The Advent Killer (27 page)

Hawkins slammed the receiver down. ‘Shit!’ Then she picked it up and slammed it down three more times. ‘Double, fucking,
shit
!’

She slumped forwards on her elbows, letting her head drop towards the desk. To anyone entering her office she would look like some ridiculous, abandoned puppet. But after the way her morning had gone so far, Hawkins couldn’t have cared less.

It was 8.40 a.m.

The phone call had been from Kate Foster, an old acquaintance who worked at Hendon forensics lab. The fact that Foster owed her from years back, when Hawkins had breathed on several of her dissertations, was the only reason Hawkins had been able to coax her into work on what was not only a Saturday morning, but New Year’s Eve as well.

The results she’d been waiting for had come back fast, but uncomfortably conclusive. It had been a long shot to hope they would get a match for Rickman’s DNA on traces taken from any of the four murder scenes, mainly because the killer didn’t leave any. If he had, the connection would already have been made, because Rickman had been on police record for a long time.

However, fuck-ups occurred from time to time; records could be misfiled or lost. So Hawkins had watched as fresh samples were taken from their suspect, and then
sent them to the lab herself. She’d been hoping desperately since then for a positive match.

But that hope had just been extinguished.

It didn’t mean Rickman wasn’t the killer, just that Hawkins wouldn’t have any evidence of that when she met Tristan Vaughn in half an hour’s time for a pre-morning-briefing catch-up.

She’d have to come clean about having withheld information about Curtis Rickman, too. And without proof, her unauthorized apprehension, even of a troublemaker like him, would appear arbitrary and petulant.

More bad news was that Rickman had managed to secure the services of Steven Colt, a defence barrister with a solid reputation for getting banged-to-rights career villains off major charges. Thanks to Colt’s swift intervention, Rickman was steadfastly exercising his right to remain silent.

Rickman’s retreat to the bathroom prior to his arrest hadn’t filled Hawkins with hope at the time, and whatever he had flushed away before they broke in had gone for good. The search team had, however, recovered from the bath a hurriedly rinsed plastic box containing ricin residue. They’d also found traces of the lethal powder in the kitchen, and retrieved a bottle from a neighbours’ bin that tested positive for acetone: a volatile liquid used in its manufacture.

The problem was that ricin, nasty as it was, seemed a little tame for Nemesis. And while this evidence could put Rickman away for possession of a biological toxin; simply taking down an aspiring terrorist, plus his mates from the protest group once investigated, wasn’t going to save her on this one.

Because a thorough search of the property had yielded nothing connected to the Nemesis case. No John Barclay; no Taser.

No hairy great knife.

Hunter said a serial psychopath like Nemesis wouldn’t hide his murderous tools anywhere particularly inaccessible: first, because he’d want immediate access to them; and second, because he wouldn’t be expecting to get caught.

So there wasn’t much point looking further, which would have entailed tearing plaster off the walls and digging up the garden.

She had bugger-all chance of getting authorization for that kind of operation anyway.

In fact, the only positive was that details of another property leased to Rickman had been found at the house. Frank Todd was on his way there now with a second forensics team, and would arrive at approximately the same moment she was due to meet Tristan Vaughn. But Hawkins knew better than to hope they’d uncover evidence suitably incriminating, in time to defuse what was certain to be a roasting.

She had gambled her entire reputation on Rickman being the killer; on the strength of what she now had to admit was pretty flimsy evidence. It was the classic cautionary tale – the officer who let a case become personal.

She’d been so sure about Curtis Rickman. He had the right build, the right hair, the right
mind
. And yet, from the moment she’d arrested him, something had felt wrong.

Worse still, if they couldn’t prove he was connected to
the Nemesis case in the next fourteen hours and twenty minutes, they were obliged to hand him over to the parole board. And there would be little chance of the Crown Prosecution Service granting the usual twelve-hour custodial extension after that. It was common knowledge that the board’s recently appointed chief executive was already under pressure, which meant he’d have Rickman back in their custody faster than she could say ‘prime suspect’, but getting to him after that would be a painstaking process of tertiary access hearings and accompanied interviews, overseen by more bureaucrats than nature could ever have intended to create.

At least he’d still be detained, although they’d have to wait until Sunday morning to see if his incarceration coincided with the absence of another body.

Her train of thought was interrupted by an abrupt knock at the door. Hawkins caught her breath as Tristan Vaughn appeared.

‘Hi.’ She managed to retain her composure. ‘I thought we said nine o’clock.’

‘We did.’ Vaughn’s tone was unpleasant. ‘Circumstances have changed. Come with me.’

Vaughn knocked and waited for a response before he opened the door and stepped aside, allowing Hawkins to pass. Then he followed her in.

The chief superintendent looked up from behind his desk as they entered, closing his laptop screen with a characteristically precise movement. He made no attempt at a greeting, but his eyes remained fixed on her.

Instead of the usual scowl, however, Lawrence Kirby-Jones’ expression conveyed something she hadn’t expected. It looked like sorrow.

His gaze flicked to the chair in the centre of the room and then back at Hawkins; a barely detectable movement, but one she interpreted as an instruction to sit, and obeyed.

Vaughn took a seat to the side of Kirby-Jones’ desk, his body language equally ominous, except that he was being careful not to make eye contact with her at all.

Hawkins heart pounded. Things were even worse than she’d feared.

Still nobody spoke.

She began to glance around the room, trying to regulate her breathing. There were times in the past when she’d broken silences in this office and then wished she hadn’t.

Oddly, the room seemed darker in daylight than it did
under artificial illumination: even the hazy sunshine creeping through the rear-facing window seemed intimidated by the prospect. One notable difference created by the natural light, however, was that the upper parts of the walls, normally left in darkness by the down-turned lighting, were currently visible.

For the first time she noticed a shelf filled with books, mounted high and towards the rear of the room. She could read a few of the titles:
Understanding Criminology: Current Theoretical Debates
and, further along,
Criminological Perspectives: Essential Readings.
At the far end was a large volume named
Police Ethics: Crisis in Law Enforcement.

She looked back at Kirby-Jones, realising suddenly where she’d seen his expression before. Family Liaison officers wore it when they rang the doorbells of the soon-to-be bereaved. It was the look of someone about to tell you something you really didn’t want to hear.

‘Was I unclear, Detective,’ he said quietly, ‘the last time we spoke?’

She hesitated, aware of the risks associated with her coming question, but equally determined not to make this too easy for him.

‘Unclear about
what
, sir?’

The reaction was almost imperceptible, but Hawkins saw his cheeks twitch ever so slightly before he replied in the same, controlled manner.

‘About your instructions regarding Superintendent Vaughn’s involvement with the remainder of Operation Charter.’

Hawkins looked down at the desk. How much did he
know? However much it was, she’d gain little by attempting to confuse the issue.

‘No, sir, your instructions were clear.’

‘Then why was he not involved in the decision to arrest Curtis Rickman?’

‘Mr Rickman wasn’t wanted only in connection with Operation Charter, sir. He was in breach of his parole conditions for an entirely separate case. His arrest became a formality as soon as he was located, and his place of residence was identified during the course of routine enquiries. I felt it … unlikely that superintendent Vaughn would disagree regarding the need for immediate action, and that a delay to obtain permission might jeopardize our advantage.’

Kirby-Jones stared at her in the same way an infuriated parent might regard a disobedient child. ‘I’m not questioning your actions with regard to Mr Rickman’s detention, but I do wish to know why the superintendent was not
informed
of them.’

‘Well, sir, things moved pretty fast, and although we suspected initially that Mr Rickman might have been linked to Operation Charter, it now looks more likely that—’

‘Please, Detective.’ Kirby-Jones held up a finger, silencing her. ‘Don’t lie to me. You purposely neglected to notify superintendent Vaughn of Mr Rickman’s potential involvement, or your subsequent decision to apprehend him, because you wanted sole credit for the arrest of a man you hope will soon be identified as the killer.’

Hawkins opened her mouth, but no words came out.

‘And you were prepared to risk the lives of your team in
pursuing a potentially armed suspect without appropriate support – a bad enough decision had it been made by a fully fledged DCI, but you seem to have forgotten that your position in this role is both temporary, and due more to circumstance than my better judgement.’ He paused. ‘Do you wish to submit anything at this point in your defence?’

Hawkins hesitated, then realised her voice had returned, rising as she spoke. ‘In my defence? Is this a
formal
disciplinary, sir?’

‘No.’

She felt heat run up the back of her neck. ‘Then I don’t see why I should be subjected to this biased and derogatory treatment
yet again
. Either I’m competent to lead this investigation or I’m not. But you think it’s acceptable to leave me with SIO status, along with responsibility for the eventual outcome, while in reality I’m barely authorized to sit down when I feel like it, let alone make major decisions.’

Kirby-Jones’ eyes widened noticeably, but he made no attempt to respond.

Hawkins glanced at Vaughn, who still refused to meet her gaze, before she continued. ‘So with all due respect, if I’m no longer in command, I don’t see why I should remain under this sort of pressure. If you want a scapegoat, fine, but at least allow me to make my own mistakes.’ She paused, heart pounding, before deciding to leave it there. ‘Sir.’

Lawrence Kirby-Jones blinked several times, as if he couldn’t quite comprehend what had just happened. Then he leaned forwards, linking his hands on the desk before
him. His reply, when it came, was controlled, but thick with candour.

‘You may be surprised to hear, Detective, that I agree with you on several points. As I mentioned last time we spoke, my major concern, apart from stopping this killer, was for the reputation of the Met. I now believe our current situation to be working against that interest. What you interpreted as revoking your command status was an attempt to preserve your self-tarnished reputation. Now it’s clear that to allow your continued involvement would be a mistake. I’m sorry to say, Detective, that I am bound by the Metropolitan Police Code of Conduct. And by disobeying direct orders, withholding information from a superior, demonstrating insubordination, and failing repeatedly to protect officers under your command, you leave me no option but to move toward disciplinary proceedings.’

Hawkins just stared, afraid to ask for absolute confirmation of what her superior officer appeared to be saying.

But his final words on the matter still hit her like a wrecking ball.

‘I tried time and again to help you out, and when that was ignored I risked my own reputation to cover the cracks in your approach. But you’ve thrown it back at me as if you refute the inevitable consequences of your repeated mutiny. Therefore, and with immediate effect, Detective Inspector Antonia Hawkins, you are hereby suspended from active duty.’

‘We should talk about this.’

Hawkins sensed Maguire looking at her again. She turned her gaze away to the A406 skimming past the window, and the immense grey façade of Ikea just beyond.

‘You gotta get this stuff out,’ he persisted. ‘It helps.’

She sighed. He wasn’t going to let it rest. ‘I’m beyond help.’

‘Come on, Toni. You bet everything on going behind Vaughn’s back, and you wiped out big time, I get that. But it was your only option. All or nothing, right?’

He fell silent, obviously waiting for an answer, but Hawkins wasn’t ready to start looking on the bright side. On top of her suspension, she was still mourning Todd’s phone call of ten minutes earlier, which had dashed her one remaining hope that they’d find something at Rickman’s other address.

She rested her head against the door pillar, feeling the thrum of the engine resounding through the bodywork into her skull.

What conversations were going on at Becke House right now? Her reputation would already be mulch among rank and file: she pictured Frank Todd offering around glasses of champagne, explaining how he’d always said she was a walking liability. Aaron Sharpe would probably have a glass to toast someone else’s underachievement for
a change. At least Amala Yasir might finally have accepted that she wasn’t sodding Superwoman.

She leaned forwards and grabbed her bag from the foot well, digging around in it for her packet of Marlboros. She put one between her lips and raised the lighter.

‘No, you don’t.’ Mike snatched the cigarette.

‘Don’t be so bloody precious,’ she snapped, reaching for another. ‘It’s only a stupid car.’

‘Fuck the car. Think about your damn lungs.’ He wrestled the pack from her and threw it in the back. ‘Talk to me, please?’

‘I’m off the case,’ she breathed. ‘Suspended.’

‘OK, so take a sabbatical, on full pay. Chill out, read a book; they’ll assign you something else when you go back.’

‘What about the formal disciplinary, Mike,’ Hawkins heard her voice hollow, ‘when they demote me to toilet cleaner?’

‘They won’t demote you, Toni, that doesn’t happen above DI level. You go sideways at worst.’

‘Maybe, but it’ll be sideways into a job with no future, with a reputation that nobody will ever be able to see past. Look, I appreciate the whole cheering me up thing, Mike, but there’s no point. Kirby-bloody-Jones put me in an impossible position and I messed up, just like he wanted. Now he has me on four serious counts of misconduct.’ She sighed. ‘I was on track to make superintendent in two years, now I’ll be lucky if they let me make tea. Career over. Goodnight.’

‘It isn’t—’

‘And what about Eddie and John?’ She cut him off. ‘One of my officers is dead; another abducted. There’s a
damn good team out there looking for Barclay, and they’ve found precisely fuck all. How do you think my conscience is dealing with the fact I presided over both?’

She crossed her arms and slumped in the seat. Mike took the hint and they travelled on in silence.

They crawled through the A40 underpass in heavy New Year’s Eve traffic, but eventually Hawkins saw the sign for Southall and Greenford.

They weren’t far from her house, but she realized suddenly that, once she got there, she had nothing to fill her afternoon.

So what the hell was she going to do for two whole weeks?

Inspiration seemed to hit Mike suddenly. ‘Maybe it’s a sign?’

‘What?’

‘A sign, you know, that it’s time to try something new?’

‘You mean quit.’

Mike rolled his eyes and shot her an exasperated stare. ‘It isn’t like that. You spent nine years fighting a war that can’t be won, where two criminals replace every one you bust. So maybe it’s time to let somebody else take over? I’m saying don’t push your luck. Look what happened to Eddie and John .’

Hawkins sighed. ‘Don’t start this again.’

‘Listen to me.’ Mike steered the Range Rover onto a slip road. ‘Whenever we talk about this you get all bent out of shape, thinking I want you to stay home reading
Take a Break
and looking after a bunch of kids. But you can have whatever you want, Toni. I’m just saying you don’t have to risk your life to get it.’

‘You’re
still
trying to protect me.’

‘So what if I am? And not just you, either. I’ve been thinking about leaving, too.’

Hawkins stopped mid-retort. ‘You’d come with me?’

‘Yeah.’

She paused, unconvinced that the commitment she wanted could be so easily attained. Would he really do it?

They’d reached her street, and Mike waited for a couple of cars to pass before he parked outside her house.

He pulled on the handbrake and turned to her. ‘Well?’

‘I … don’t know.’

‘I want
us
, Toni, you and me. Only reason I left before was to give you and Paul a chance, but that isn’t an issue any more, right?’

She shook her head.

‘So?’

She released her seatbelt. ‘Let’s talk inside.’

‘Shit, Antonia, I can’t …’

‘Can’t what?’

‘Come in. The case, it’s Sunday tomorrow, you know? There’s a briefing in an hour. Vaughn wants to—’

‘Vaughn? What happened to “I’ve been thinking about getting out”?’

‘You can’t expect me to walk away just like that.’

‘What if that’s
exactly
what I want?’

‘You know I can’t.’ Mike shook his head. ‘Come on, Toni, I’ll do anything for you, but I gotta finish this. I need you to be safe.’

‘Is that why you took this case? You didn’t think I could handle it?’

Mike sighed. ‘Look, you’re tired and emotional. Go inside and pack some things, then go straight to my place.
Makes sense for you to stay with us now you won’t be coming into work. Eric’s on leave so he’ll be there, but he said it’s cool—’

‘Cool for
you
, maybe,’ she cut in. ‘Just bundle the little woman off to your mate’s house while you go and save the fucking day, is
that
how it works?’

‘That isn’t fair.’

‘Fine.’ Hawkins was halfway out of the car. ‘Whatever.’

She slammed the door before Maguire could respond, and stamped her way around the front of his car.

Mike lowered his window. ‘So it’s like that?’

‘Just go,’ she shouted back. ‘I’ll go straight to Johnston’s. Tell Vaughn I said congratulations on getting me suspended.’

She reached the front door of her house and dug in her bag for the keys.

Behind her, Mike fired the Range Rover’s engine. ‘I’m sorry, Antonia,’ he shouted. ‘I’ll call you later.’

Hawkins stepped inside, turning to watch him drive away, regretting everything she’d said.

She closed the door and stared at the empty hallway, feeling the tears build.