The Jackdaw (39 page)

After several minutes of looking up at the building he moved forward and tentatively rested his hand on the black iron gate that led into the small courtyard. He gently pushed the gate and almost recoiled with surprise when it swung slightly open. He looked up and down the deserted street, feeling like a criminal, before pushing the gate open wide enough to be able to slip through, holding his warrant card in his pocket as he walked to the arched wooden door of the church itself. He rested the palm of his hand on the door and once again gently pushed, expecting the door to be locked shut and unyielding, but this too opened slightly – just enough for the dim light from inside to leak into the darkness outside. Even if he’d not really wanted to enter the church, finding the door open in the middle of the night ensured the policeman in him took over. Now he
had
to enter, even if it was just to make sure the church wasn’t being relieved of its charitable donations box.

He slowly pushed the door open enough to slip inside, cringing at every creak it made. Once inside he closed it behind him, the sound of the latch lock clunking into place, filling the modest church and echoing off every surface. Sean froze by the door and waited for the ghost sounds to fall silent before daring to step away. His eyes continually searched for any sign of movement as he moved deeper inside the church, his ears pulled slightly backwards by the tension in his face muscles as he listened for the slightest sound. But all he could hear were his footsteps, harsh and brutal on the solid wood floor. Betrayed by the sound of his own shoes he decided to announce himself, even if it was just to the paintings and statues of Christ, the Virgin Mary and God himself.

‘Hello,’ he called quietly, tentatively into the dimness. ‘Hello,’ he repeated with more conviction, but nobody suddenly appeared to welcome or challenge him. He kept walking towards the altar and statue of Christ on the cross that dominated the space, pulling him further and further forward, only stopping once he’d reached the few wide steps that led to the bleeding feet of the Messiah.

He looked around nervously before speaking to himself. ‘What the hell am I doing here?’ The sudden sound of a voice made him spin on his heels and reach for his ASP.

‘Perhaps you came to pray,’ the man’s voice offered. Sean squinted in the poor light as the dark figure came towards him, like a floating aberration, until he was close enough for Sean to see who it was. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you,’ Father Alex Jones apologized. ‘I heard someone moving around down here and thought we might be having a visit from one of our not-so Christian flock.’

‘The door was open,’ Sean explained. ‘I was just checking it out.’

‘Well, you are a policeman, after all,’ Jones teased him.

‘I didn’t expect the church to be open this late,’ Sean told him.

‘I like to keep it open as late as I can,’ Jones replied. ‘You get a better class of sinner this time of night.’

Sean looked the young priest over and allowed himself a wry smile. ‘Yes. I suppose you do.’

‘I haven’t seen you in a while.’

‘I’ve been busy,’ Sean explained.

‘Of course. So what brings you here now?’ Jones asked. ‘Forgive me, but I doubt you really came to check on my rather lax security.’

‘I’m at work,’ Sean tried to explain. ‘I guess I just needed to clear my head.’

‘What strange work hours we keep, you and I.’

‘Comes with the territory, I guess.’

‘I suppose,’ Jones agreed before allowing a silence to fall between them for a while. ‘So what is it you’re trying to clear your head of, if you don’t mind me asking?’

‘People,’ Sean answered bluntly.

‘I see,’ Jones replied, looking at the floor.

‘And a case,’ Sean continued. ‘A case I’m working on.’

‘And this case troubles you?’ Jones asked.

‘No,’ Sean told him. ‘It’s my inability to solve it that troubles me.’

‘Nothing worse than an itch you can’t scratch,’ Jones replied. Sean said nothing as he stared up at the crucifixion scene.
Was that how The Jackdaw saw himself – as a latter-day messiah, prepared to allow himself to be crucified to make his point?

‘So what’s the case?’ Jones interrupted his thoughts. ‘If I’m allowed to ask. One of the benefits of speaking to a priest is they can’t tell anyone about it.’

‘Like a journalist,’ Sean explained, drawing a slightly confused look from Jones.

‘Indeed,’ he agreed. ‘Although you’d need more than a court order to persuade a priest to give up what he’s been told.’

‘You seem to know more about the law than most,’ Sean answered.

‘I have a law degree,’ Jones told him. ‘The Church put me through university before I completed my vows.’

‘Any regrets?’ Sean found himself asking.

‘About joining the priesthood? No,’ Jones answered unwaveringly. ‘Never. It’s what I was meant to do. And you?’

‘The police?’ Sean asked. ‘It’s more something I have to do than want to do.’

‘I see,’ Jones answered, ‘but it’s not all plain sailing, I suppose. Like your current case.’

Sean looked from Christ to the young priest. ‘I’m investigating the man some people are calling the Your View Killer and others The Jackdaw. To me he’s just a man I need to find and stop.’

‘Ahh,’ Jones nodded his head slowly. ‘I know the case. I’ve been following it on the Internet.’

Sean struggled to hide his surprise. ‘You’ve been watching it?’

‘I have,’ Jones admitted. ‘Such terrible videos. Those poor people and their families.’

‘You don’t seem the type to be watching such …
graphic
videos,’ Sean told him.

‘But I have to,’ Jones replied.

‘Why?’

‘To pray for them,’ Jones told him. ‘So I can pray they don’t come to any harm and to pray for forgiveness for the man you hunt.’

‘Prayer doesn’t look like it’s working,’ Sean pointed out.

‘Who can say?’ Jones argued. ‘Perhaps if I and others hadn’t been praying for the victims things would have gone even worse for them.’

‘Maybe,’ Sean said without really believing it, ‘but it’ll take more than prayer to make him stop. That’s my job – not God’s.’

‘Oh, I’m sure the Lord will guide your hand.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Sean dismissed the possibility and hoped Jones wouldn’t pursue it.

‘Well,’ Jones continued, looking at the ground for a second, ‘all the same, the man you’re looking for must have been terribly aggrieved to become as angry as he is.’

‘Or at least he thinks he has been,’ Sean argued, ‘and now he wants his revenge.’

‘Apparently so,’ Jones agreed. ‘God loves a sinner and this one’s certainly that.’

‘Because he hurts people?’ Sean asked. ‘Because he’s killed?’

‘Thou shall not kill is one of the ten commandments, not one of the seven deadly sins.’

‘Does it matter?’ Sean questioned.

‘Just a technical point,’ Jones told him with a slight smile. ‘The Catholic religion is one of the few things that has more technicalities than the law.’

‘So what makes him a sinner,’ Sean asked, ‘
technically
speaking?’

‘Pride,’ Jones answered. ‘He can cover his face and disguise his voice, but he can’t hide his pride.’

‘You mean his damaged pride?’ Sean asked.

‘No,’ Jones told him. ‘I mean pride in what he’s doing now. He’s proud of what he’s doing, otherwise why would he seek the assistance of that newspaper –
The World
?’

‘To reach more people with his message,’ Sean offered.

‘Perhaps,’ Jones partially agreed, ‘but I also see envy and vanity in his actions and words. He’s envious of those he hurts while his vanity tells him he deserves to be more than they should ever be.’

‘Really?’ Sean asked, squinting his eyes. ‘I don’t see it. He hates the victims as he hates everyone connected to the banking industry. He doesn’t envy them. He doesn’t want to be like them. He wants to destroy them.’

‘Indeed,’ Jones replied, ‘but some people, if they can’t have something they desire, they would rather destroy it.’

‘That I have seen,’ Sean told him, ‘but
envy
?’

‘Trust me, Sean,’ Jones insisted, ‘I’ve seen plenty of envy in my time and I see it here.’

‘I don’t disbelieve you,’ Sean answered. ‘I just haven’t considered it before.’

‘Sometimes all it takes is a different perspective,’ Jones explained.

‘But what does it mean – if he’s driven by envy and not revenge?’

‘Perhaps he’s driven by both,’ Jones suggested. ‘Envy and revenge.’

‘Envy and revenge,’ Sean shrugged. ‘I suppose. I’ve seen them together before, but in simple cases, easily solved cases: an ex-husband’s envy of his ex-wife’s new, happy life, while also wanting to avenge the wrong he perceives she’s done him. The less successful of two business partners who went their own ways, envious of their more successful rival and quick to blame them for their own failings … But here, with this man – I don’t think so.’

‘An inner turmoil,’ Jones suggested. ‘A man being ripped apart by his own demons. Hating the thing he most wants to be because he knows he never can be.’

‘No.’ Sean continued to shake his head slowly.

‘Why?’ Jones asked.

‘Because that sounds like confusion,’ Sean argued, ‘but with this one I sense no
confusion
, only clarity and an absolute sense of purpose.’

‘But envy leaks from his every word,’ Jones told him. ‘His bitterness pours through the screen every time I listen to him. In this world we live in today, I see envy everywhere and I see it in him.’

Envy
, Sean asked himself.
What did it mean and who was the man he hunted envious of? The people he abducted and tortured, or something else?
He waited, but no answers came, only more questions.

‘I have to go,’ Sean told the priest.

‘Of course you do,’ Jones assured him, ‘but bear in mind what I said. The man you’re looking for carries envy around with him on his back like a …’ He looked at the crucified Christ. ‘Like a cross.’

‘Then I need to relieve him of his burden,’ Sean replied, ‘and then nail him to it.’

Addis sat alone in the semi-darkness of his office high in the South Tower of New Scotland Yard, the only light coming from a small, underpowered desk lamp and the glow of his computer screen. Every now and then he took a break from the numerous files all marked ‘Confidential’ or ‘Secret’ that were neatly stacked on his desk awaiting his attention and signature. He liked working alone and late, when most offices were dark and deserted, the phones quiet except for the occasional distant ring that went unanswered. It was a chance to catch up on the gargantuan amounts of paperwork that specialist operations created, such as the report he was currently reading – a request by the Anti-Terrorist Unit to try to put an undercover officer into a mosque suspected of trying to convert British-born Muslims to radical Islam. His desk phone suddenly rang shrilly, but Addis’s heart never skipped so much as a beat as he casually stretched out an arm and lifted the receiver, his eyes not leaving the report.

‘Assistant Commissioner Addis speaking.’

‘Robert. It’s me.’ The familiar voice of the cabinet minister made Addis groan inside and lean back deeply into his privately purchased leather desk chair.

‘It’s late,’ Addis unapologetically replied. ‘What do you want?’

‘Progress,’ the minister answered. ‘We all want progress.’

‘With regards to what?’ Addis stalled.

‘Don’t play dumb with me,’ the minister demanded. ‘You know exactly what I’m bloody well talking about. This bastard who now calls himself The Jackdaw, of all bloody things. Listen to what I’m about to say, Assistant Commissioner – his murdering antics are now officially costing the City of London tens of millions of pounds every single damn day. All of which the media are taking great delight in reporting to anyone and everyone who’ll listen. Damn, I hate that bloody newspaper.’

‘Then why don’t you use your influence to silence them?’ Addis asked. ‘You have more friends inside these organizations than I do,’ he continued, although he wasn’t entirely sure he was speaking the truth.

‘
The World
’s the one that’s really blabbing on about it – trying to turn this arsehole into some kind of working-class hero,’ the minister complained.

‘Then fire a political shot across their bows,’ Addis suggested.

‘Wouldn’t do any good,’ the minister explained. ‘They’re backing bloody Labour right now. Weren’t too keen on our last attempt at press regulation. Word has it they’ve done a deal with the back-stabbing Marxist bastards. Wankers, but the point remains: we need a result and quickly.’

‘We’re doing everything we can,’ Addis tried to assure him.

‘That’s not good enough any more,’ the minister complained. ‘Just find this murdering bastard and do it quickly, or I’ll find someone who can.’

Addis heard the line go dead before he could answer, his anger rising at even the small defeat of allowing the minister to hang up first. No matter – he had something in mind that would keep the minister off his back and in his pocket forever.

Sean paced around his small office reading through more reports naming possible suspects, all of whom had convictions or cautions for threatening people from the world of banking, from managers of local high street banks to CEOs of major international financial institutions. None were setting his mind on fire with potential, firing electricity through his body in a way that might suggest he had caught the scent of the man he hunted. The reports left him with nothing more than a feeling of emptiness. The sudden sound of a voice startled him.

‘Having a bad day?’ Anna asked before walking deeper into his office and taking a seat. Sean glanced at his watch. It was gone two in the morning.
Why was she in the office at this ungodly hour? Was it so she could be alone with him?
He quickly looked into the adjoining main office that was almost empty, but not quite.
If not to be alone with him, then why?

‘Have you ever known me have a good day?’ he asked somewhat mournfully.

‘Oh, some.’ She tried to sound positive.

‘Maybe some,’ he agreed, rubbing the back of his neck to relieve the stiffness. ‘Anyway, what are you doing here at this time of day, night, whatever it is? Shouldn’t you be at home tucked up with your husband?’