The Jackdaw (13 page)

‘However, your decision is your decision …’

‘He’s gonna let her go,’ Sally said, sounding desperate for it to be true.

‘but I cannot ignore the thousands who have seen through her disguise and recognized her guilt.’

‘No. No. I haven’t done anything. They see that.’

‘Brothers and sisters – this is no time for mercy. This is a war: a war we must win or forever be trodden under the foot of oppression, growing weaker and weaker as they grow ever more powerful and wealthy. We must be strong, must be prepared to act against our gentle nature and strike back when we are wronged.’

They watched as he again disappeared from camera shot before quickly returning and moving behind his victim, holding a set of hair clippers up for the cameras to see.

‘My God,’ Sally said through clenched teeth, ‘what’s he going to do to her?’ No one answered as they held their collective breath.

‘She has humiliated us – the people. Laughing at us as she climbs the corporate ladder to unimaginable riches – fucking us at every turn, her vanity her shield. Now let her feel the bitter sting of humiliation.’

The clippers buzzed as he grabbed her by her long ponytail and scythed it off in one motion, allowing her head to fall forward as it came away. Sean closed his eyes for a second at the sound of her sobbing, saddened by her humiliation but relieved she was suffering no worse. His relief turned rapidly to extreme anxiety as the hooded man grabbed what remained of her hair and yanked her head backwards, exposing her throat.

‘Shit,’ he muttered involuntarily, imagining the clippers being replaced with a razor-sharp knife sliding across her taut skin. Instead the man gripped her in a headlock and began to saw great chunks of hair from her scalp, leaving multiple cuts and grazes. Finally he stood aside, leaving the victim bowed in her chair, looking down at her own hair gathered at her feet.

‘Bastard,’ Sally said loudly, her eyes glassy and reddening. No one disagreed.

‘Humiliation enough? Perhaps. But hair will grow and her vanity will return.’

Once again he stepped out of view. ‘Christ, not more,’ Sally pleaded as the man returned holding a relatively small knife. He stood facing the victim, the knife disappearing from view, shielded by his own body as her pleas screamed from the computer’s tinny speakers.

‘Please, no. Please don’t kill me. Please.’

The screaming seemed to last for an age as his elbows and shoulders jerked side to side and up and down, until at last he stepped aside so the world could see Georgina Vaughan slumped in the chair, dead or unconscious, her running top and sports bra split up the middle revealing her small breasts. In the centre of her chest blood seeped from the eight-inch-tall dollar sign he’d carved into her skin. The camera focused in on the wound before pulling back to show a wider shot. The man faced the camera, breathing hard after his exertions, struggling to regain his breath.

‘Is she dead?’ Sally asked, her voice still shaking.

‘No,’ Sean answered without conviction. ‘I think she’s just passed out.’

‘Best thing for her,’ Donnelly added. ‘Fuck. That was hard to watch.’

‘We’ll be watching more if we don’t find him,’ Sean soberly reminded them.

‘Her pain and suffering were necessary. She will live, but this is war. If the rich and powerful fail to heed this warning, next time I will not be so merciful.’

Sean and the others were in a state of shock at what they’d witnessed as the man put a hood back over the victim’s head and walked from sight. A second later the link went dead.

‘He’s gone,’ Bishop broke their silence. ‘The link’s been cut.’

‘D’you get any closer?’ Sean asked.

‘A bit. He’s in the Metropolitan area or very close to it,’ Bishop explained. ‘Which means we have to find his signal in amongst millions of others. Best bet is he’s broadcasting from a rural area somewhere just outside London.’

‘Could he know we’re trying to trace him?’ Sean asked.

‘I would assume he’d assume we would be.’

‘That’s not what I meant,’ Sean explained. ‘I mean, could he somehow see how close we’re getting to him? Could he measure that somehow?’

Bishop sucked air in through his teeth like a mechanic presenting a large quote. ‘Well, he’d have to have some state-of-the-art software – very difficult-to-get-hold-of stuff – and then he’d have to know how to use it. It’s possible, but unlikely. We mainly use this stuff to track paedophiles grooming kids online. Those bastards know their business, but they still never seem to see us coming.’

‘I hope you’re right,’ Sean told him before turning to the others. ‘All right. We’re all feeling pretty shit right now and so will the rest of the team. I need you to get them out there doing whatever they can to find this fucker. Keep them busy. I want them to remember what they’ve seen, but not dwell on it. They’ve all got jobs to do. There’ll be witnesses we haven’t found yet and we need to intensify our efforts to find this van. Let’s have every white Renault Trafic van in London stopped and checked if we have to. If the driver seems even a little strange then have them arrested and held until we can take a look at them. And check on number plate thefts too. Anyone who’s reported having their number plate stolen within the last few months we need to know about it – all vehicles, not just vans. And this damn
white room.
Somebody somewhere might have recognized it. Let’s pump the public for information – let them know just because they might know where it isn’t doesn’t mean we do. Some people assume we know everything while others just don’t want to get involved. We need people to start coming forward with information. Maybe someone out there even knows who he is. Maybe they’re covering for him. Make sure we’re pricking their conscience. An anonymous phone call with a name could break this whole thing open.’

‘What about the equipment he uses to disguise his voice?’ Sally asked.

‘Looks homemade,’ Sean reminded her, ‘but he may have had to buy some of the component parts. If we’re lucky he’s not competent with electronics and paid someone to put it together for him, although I doubt it. Get Summers or Jesson to check it out from all angles anyway. Find out what shops sell this kind of stuff and start phoning around – see if someone remembers dealing with anyone they thought were a little off and check for CCTV. You never know your luck. As soon as I think of anything else I’ll let you know.’

Sally and Donnelly nodded and headed off into the main office to rally the team. Sean tapped Bishop on the shoulder. ‘And you just keep doing whatever it is you do.’ He felt a presence at the door and turned to see an ashen-faced Addis standing, staring at him.

‘A word, Inspector,’ Addis insisted. ‘Your office will do.’ Addis spun on his heels and led the way, Sean following without enthusiasm. ‘Take a seat if you like,’ Addis told him calmly, but menacingly. Sean took him up on his offer and slumped in his own chair behind his desk. Addis remained standing, looking at the door Sean had left open behind him. ‘You may want to close that,’ he told Sean, ‘unless you want your entire team to hear what I have to say.’

‘I have no secrets from them,’ Sean lied, hoping the open door might curb Addis’s words.

‘Really? Perhaps you should,’ Addis told him, moving on before Sean could ask what he meant. ‘I assume you’ve just watched the same footage on Your View as I had to watch. For God’s sake, Inspector – a young bloody woman this time – one even the public voted to spare. The media will crucify us over this and frankly I don’t blame them. Why don’t we have anyone in custody yet? Why is this madman still running around out there wreaking havoc across London?’

‘With all due respect,’ Sean cut in, ‘it’s only been a matter of days and this is only the second victim he’s taken. But we’re making progress. We’re getting closer and closer to tracing wherever it is he’s broadcasting from.’

‘Is that all we’ve got?’ Addis snapped. ‘Hope that we can trace his signal?’

‘No, sir,’ Sean explained. ‘We’re chasing down dozens of lines of inquiry and now we’ll have dozens more.’

‘Good, because it would be most unsatisfactory to think that all you are doing is sitting around waiting for this lunatic to snatch someone else so you can trace the signal.’

‘Well we’re not,’ Sean assured him.

‘And this latest victim – has it been confirmed she is who he said she is yet?’

‘Not yet, but it’ll only be a matter of time now the broadcast’s been out there.’

‘Well, let’s just pray she doesn’t turn up dead somewhere,’ Addis added.

‘She won’t,’ Sean told him.

‘Really? How can you be so sure?’

‘Because if he was going to kill her he would have done it on Your View. He would have wanted everyone to see. That’s the point of doing what he does – so everyone can see. So everyone can hear what he has to say.’

‘All the more reason to close him down fast.’

Sean looked away from Addis as Anna entered the office. ‘Sorry,’ she began. ‘It’s just I overheard you discussing whether he would kill this victim.’

‘And?’ Addis asked.

‘I agree with Inspector Corrigan. He won’t kill her. Not now. If he does, the charade that he’s doing this out of justice and that the people are the jury will be shattered, making him nothing more than another one-dimensional murderer. That’s not what he wants – not what he believes he is.’

‘Then we should be thankful for small mercies,’ Addis told them and walked from the office, fleetingly halting at the door. ‘Let’s just get this one solved and put to bed,’ he added. ‘Before it drags us all down.’

Sean waited until Addis was clear of the main office before speaking again. ‘Thanks,’ he told Anna.

‘What for?’

‘For backing me up and getting that clown off my back.’

‘I told him the truth – you’re right, he won’t kill her. Not now.’

‘I hope you’re right,’ Sean told her, ‘or Addis is going to use my bollocks to decorate his oversized desk.’

‘I doubt that,’ she argued. ‘Addis needs you more than you think.’

‘Maybe,’ Sean said doubtfully. ‘I’m still surprised he took a woman though.’

‘Why?’ Anna asked. ‘Because you thought this was about male pride?’

‘An element of it, yes – if what we’re seeing, if what he’s telling us is true. You’d have to think he’s someone who’s lost his job, or maybe a business and then his wife and family as a consequence. As a man, that would hurt your pride.’

‘As a woman too,’ Anna reminded him.

‘Touché,’ Sean accepted her point, ‘but it was still a mistake.’

‘Why?’ Anna still didn’t follow.

‘Public sympathy,’ he explained. ‘People weren’t exactly falling over themselves to help us find Paul Elkins’s killer. There wasn’t a lot of empathy with him out there. But now he’s made a young woman his victim that’ll change – even if she was well heeled and well paid. We might get a little more cooperation now.’

‘That’s a cold way of looking at it,’ Anna observed.

‘It’s a fact,’ he told her. ‘Cold or otherwise.’

‘And you?’ she surprised him. ‘Did you feel empathy for him?’

He leaned back as far as he could into his rickety chair. ‘No,’ he answered honestly. ‘No I didn’t. Does that make me a bad person – a monster?’

‘Hardly,’ she replied. ‘People have empathy for people they perceive to be vulnerable victims – young women, the poor, the elderly …’

‘Children?’ Sean cut in.

‘Especially children,’ she agreed. ‘I guess this case couldn’t be more different from your last.’

‘No,’ Sean sighed. ‘Maybe that’s why the team’s had difficulty getting up and running for this one.’

‘You think they are?’ she asked.

‘Maybe, until now. The mood seems to have changed with this new victim. They seem back to themselves.’

‘Their last few cases have been exceptionally trying, physically and emotionally. My professional opinion would be to rotate your personnel more frequently.’

‘I can’t,’ he told her flatly. ‘I need their experience. Health and safety. Employee welfare. Just leave all that at the front door on your way in. This is the Metropolitan Police, not Tesco’s.’

‘And you?’ Anna continued. ‘You don’t think any of this affects you?’

‘Think?’ he almost mocked her. ‘I don’t have time to think. Well, not about how things are
affecting
me.’

‘You’re not immune to it, Sean.’

‘Is this a friendly conversation or are you psychoanalysing me?’ He was joking, but Anna seemed to tense up a little, and he noticed it.

‘I wouldn’t try and examine you without your permission and knowledge,’ she snapped her answer.

‘Fair enough.’ Sean didn’t push it. ‘Besides, right now I’ve got better things to think about than whether you are or not. I’ve got to work out what this bastard’s going to do next and stop him.’

Geoff Jackson sat in the Three Greyhounds pub in Greek Street, at the heart of Soho in London’s West End. A colleague had tipped him off the killer was back on Your View, and he’d immediately ducked into the pub, grabbed a table close to the bar and logged onto the Internet on his laptop. The broadcast had been everything he could have hoped for and the killer had even had the good sense to apparently spare the woman. Her humiliation and torture had been unfortunate, but he was now convinced this was a man he could do business with.

He sipped his pint, oblivious to the crowd building inside the upmarket pub. He could almost smell the cash and celebrity coming his way. But how to make contact with the killer and still keep the police at bay long enough to get what he wanted out of him? He watched the Your View footage over again and drummed his fingers while he whispered to himself. ‘Contact. Contact. How the hell do I contact you and keep us both safe?’

He let the ideas swirl around inside his head, confident that eventually the answer would materialize – after all, it always did. Suddenly, almost without warning, he found himself mouthing the answer almost silently. ‘Twitter. I’ll get you to contact me on Twitter.’ He smiled and had to suppress his laughter. ‘I’ll get you to tweet me, you beautiful bastard.’ He kept talking, developing the idea, afraid that silence could chase it away. ‘I’ll get you to send me a private message, then I’ll give you the number of a pay-as-you-go mobile and get you to get one too and call me and fucking bingo – we’ll have our own untraceable, private means of communicating, all protected by journalistic material immunity.’ He allowed himself a smile of satisfaction as he thought of the police tapping into his usual mobile phone, reading his texts and maybe even eavesdropping on his calls, all of which would be a waste of time. That reminded him – he needed to call an old private detective friend of his. If the police were going to tap his phone it was only fair he did the same, and there was only one phone he was interested in – DI Corrigan’s. If his friend could pull it off, he could be tapping into a gold mine.