The Advent Killer (7 page)

He needed sleep.

He’d had less than an hour last night, and not much more than that for weeks now. Even when he did go under he woke up screaming. The dreams had been getting worse again; in fact, he had begun to welcome moments like this, when he came round, realizing that his body had simply shut down for a while.

But he couldn’t afford for it to happen in public.

He sat back in his chair, blinking slowly, looking around. Everything moved as if he was watching low-quality footage: jerky and out of focus. He rubbed his eyes, even though he knew the problem didn’t involve them. He was nearing exhaustion. The number of consecutive hours over which he could function normally had begun to decrease, and recently his thoughts had been all but alien to him.

He couldn’t carry on using drugs to stay sharp long term.

As if to emphasize the point, his temperature began to spike. He closed his eyes, all too aware of what would follow.

His body shook and his jaw clenched. It felt like a band was being tightened around his forehead. Rumbling silence built, quickly becoming a roar as he hunched, milling the heels of his hands into his temples. His body locked, and pain set in.

After what seemed like a long time, a level of blackness lifted behind his eyelids, and he felt his heartbeat beginning to slow. He dragged in a deep, tattered breath.

He wiped the sweat from his forehead and stood. His calves burned where they’d been braced against the chair legs, and he bent to massage the muscles.

Suddenly he froze, staring towards the source of the noise.

Someone had knocked at the door.

He waited for confirmation, every sense alert. Had they found him? And, if so, should he try to run, or stay and lie?

Another knock.

He swore silently. The Taser was in his holdall, fifteen feet away in the front room.

He edged into the hallway until he could see across to the glass-panelled front door. Light flooded through the semi-transparent sections, interrupted only by the unmistakeable shadow of somebody standing outside.

But no face appeared at the window, and no shout came. It was a salesman cold calling, something like that. They’d leave …

Then the handle dipped.

In seconds he was at the holdall, gripping the Taser’s handle as he heard the lock turn.

The door opened. He straightened as the intruder moved out from behind it.

He only just stopped himself raising the weapon.

‘Goodness!’ His landlady staggered backwards and slumped against the wall, dropping her keys.

‘Ms Peterson.’ He started forwards, impressed at how naturally his alter ego resurfaced. ‘Are you OK?’

The old lady sagged, her dress catching on the raised pattern of the wallpaper. ‘Oh … yes, dear. You startled me … what in heaven’s name
is
that?’

‘This?’ He waved the Taser, nonchalantly. ‘It’s a, uh, novelty remote control … for the TV. You know,
Star Trek
?’

‘Well, I never.’ She was breathing heavily. ‘Oh, dear, I’m sorry to just come in like that, but when there was no answer I assumed you were out.’

‘Actually, that’s what I wanted you to think. I thought you were a double-glazing salesman.’

‘Oh, I do apologize. It’s just that I still haven’t got round to having a letterbox put in that door and I wanted to leave you this.’ She held out a small brown envelope. ‘You gave me too much money for this week’s rent.’

‘How silly of me.’ He smiled. ‘Come and sit down. Get your breath back while I make some tea.’

She shuffled towards the sofa, frail neck and shoulders looking like they had trouble supporting her head.

He pocketed the Taser and closed the door.

‘
Antonia, it’s your mother. We bumped into Paul in Waitrose yesterday, and he said that last time he saw you he thought you’d lost weight. He still misses you, you know. Anyway, I think your father’s now concerned that you’re not eating properly, so I’ve made you a lasagne, which I’ve broken down into portions and frozen, so please come round and collect them. You must stay for dinner, too, although we can’t do tonight or tomorrow—
’

‘
Message saved
.’

Hawkins dumped the phone in the cup holder on the dashboard of the car, vowing to call her mother back later. She watched a man with a newspaper wander slowly past, trying to read as he walked. The car window was streaked with rain, but she could still make out the bright
SUN EXCLUSIVE
header. Today’s headline would ensure champagne bonuses for those involved at the paper, but she was more inclined to agree with Connor’s reaction. And
really shitty news
was putting it mildly.

Her gaze returned to the wing mirror she’d adjusted to frame the house thirty yards back, and the garden from where Connor had called the previous day.

This part of Silvertown, a residential area not far from Docklands, was also near London City airport, its relative tranquillity shattered every few moments by the sound of screaming jet engines. No wonder the locals got up early.

Foot and road traffic was slowly increasing. Unfortunately, none of it had yet carried any sign of their target. She unfolded her copy of the
Sun
and studied the grainy image of Jessica Anderton sitting next to the man they were waiting for.

‘You think he’s taken off?’ she asked the detective inspector in the passenger seat.

‘No way. This dude isn’t even
expecting
us.’ Mike grinned. ‘What’s the word Connor’s buddy used about this guy: a
fuckwit
?’

Connor’s contact, Ian, worked at the
Sun
, and had called yesterday to warn them what would be on the next day’s front page. Apparently Jessica-bloody-Anderton had been having an affair, and the Mediterranean-looking man outside the Andertons’ place was her boyfriend – the same boyfriend who, upon her death, had immediately sold his story to the
Sun
.

So much for grief.

The effects had been instantaneous. Kirby-Jones’ ability to convey extreme dissatisfaction without shouting was renowned, but that morning he’d sounded more like a concerned care-home worker.

Please sit down, Miss Hawkins, we have some bad news.

The crowd of reporters at Scotland Yard had tripled in size since yesterday, and the press office was about to implode. And now, supposedly grieving widower Charles Anderton had disappeared ‘on important business’.

The fact that Ian had risked his job by giving them the boyfriend’s address was small consolation; even smaller now they’d spent almost twenty-four hours staking the place out and the bastard still hadn’t come home.

And, as if to compound Hawkins’ misery, his choice to sell the story and splash his face across every coffee-shop table in the country reduced his chances of being the killer to almost nothing.

Her hand drifted to the door pocket of the car, to the pack of – as yet unopened – Marlboro Lights. She tapped a couple of fingers on the plastic wrapping and let out a long sigh. Things weren’t
that
bad.

Yet.

‘Anyway,’ Mike offered, ‘at least you aren’t up on that bridge with John.’

Hawkins forced a smile. Since they’d arrived an hour before to relieve Connor and a couple of the new recruits, who had been there all night, Barclay had been sulking on an overhead footbridge 200 yards behind them.

She felt guilty about sending him up there to cover the opposite end of the street. He’d probably turn up tomorrow with a rotten cold, but she’d tried making allowances for his increasingly bad health before, and nothing made any difference. Since joining the team, Barclay’s persistent state of sickness had earned him the nickname ‘Maraca’, thanks to the number of pills he took on a daily basis. The job soon showed newcomers, in every sense, what they were made of, and yet here he was. At least it had stopped raining. Besides, she’d done her share of purgatory as a junior detective, so why should anyone else get special treatment?

Mike turned to her. ‘Remember what happened the last time we staked out together?’

Hawkins looked back at the wing mirror, suddenly uncomfortable. ‘I think we’d get
ourselves
arrested for doing that here.’

‘It was fun, though, right?’

She’d have to provide her own distraction. Fortunately one occurred.

‘Hold on, is that him?’

‘Where?’ Mike bit, shifting in his seat, trying to follow her gaze. ‘I can’t see past this goddamn van.’

‘Sit still, he’s coming straight for us. Thirty feet.’

‘We need positive ID before we move. You sure?’

Actually, Hawkins was pretty certain that the perma-tanned, track-suited granddad Mike couldn’t yet see probably wasn’t their guy, but he’d served his purpose.

‘Oh, wait, no. It isn’t him.’ She did her best to look disappointed.

‘No, but
that
is.’

Mike was out of the passenger seat before she had time to react. She turned to look out of the rear window just in time to catch Barclay crossing the road, pointing at something, or some
one
, she couldn’t see.

She wrenched the key from the ignition and opened the door, standing up to look back down the street. She couldn’t have been more obvious but, thanks to Mike, their cover was probably blown already.

A dark, olive-skinned man had just entered his garden and was making his way towards the front door. He wore jeans and a tan sports jacket over a creased white shirt.

It was definitely their guy. Barclay was closing on him, but she couldn’t see Mike. She set off up the street.

‘Marcus De Angelo?’ Hawkins heard Barclay say as he moved past the gate.

She picked up her pace, although she was still fifteen yards away.

‘Fuck off.’ The guy struggled with his keys in the door, as if the lock wasn’t working properly.

‘We’d like to talk to you.’ Barclay said.

‘You’re trespassing, man.’

‘Met Police. We need to ask you some questions.’

De Angelo spun round. ‘
Police?
’

Hawkins saw his fists clench. He was a big guy, looked like he spent a fair amount of time at the gym. Suddenly, Barclay appeared even more wiry than normal. He shouldn’t have approached De Angelo alone. She reached the gate just as Barclay went for his badge.

Then De Angelo punched him.

Barclay sprawled backwards into her, and the pair of them crashed to the ground.

‘Shit! Are you OK?’ Hawkins struggled to free herself from under the trainee, who groaned before launching into a coughing fit. She stood up in time to see the front door slam.

She glanced back at Barclay, who was fighting his way up onto an elbow. It must have been a good shot; he wasn’t going anywhere for a few minutes, and there was still no sign of Mike.

She’d have to go in alone.

She ran over and tried the handle, relieved when the door opened into a narrow hallway. ‘Mr De Angelo?’ she shouted. ‘DCI Hawkins, Met Police. Can we talk?’

Nothing.

‘I’m coming inside.’

She edged into the hall, checking the stairs to her left. He wouldn’t have cornered himself up there. Which left three exits from the hallway: two archways to her right and one door at the end of the hall, closed.

She moved to the first arch and leaned in. A lounge with a leather three-piece, two potted plants, one big-screen TV. But no De Angelo.

Hawkins edged towards the second archway, heart battering her ribs, sliding along with her back against the wall.
What the hell was she thinking?
She’d already broken protocol by entering the house, not to mention the fact she was trespassing, while De Angelo had already shown disregard for police authority, and that he was loose with his fists. He could come at her from anywhere, possibly armed. Plus fifty per cent of her back-up had disappeared, and the other half had been knocked on its arse. Yet here was an exposed Antonia Hawkins, casually chasing a potential murderer into his lair.

Suddenly there were noises from deeper inside the house, and the light at the bottom of the door at the end of the hall showed brighter, as if another had been opened beyond.

He was going out at the back.

She ran to the door and flung it open, but De Angelo was already outside. She saw the concentration on his face through the glass; heard the key in the outer lock.

Shutting her in.

She shot forwards and grabbed the handle, forcing it down. Their eyes met through the glass. He was inches away, but she saw the look of relief cross his face when they both realized it was locked.

‘Sorry, darling.’ He winked. ‘Maybe next time.’

De Angelo turned and ran down the path, leaving Hawkins no choice except to watch their only lead escaping.

But as he opened the tall gate at the end of the garden, his luck changed.

Mike’s powerful frame blocked his escape, and this time it was De Angelo’s turn to be the smaller man. They both said something she couldn’t hear through the glass, and then De Angelo swung at him.

Mike swayed, evading the fist. In the same motion, he stepped into De Angelo’s body and, using the flailing arm as a lever, flattened him against the brick wall opposite.

He turned and produced a pair of Plasticuffs, raising his eyebrows at her. Hawkins nodded her approval and watched Mike read De Angelo his rights.