come back.’

‘Look, Karin.’ Mike picked up a toy Olivia had been reaching for and passed it to her. ‘Curtis might not even be involved in this case, but if he is, it’s real serious, you understand?’

Shelton reached down to stroke the baby’s hair. ‘Will you do what you can to help him?’

‘I promise we’ll try.’ Hawkins glanced at Mike. ‘But the best thing for everyone is if we find him.’

‘OK.’ Karin turned her head to stare out of the grubby window. ‘There was one place he used to go, some protest group above a snooker hall in Deptford. Masters, I think it was called, on the High Road.’

‘Good,’ Hawkins pressed. ‘Any others?’

‘He used to disappear for hours, but he’d never say where he was going. The only reason I know about
that
place is because he took me there once. I couldn’t stand it; everyone was so full of hate.’

Minutes later, once Hawkins had extracted them as fast as politeness would allow, she and Mike walked back to the stairwell.

Mike asked, ‘So, what now?’

‘Ah.’ Hawkins turned. ‘I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that. I think we should grab some food on the way to yours, so you can collect some clothes and a toothbrush, then head back to mine.’ She held up a hand to silence Maguire, whose eyebrows had shot skywards. ‘It’s not what you think, but you’re staying with me for a while.’

Another shot cracked the air around him. He turned full circle, scanning the trees.

Still nobody approached.

To his left, a red flag on the hill relaxed, indicating that the wind had dropped. Behind it, the sun dipped below the horizon. The light was fading.

He raised the gun again, releasing the safety catch.

He adjusted his stance, positioning his feet, hefting the weapon’s mass and bracing himself for the kickback.

An explosion this time, off to the right. He aborted the shot, conscious of limited ammunition.

He pulled the creases out of his plastic gloves and checked the area again. Still clear. Then he steadied himself once more, lowering the gun into position, aligning the sight.

His target stirred briefly, but then became still. The air around him seemed to solidify.

He pulled the trigger.

The plank leapt, splintering.

He drew back into the copse, checking the ridges all around for signs that the shot had betrayed his presence. But there were none.

Soon he was certain that, even if anyone heard his gunshot, they weren’t coming to investigate. At that moment,
as if to reassure him further, a burst of distant gunfire rang out to the west.

His trip to Longmoor Range had been a success. The military training ground covered a vast expanse of heath land, and its regular live-firing exercises meant that nobody in the vicinity would be surprised to hear gunshots while red flags were in place. The risk was that he might be seen by servicemen in the area, but the facility offered the perfect place to test-fire a gun without raising alarm.

Best of all, his third and final shot had been perfect, hitting the thin piece of wood dead centre from almost eight metres.

He’d already used the weapon to kill, of course, but that had been from close range. And he needed to be confident with it, should circumstances arise where he was forced to fire from a distance.

He collected the spent cartridge casing and replaced the gun in his bag, scanning for any evidence he’d been there. Satisfied, he moved away, retracing the short route to the edge of the red flag area. Then he began the thirty-minute walk back to Liphook station.

He checked his watch. He could be home within a couple of hours, which left plenty of time to write and send his next email.

Keeping the public on high alert so far had served him well, while adherence to a strict pattern had maintained not only his freedom, but his notoriety as well.

And people still needed reminding there was good reason to be afraid.