The Jackdaw (10 page)

‘A knife, a club or bat – something more frenzied and personal – something that let the anger out – true revenge. Not to just stand back and watch the man hang. If he’s as angry as he seems to be that couldn’t have satisfied him, couldn’t have given him the release he needed.’

‘Maybe he’s more sadistic than you considered?’ Canning offered. ‘Wanted to sit back and watch his victim suffer rather than being embroiled in an act of frenzied violence.’

‘Could be,’ Sean agreed, ‘but when I watch that video I can’t help but feel like I’m watching two different people – the preacher and the killer.’

‘Entirely possible,’ Canning told him. ‘The killer comes in and out of shot – appears and disappears from the screen – so you’d have to consider it.’

‘I am,’ Sean admitted. ‘But he could be two people in one man.’

‘Also possible,’ Canning agreed enthusiastically. ‘Another schizophrenic for you to decipher.’

‘Let’s hope not.’

‘Have you shared your thoughts with anyone else yet?’

‘No,’ Sean told him, Anna’s face suddenly burning in his mind as he wondered how long it would be before she saw in the video what he had seen. ‘Not yet. Best to keep it simple. Won’t change how we investigate it anyway. The killer’s told us he’s someone with an axe to grind against the rich and so far he hasn’t given me any reason to disbelieve him. I’ll play his game for now – let him think he’s in control.’

‘Why would you do that?’

‘Because the more confident he is, the sloppier he’ll get and that increases his chances of making mistakes, and that increases my chance of catching him quickly.’

‘I hope you’re right,’ Canning told him as he began to examine his surgical tools before selecting a scalpel, ‘because I should think a man capable of killing another human being in this way is probably capable of anything.’

DC Bob Bishop sat at the desk that they’d squeezed into the corner of Donnelly and Sally’s office. Sally hadn’t bothered to protest as she watched the two of them manoeuvre the desk into the already cramped room, shaking her head and tutting as they crashed around. He was deep in concentration as his fingers typed away on the relatively state-of-art laptop he’d commandeered from his regular unit. A heavy hand falling on his shoulder and a gruff Scottish voice made him jump with fright.

‘All right there, Bobby Boy?’ Donnelly asked before slumping down in his own chair, which creaked a little under his weight. ‘Cracked the case yet?’

‘Not exactly,’ Bishop replied in his Birmingham tones.

‘Why not?’ Donnelly asked, half teasing. ‘All you got to do is trace this psycho’s signal, right?’

‘It’s not that simple.’

‘Thought you were an expert, Bobby Boy.’

‘I told you before, I’m no expert and your killer knows what he’s doing too. He’s using a wireless mobile device and staying off any broadband connections. Looks like he’s put in a few levels of encryption as well.’ He turned away from Donnelly and resumed his frantic typing, but kept talking, to himself more than Donnelly. ‘Yeah, he’s a clever bastard, all right, but not as clever as he thinks he is. He may have slammed the front door shut, but he’s left the back door slightly ajar.’

‘So you can trace him?’ Donnelly reminded him he was there.

‘What? Oh, yeah. I can trace him. You see, I reckon he thinks that every time he turns his computer off he’s breaking the line, so to speak, destroying any connections that had existed and with it our chance to trace him. But he’s wrong,’ Bishop grinned.

‘Really,’ Donnelly half-heartedly asked, not remotely convinced.

‘Yeah. Very wrong. You see, all those little satellites floating round the world have already been working away to pinpoint his transmission location. Sure, when he stops they stop, but they don’t ever go back to square one. So the next time he transmits they’re already that much closer to finding him and therefore so are we. It’s only a matter of time.’

‘Unless he changes location,’ Donnelly reminded him.

‘Even if he changes location,’ Bishop explained, ‘although that would slow us down a bit, but DI Corrigan doesn’t seem to think that’s going to happen.’

‘No,’ Donnelly agreed. ‘No he doesn’t, and with good reason. Our man’s invested a lot of time in setting all this up, including the location he uses. I can’t see him having multiple sites. He may have Joe Public fooled he’s some sort of protector and avenger of the people, but to me he’s just another killer. Nothing more. Nothing less. You see, I don’t let them get in my head like DI Corrigan does. To me they’re all just losers waiting to be taken down and this one’s no different. Once he feels safe somewhere he’ll stick with it – mark my words.’

‘But DI Corrigan does?’ Bishop seized on something Donnelly had said.

‘Does what?’

‘Does allow them to get inside his head?’

‘Oh aye. Heard something, have you – the old detectives’ grapevine been at work?’

‘Just picking up on something you said,’ Bishop answered.

‘Bullshit,’ Donnelly challenged him. ‘Come on – what have you heard?’

‘Like, that he can predict them – tell what they’re going to do next.’

Donnelly laughed short and hard. ‘That’s fucking Mystic Meg you’re thinking of, Bobby Boy.’

‘Just saying what I heard.’

‘Well you heard wrong. I’ve seen him do some stuff I’ve never seen anyone else do, granted, but I’ve never seen him do that. Be nice if he could, mind – save us all a lot of grief. But just for the record, it’s more a case of him getting into the killers’ minds than them getting into his.’

‘What d’you mean?’ Bishop asked, confused.

Donnelly smiled a mischievous smile and leaned further back into his chair, hands behind his head. ‘You’ll see, Bobby Boy. You’ll see.’

Geoff Jackson spotted the woman he’d come to meet as soon as he entered one of the few surviving independent coffee shops in Soho. Joan Varady was, as usual, furiously typing on her iPhone and never once looked up as he approached her, or even when he sat down. Her small build and the simple haircut that framed her pretty but ageing face belied the powerful position she held in one of the world’s biggest publishing houses.

‘Late as usual,’ she accused him, still without looking up.

‘Sorry,’ Jackson apologized. ‘Busy, busy, busy. You know how it is.’

‘I do indeed,’ she told him in her educated, but not clipped, accent. ‘Which is why I don’t like hanging around waiting for journalists in coffee shops.’

‘Fair enough,’ Jackson agreed, ‘but you’ll realize it was time well spent, once you’ve heard what I have to say.’

Finally she looked up from her phone. ‘Well. I’m listening.’

‘I’ll assume you’ve heard all about this new killer – the one they’re calling the Your View Killer.’

‘Ah,’ Varady almost sighed. ‘I might have guessed it would be about him. I’ve seen some of your coverage in that rag of a paper you insist on working for.’

‘I didn’t know
The World
was your kind of a paper,’ he teased her.

‘Believe me,’ she assured him, ‘it isn’t.’

‘Whatever,’ he told her, bored with the jousting. ‘Fact is I’ve got exclusivity on the story – the inside track.’

‘Still got a couple of cops in your pocket – feeding you the low-down?’

‘Maybe. Or maybe I’ve got even more this time.’ Varady didn’t look impressed. ‘I can have the book written and ready to go within a week of the killer being caught, clean and no need for major editing. You could have it on the shelves within a couple of months while the story’s still hot. Feed the public while they’re still hungry for the grisly details.’

‘If you really want to feed the public grisly details you need to write the book about the celebrity paedophiles you broke,’ Varady told him.

‘No,’ he snapped at her a little. ‘That’ll never happen.’

‘Someone’s going to write it. Might as well be you.’

‘Forget it,’ he insisted. ‘Besides, this is the better and bigger story, and I’ve got exclusivity.’

‘That’s fine, but just because you have exclusivity with your paper doesn’t mean other journos at other papers, not to mention the television boys and girls, won’t be covering it. What can you offer that they can’t?’

Jackson spread his arms, inviting her to look at him with admiration. ‘What can I offer? The best, that’s what I can offer, and you know it.’

Varady looked him up and down before speaking. ‘OK, Geoff, you’re good – we all know it – but the last book got as much stick as it did praise. I had to work my arse off to keep it on the shelves. Did you really have to call that psycho “The Toy Taker”?’

‘Public need a handle, Joan – something not too difficult to remember. Something that identifies the story at a glance. Remember “The Crossbow Cannibal”? That was a beauty. Wish I’d thought of it.’

‘So what you going to call this one, or are you going to stick with “The Your View Killer”?’

‘Don’t know,’ Jackson mused. ‘Might do. Depends what else turns up. Might need something a little catchier. Something that makes him sound more man of the people than crazed killer.’

‘Well, whatever you call him, I’m still not sure,’ Varady told him. ‘I’ve no great desire to piss off the Met – again. They know some of their own are speaking to you and they were none too happy when you started sniffing around trying to find out personal details of that SIO, whatever his name was.’

‘Ahh,’ Jackson smiled. ‘Detective Inspector Sean Corrigan. He’s a slippery bastard, but I have to admit he’s more interesting than the usual plastic detective on accelerated promotion.’

‘Yeah, well just stay away from him would be my advice.’ Jackson grinned. ‘Oh no,’ Varady leaned back, ‘you’re not telling me he’s in charge of the Your View Killer investigation as well, are you?’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Jackson reassured her, but she was already packing her handbag and shaking her head. ‘Listen, Corrigan is gold dust. He’s the lead detective on the Special Investigations Unit. He’s gonna get all the juiciest cases across London – he’s like the bear that leads you to the honey every time. You want the hot crime story, follow Corrigan.’

‘I’m your fucking publisher,’ Varady reminded him, standing and stretching to her full five foot two inches, ‘not your bloody editor.’

‘You still need stories though, right? You can’t always rely on celebrity autobiographies.’

‘Not interested,’ she insisted and moved to leave, taking his publishing deal with her.

‘All right,’ he told her in a desperate last effort to get her to listen. ‘What if I told you I’m going to
interview
the killer?’

She looked him up and down for a second or two. ‘So what? Interviews with banged-up killers are nothing new. Still not interested.’

‘No,’ he told her, smiling again. ‘Not when he’s banged up – now, while he’s still on the loose. While he’s still committing his crimes.’

Varady sat down again. ‘Jesus. You’re joking, right?’

‘Would I joke about a thing like that?’

‘Think you can pull it off?’ she asked, her eyes narrowing.

‘Of course I can. Do I have your interest again? Ready to talk about a deal yet?’

‘You get the interviews and we’ll talk.’

Sean arrived back at the Yard and stuck his head into Sally and Donnelly’s office to ask them to join him and Anna next door for a catch up of the day’s progress – if there was any.

‘How did the PM go?’ Donnelly asked while he was still emptying his pockets and hanging up his raincoat.

‘No surprises yet,’ Sean told him. ‘Death seems to be by hanging, or strangulation to be precise.’

‘The difference being?’ Donnelly asked.

‘No broken neck to accompany the asphyxiation,’ Sean explained. ‘He hung until his brain died through lack of oxygen.’

‘Nice,’ Sally added.

‘Dr Canning reckons the killer used a knot used in boating or yachting. He recognized it from the video, so it would seem our man has some knowledge of boating or sailing.’

‘And he dumped the body in the river,’ Sally reminded them, ‘so possibly he has a boat or access to one. Something for us to work with.’

Sean frowned, concerned he’d failed to think of what Sally had suggested. The connection between the knot, the river and possible use of a boat should have obvious to him, but for some reason he’d missed it, as if his mind wasn’t fully focused on the investigation. He involuntarily glanced at Anna.

‘A good point well made,’ Donnelly told Sally. ‘He’s probably got some knackered little rowboat tied up under a tree somewhere.’

‘Well, if he has we need to find it,’ Sean told them. ‘How’s your man DC Bishop getting on with the Internet inquiries?’

‘Seems to be getting on all right, although if you want an explanation of what he’s doing you’re better off asking him yourself – all sounds like technical gobbledegook to me.’

‘I’ll spare myself the experience,’ Sean answered. ‘What about forensics?’

‘Nothing of note so far,’ Sally explained. ‘In fact, nothing at all from the abduction site and obviously we don’t know where the murder scene is so all we’re left with is the body and his clothing, which are currently in the hands of Dr Canning.’

‘All right,’ Sean told them, pushing his fingers through his short hair, ‘Dave, organize the door-to-door in the street he was abducted from and the surrounding ones too. Maybe we’re missing a witness or two. Sally, get a Met-wide request out asking for all derelict buildings to be checked – in fact, see if you can get that out to our surrounding forces as well. If the body washed up in Barnes then this kill room could easily be outside the Met area.’

‘Anything else?’ Sally asked.

‘No,’ Sean told them, looking and sounding disappointed. ‘Right now that’s all I’ve got … except for the electronic device he uses to change his voice,’ he suddenly remembered. ‘Get Paulo on the case,’ he told Donnelly. ‘He bought it somewhere or made it himself, but we might get lucky.’

‘OK,’ Donnelly agreed as he and Sally made their way from his office, leaving Sean alone with Anna. She motioned as if to speak, before the phone ringing on Sean’s desk stopped her.

Sean wearily answered it. ‘Hello.’

‘Sean. It’s Superintendent Featherstone.’