The Jackdaw (38 page)

Sean waited until they reached his office before answering. ‘He set us up.’

‘That much I already know,’ Donnelly told him, ‘but how?’

‘A mixture of luck and cunning,’ Sean tried to explain, sitting heavily in his chair. ‘He thought Jackson was working for us, so he set a trap to see if he was right.’

‘And was he?’ Donnelly asked.

‘No,’ Sean told him. ‘If Jackson had been working for us you’d have known about it, but he didn’t know that – didn’t know we were tracking Jackson’s phone. As far as he’s concerned Jackson was trying to lead us straight to him.’

‘So his trap worked, but for the wrong reason,’ Donnelly spelt it out. Sean just shrugged. ‘Oh well – look on the bright side – we won’t have to worry about Jackson doing any more
interviews with a killer
.’

‘No,’ Sean agreed, ‘but we’ve lost the only person that could have led us to him and it also means he’s even more clever and cautious than we thought. His trap might have worked for the wrong reason, but it was an effective trap all the same. It’s another sign he’s trying to predict our next move and nullify it before we can use it effectively. Conventional is not going to catch this one. We need to become unpredictable. This one’s not just interested in covering his tracks or hiding anything that might give him away – he’s playing a forward game, always staying a few steps ahead of us. By the time we think of what to do next he’s already predicted it and taken steps to deal with it. You seen Anna around?’ he suddenly changed the subject.

‘No,’ Donnelly told him, ‘but I have seen Addis and he didn’t look happy.’

‘Good news travels fast,’ Sean sighed as he leaned forward and flipped his laptop open. Within a few seconds he was watching a recording of Barrowgate’s torture and punishment. After watching in silence for a while he paused the clip. ‘This is the first time we’ve had a proper look at his shotgun, right?’

‘As far as I can remember,’ Donnelly agreed.

‘Get Bishop to enhance the shots of the gun, will you, and get them circulated ASAP,’ Sean told him.

‘No problem,’ Donnelly agreed.

Sean stared at the screen, the sawn-off shotgun hanging at The Jackdaw’s side. ‘You know Aden O’Brien, don’t you?’

‘DS from the Arts and Antiques Squad,’ Donnelly clarified, ‘or at least he was, until Addis decided they were surplus to requirements.’ Donnelly looked around his surroundings. ‘This used to be their office.’

‘I know,’ Sean told him, ‘although O’Brien spent most of his time undercover buying nicked antiques from organized crime. Probably still does. SO10 should be able to tell you where he is. Tell him I need a favour. I need him to look at this shotgun and see if he can’t ID it for us.’

‘You thinking it’s an antique?’

‘I’m thinking it’s a lead,’ Sean answered. ‘One we haven’t looked into yet.’

‘OK,’ Donnelly agreed. ‘I’ll find him.’

DC Jesson appeared at the door looking serious. ‘Something I should know?’ Sean asked.

‘The victim’s been found,’ he told them in his Scouse accent, ‘wandering around Bushy Park in Hampton, gagged and with his wrists bound together. In a bad way from what I’m being told.’

‘Life-threatening?’ Donnelly asked.

‘Local CID are saying no, but the medics reckon his eyes are beyond saving.’

‘Where is he now?’ Sean wanted to know.

‘Queen Mary’s in Roehampton. Intensive care. The locals are providing a guard for him, just in case, but apparently the doctors aren’t allowing anyone to speak to him.’

‘Queen Mary’s again,’ Donnelly stated, remembering that the second victim, Georgina Vaughan, had also been taken there.

‘What shall I tell the local CID?’ Jesson asked. ‘They’re pretty keen to hand the whole thing over to us.’

‘Tell them we’ll send someone as soon as we can,’ Sean instructed, although he had no intention of sending anyone until the morning: no point wasting detective manpower if the medics weren’t even allowing anyone to speak with him.

‘Will do,’ Jesson told him and wandered off.

‘What else do we know about the victim?’ Sean asked.

Donnelly pulled out his CID report book, referring to the notes he’d been making since he first knew another victim had been taken. ‘Name’s definitely David Barrowgate, thirty-two years old and a high-flying trader for Chaucer and Vale Bank. Lives alone in a flat in Brunswick Gardens, Notting Hill Gate. Took some clients out earlier today for, and I quote, a
business lunch
, unquote, and wasn’t seen again, or at least not by any of his colleagues or friends. They say he took a black cab from the restaurant and told them he was heading home. We’re still trying to find the black cab driver. So far, that’s about it.’

‘Any connection to any of the other victims?’

‘Only that he worked in the City, but we haven’t done much digging yet.’

‘OK,’ Sean told him. ‘Let’s get digging and see if we can’t find a connection. Maybe his victim selection won’t be as random as we believe.’

‘I’ll get on it. But doing full profiles for the victims, going back years into their lives, takes forever,’ Donnelly warned him. ‘We’re struggling to keep up with this bastard’s rate of offending as it is.’

‘I know, I know,’ Sean agreed, ‘but let’s at least go back a few months. We might get lucky profiling them short term. If they are somehow connected to each other then they’ll be connected to the suspect too.’

‘Leave it with me,’ Donnelly assured him.

‘Bollocks,’ Sean suddenly cursed.

‘Problem?’ Donnelly asked confused.

‘Addis,’ Sean told him. ‘Just walked in the main office. Do yourself a favour and make yourself scarce.’

‘You sure?’ Donnelly offered.

‘I’m sure.’

Donnelly moved as fast as he could without looking obvious, but Addis was already at Sean’s door before he’d escaped. ‘Assistant Commissioner,’ he nodded to Addis as he slipped past him. Once Donnelly was gone Addis stepped into the office and closed the door. Sean thought he could detect a slight twitching in Addis’s right eye.

‘Assistant Commissioner,’ Sean acknowledged him without standing. ‘Please, take a seat.’

‘Do I look like I’ve come here for a sit-down chat?’ Addis snarled.

‘No,’ Sean agreed, knowing there was no point in pulling the tail of an already angry dog. ‘No you don’t.’

‘I told you, Inspector – no more bloody victims.’

‘It was a little bit beyond my control,’ Sean argued as gently as he could.

‘And if that wasn’t enough for the public to completely lose confidence in us, you walk straight into a trap and end up looking like a bumbling fool.’

‘You’re right,’ Sean admitted. ‘He set me up. He got the better of me – this time.’

‘Every time,’ Addis told him. ‘It seems to me he gets the better of you every time. Have you any idea of how much pressure I’m being put under to resolve this matter? Any idea at all?’

‘I can imagine,’ Sean answered.

‘No, you can’t,’ Addis insisted. ‘How could you possibly
imagine
?’ The two men stared at each other in silence for as long as Sean could bear it.

‘If I don’t have your full confidence to carry on with this investigation, then perhaps you should replace me with someone else,’ Sean suggested.

‘Don’t play double-bluff with me,’ Addis warned him. ‘You may have got away with it in the Douglas Allen investigation, but lightning rarely strikes the same place twice.’

Sean pursed his lips and considered Addis with more clarity than he’d done since the first time they met. One question burned too brightly in his mind not to be asked.

‘One thing I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘You set this unit up, you put me in charge, but then you do nothing but jump all over my back. You’ve even threatened to replace me. Why give me the unit and then act like I’m the last person in the world you actually want here? I don’t understand. It makes no sense.’

‘For God’s sake,’ Addis answered with barely hidden contempt for Sean’s naivety. ‘What do you think this is? The bloody Boy Scouts? You’re here because I want you to be here. Because you’re an asset. Because at this time I believe you can get results when I need them quicker than anyone else. But if you think that gives you some sort of immunity from criticism or protection from failure then you’re sadly mistaken. You’re subject to the same scrutiny as everybody else who works for me and I find people work best when they fully appreciate my
expectations
. But remember, Inspector – if you don’t work for me then you’re nobody. Just another DI rotting on some murder squad investigating domestic killings or sitting in some outlying borough dreaming of your retirement, only to die within a few months of leaving. We play for high stakes here. Any time you don’t believe you can handle it, be sure to let me know.’ Addis moved slowly to the door and pulled it open before looking back at Sean. ‘We’re in a results-orientated business, Inspector. So get me a result.’ He walked through the door and strode across the office and was gone. Sean just gazed into the space Addis had occupied until Donnelly popped his head tentatively around the corner.

‘You all right?’ he asked.

Sean blinked the image of Addis that was seared in his mind away. ‘I’m fine,’ he answered, standing and pulling his coat on. ‘Nothing a little time away from here won’t fix.’

‘Want some company?’ Donnelly offered.

‘No,’ Sean answered too quickly. ‘I need time and space to think. I’m better on my own.’

Jackson sat at the basement bar of a West End strip club, the sort of place that only people who were looking for it would find. For the average customer the drinks were extortionate, but as an old
friend
of the owner, Jackson was rarely asked to settle his tab. He drank with his back to the stage where failed actresses who’d long since given up on fame and fortune danced until they were naked just to survive.

Jackson came here when he didn’t want to be seen, nicely hidden away in the dark of the bar amongst other men who didn’t want to be seen either. He often ended up here after a bad day at work and this had definitely been that. God damn Corrigan for using him to try to take down The Jackdaw. He’d still give the story full coverage and his follow-up book would still sell, but without the one-on-one interviews it would never stand out – never net him the sort of cash he’d been banking on. Bastard Corrigan had cost him tens of thousands, maybe even hundreds of thousands by the time you’d factored in the TV deal he now wasn’t going to get. Son of a bitch. But still, he couldn’t help but have a sneaking respect for him. Clever boy tracking his personal mobile and not wasting his time trying to find the pay-as-you-go’s signal. Jackson couldn’t forgive himself for not seeing it coming, though. If he’d just left his mobile phone behind – for once in his life. He drained his glass of whisky, tapped the empty glass on the bar and jutted his chin at the barman who quickly headed his way with the bottle.

‘Just keep ’em coming, Frankie. Just keep ’em coming.’ The barman filled his glass and glided away. Jackson raised the glass to his lips just as the pay-as-you-go mobile began to vibrate and flash on the bar, the sound of the club’s music all but drowning out its ringing.

Jackson froze for a second before slowly lowering his glass and staring at the phone. What sort of game was this? Had Corrigan somehow managed to get hold of the number? Or could it really be
him
? He quickly raised his glass and drained it in one before answering the phone, his heart racing.

‘Hello,’ he tentatively answered, but there was nothing but silence. ‘Hello,’ he repeated. ‘Who is this?’ More silence. He covered the ear the phone wasn’t pressed against to block out the music and waited for an answer. After what seemed the longest time he heard the familiar electronic voice.

‘You betrayed me,’ the voice accused him, rocking Jackson back.

‘No,’ he spurted out. ‘It was the police. It was Corrigan. He set me up – used my mobile phone to track me.’ Jackson listened to the silence. ‘Why would I betray you? You
are
the story. Why would I want it to end?’

‘Why should I believe you?’ the warped voice eventually asked.

‘Because it doesn’t make any sense,’ Jackson tried. ‘Just think it through yourself. Why would I help the police?’

‘To gain favour with them. In exchange for
insider
information for your book. You are planning on writing a book, aren’t you, Mr Jackson?’

‘Maybe,’ Jackson partially admitted, ‘but I don’t need to help Corrigan to get information. I have my sources.’

‘Just as I no longer need your help to spread my message. My followers now number in the hundreds of thousands.’

‘And my readers number in the millions,’ Jackson snapped back. ‘Come on. We’ve been through all of this. I can help you and you can help me. We both know it.’

‘What’s to stop him tracking you again?’ the voice asked.

‘I’ve already changed my mobile,’ Jackson explained. ‘Even had the number changed, which is a real pain in the arse, let me tell you.’

‘And this phone? What do the police know of this phone?’

‘They know it exists,’ Jackson answered, ‘but it’s journalistic material, which is why I still have it and not Corrigan.’

‘And the number?’

‘They don’t know it. Trust me.’ More silence.

‘Very well,’ the voice finally answered. ‘I’ll contact you when the time is right. But if you cross me, I won’t be as merciful with you as I have been with others.’ The phone went dead before Jackson could answer.

‘Shit,’ he whispered while attracting the barman by waving his empty glass in front of him. Excitement rising in his chest, mixing with the fear of once again facing The Jackdaw. ‘Just think of the money, Geoff old boy. Just think of the money.’

Sean stood outside St Thomas More Church in Dulwich. It looked black and forbidding in the darkness, although he was surprised to see some yellow light behind several of the windows. At this late hour he hadn’t expected to see any signs of life at the church. So why had he come here? Truth was he didn’t really know himself. He’d been heading home when suddenly he found himself taking the longer route past the church. He tried to tell himself he just needed the fresh air to wash away Addis’s poison, but deep inside he knew it was more.