The Jackdaw (6 page)

Donnelly pushed himself off the sofa and followed Sean out of the room towards the front door, with Mendham following close behind. ‘Any idea when you’ll get your Family Liaison Officer here? I don’t fancy being stuck here long,’ he asked.

‘They’ll be here when they’re here,’ Sean reprimanded him.

‘Cheer up, son,’ Donnelly told him. ‘It’s not all car chases and kicking down doors. Sometimes we have to
earn
our meagre wages.’

‘You won’t be here too long,’ Sean assured him as he opened the front door and walked into the street without turning to see Mendham’s frustrated gestures at being abandoned.

‘What now?’ Donnelly asked.

‘You said there were witnesses,’ Sean reminded him. ‘We might as well speak to them seeing as how we’re already here.’

‘Aye,’ Donnelly agreed. ‘So which one do you want to see − the housekeeper or the yummy mummy?’

‘I’ll take the mum.’

‘That figures. Name’s Angela Haitink. Number eighteen.’

‘Thanks,’ Sean told him and headed off without saying more. A few seconds later he was standing on the steps of a five-storey white Georgian house with a black door so shiny it made his reflection vibrate when he used the ornate chrome knocker.

Interviewing witnesses was never something he’d enjoyed. He always milked them for everything and anything they were worth, but he found their inaccuracies and hesitancy frustrating and annoying. He reminded himself not to treat Angela Haitink as a suspect. After almost a minute the door was answered by a tall, slim woman in her mid-thirties, with short blonde hair in a ponytail, wearing a designer tracksuit and trainers that he guessed would cost him a week’s wages. Her similarity to the mothers of the children taken by Douglas Allen reminded him of the impending trial he’d almost forgotten about in the fury of a new case.

‘Yes,’ she asked, her accent exactly what he expected. ‘Can I help you with something?’ She looked him up and down as if he was an unwanted salesman.

He opened his warrant card and waited for a change in her expression that never came. ‘Angela Haitink?’ he asked. She nodded yes. ‘Detective Inspector Corrigan. I’m investigating the murder of Paul Elkins. I understand you witnessed his abduction?’

She glanced at her sports watch, her expression finally changing to one of concern. ‘Do we have to do this right now? I’m afraid I’m running a little late.’

He swallowed his resentment. ‘It is rather important,’ he told her. ‘A man has been killed. One of your neighbours.’

She looked up and down the street before speaking again. ‘Of course. I’m sorry. Please come in.’ She stepped aside and allowed him to enter, heading for the kitchen after closing the door – Sean following, taking in the opulent surroundings. ‘It was a terrible thing,’ she told him without sounding genuinely concerned. ‘We’re all in a state of shock. I even knew the poor man, for God’s sake.’

‘You knew him?’

‘Well, I mean I said hello to him occasionally and I think my husband knew him a little better, but really – in a street like this. I just assumed he was being robbed, but then he bundled him into the back of a white van and drove away with him … I mean – my God.’

‘So you called 999?’

‘I had to – I mean, I had to do something.’

‘You did the right thing,’ he encouraged her, reminding himself to go softly.

‘I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. That’s when I phoned the police, but by the time they got here he was long gone and then I saw the news and found out that he’d been murdered – live on the Internet. Terrible. Just terrible.’

‘Which is why I need you to remember everything you saw,’ he told her as warmly as he could, ‘to help us catch the man who did this as quickly as possible.’

‘Of course. But I wouldn’t want anyone to find out I’ve spoken to the police. I mean, what if the killer found out? He could come after me.’

‘He won’t,’ Sean tried to reassure her, resisting the temptation to roll his eyes. ‘We don’t think organized crime’s involved here. This one’s not the type to go after witnesses.’

‘You don’t
think
?’

‘No. I don’t. But we can keep your identity secret, even if you end up giving evidence in court.’ He could have kicked himself as soon as he said it.

‘In
court
?’ she almost shouted. ‘I don’t think I could give evidence in court.’

How he missed southeast London. He would have arrested her for obstructing an investigation by now and dragged her back to Peckham nick to be interviewed there. ‘It’ll probably never come to it,’ he lied, ‘but you do need to tell me what you saw.’ She appeared unconvinced. ‘I’m sorry,’ he eventually told her. ‘You really have no choice, but there’s nothing to worry about.’ Still she said nothing, as if she was still considering the options she didn’t have. ‘Why don’t you start by showing me where you were when you saw Mr Elkins being attacked?’

‘I was in my bedroom,’ she told him, but made no move towards it.

Why were people always so much more bashful about showing their bedrooms than any other room?
he wondered – as if it was the one room that betrayed our personal life more than any other.

‘Don’t worry,’ he tried to joke. ‘If it’s in a mess I promise not to tell anyone.’

‘No it’s not that,’ she stumbled a little. ‘Please. Follow me. It’s on the second floor.’

She led him to the stairs and up to the second-floor master bedroom that looked about the size of Sean’s entire ground floor. He followed her to the window that overlooked the street below and they both peered down on the quiet road.

‘It’s usually like this,’ she told him. ‘Quiet and private.’

‘So did you notice the white van parked up before the attack? It must have stood out a little.’

‘I did notice it,’ she admitted, ‘but it didn’t bother me. There’s always tradesmen of one type or another in the street.’

‘Did you notice how long it was there for?’

‘I … I really couldn’t say.’

‘When did you first notice it?’

‘Again, I’m … I’m not sure.’

‘Well, what were you doing?’

‘Goodness. So many questions.’

He realized he was moving too quickly and tried to back off a little. ‘What I mean is … try and think back to what you were doing the first time you saw the van. What drew your attention to it?’

‘Nothing particularly … just, nothing.’

‘Were you here – by this window?’

‘No. No I don’t think I was, actually.’

‘Then where? Outside? Inside?’

Her eyes began to flicker with recollection. ‘Neither. I was neither.’

‘Excuse me?’ he asked, his turn to be confused.

‘I was at the front door, which was open for some reason.’ He let her think for a few seconds. ‘I remember. I’d just taken delivery of a parcel, something I’d ordered online, some new sheets for the children’s beds, so that would have been almost exactly five. Yeah, definitely, because Marie, our nanny, had already picked the kids up from school and was giving them tea when the parcel arrived.’

‘Good,’ Sean told her. ‘Was there anybody by the van or in it?’

‘No,’ she told him flatly. ‘Definitely no one by it and if there was someone in it, which I’m sure there was now, I couldn’t see. It had those darkened, tinted windows.’

‘Was the window down maybe?’

‘No. I don’t think so.’

‘Perhaps it was down slightly,’ he suggested, ‘to let smoke from a cigarette out, or maybe you heard a radio playing inside.’

‘No. No. Nothing. It was lifeless.’

‘So when was the next time you saw it?’

‘When the poor man was being dragged into it.’

‘And when was that?’

‘Just before I called the police – seconds before.’

Sean recalled the time the case file said the 999 call was made at – just after six pm. ‘What did you see? Tell me everything you saw.’

‘Well, I was here, close to the window, checking the housekeeper had cleaned properly, she doesn’t always, and some movement outside, on the other side of the street, caught my eye.’

‘That’s where the van was?’ Sean interrupted. ‘On the other side of the street?’

‘Yes,’ she told him, ‘otherwise I probably wouldn’t have noticed anything.’

‘Go on.’

‘So I looked out of the window and saw one man almost lying on the floor while this other man wearing a ski-mask was leaning over him, beating him about the head with this little black bat thing.’

‘How many times?’

‘I don’t know. Several.’
An amateur
, Sean reminded himself. ‘Then he picked him off the ground and literally dragged him to the white van and bundled him in the back. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Anyway, I grabbed the phone,’ she pointed to the one next to her bed, ‘and phoned the police. By the time someone answered he, the man with the ski-mask over his face, was still at the back of his van. He was there for quite a while actually, and then while I was talking to the police on the phone he closed the doors, ran around to the driver’s side, got in, started the van and drove away as calm as you like.’

‘Could you see what he was doing at the back of the van?’

‘No. Sorry. I was at the wrong angle to see.’

‘But he was there for a while?’

‘Yes.’

What the hell were you doing, my friend? You abduct a man from a London street in broad daylight. Then you mess around at the back of your van for several minutes. Why would you do that? Why take the risk?

‘Did he restrain him at all?’ Sean asked. ‘Tie him up or use handcuffs – anything like that?’

‘No. He just hit him over the head and dragged him to the van.’

A fully grown man, unrestrained in the back of a van, could make a hell of a noise. Did you really risk driving across London with him thrashing around? I don’t think so. So is that what you were doing at the back of the van – restraining him, or drugging him?
He had a flash back to the Thomas Keller case – a rapist and murder who used chloroform to overpower his victims.
You must have been. You must have been. This was all so carefully planned – victim selection and research, the room you prepared for his murder – you would have planned how to restrain them too – you must have.

‘You all right, Inspector?’ Angela Haitink’s voice brought him back.

‘What?’ He remembered she was there. ‘Yeah. Fine. I was just thinking something through.’ He quickly re-gathered his thoughts. ‘And then he just calmly drove away?’

‘Well, yes.’

‘At speed, engine revving, tyres squealing?’

‘No. Nothing. Just pulled out and drove away. I gave the police the number plate. Can’t you find him from that?’

‘Maybe. If we get lucky. But he planned everything else, so my guess is it’s unlikely he used his own van. Probably used a stolen one or one with false plates. We’re looking into it. Thanks for your time, Mrs Haitink.’

‘Is that it?’ she asked.

‘We’ll be in touch,’ he told her and headed for the bedroom door. ‘We’ll need a full written statement in due course. I’ll send one of my team around at a time that suits you.’

‘I’m sorry I couldn’t have been more help.’

‘You’ve helped plenty,’ he reassured her. ‘In fact, more than you probably realize.’

Geoff Jackson stood in front of the huge whiteboard and surveyed the collection of seasoned crime correspondents gathered in the conference room laughing and joking with each other, half nursing unlit cigarettes. Unbeknown to them, Jackson was already considering their individual talents and assigning them tasks. He’d virtually grown up in the business, getting a first-class degree in Journalism Studies, then straight to work for a local paper in Swanley, Kent, before rising quickly through the ranks to become the crime editor of the most-read newspaper in Britain.

Jackson was good. Really good. He knew many of his colleagues on the broadsheets looked down on him working for a red-top rag, but he didn’t give a damn. He could take their jobs any time he wanted, but they’d never be able to take his. He had an almost predatory instinct for a story and let nothing stand in the way of getting it. How he got it – that was his business. The public just wanted the story, with all the unpleasant details, and he was the man to get it for them.

‘All right, you lot,’ he bellowed across the room. ‘Everyone shut the fuck up and listen.’ The room fell almost instantly quiet and serious. ‘Do any of you pricks know why we’re here?’

‘To get the smoking ban lifted,’ someone called out, causing calls of approval and much laughter.

‘Very fucking funny,’ Jackson told the comedian. ‘You’ve just volunteered to be the official tea boy.’ More laughter until Jackson killed it, turning and writing on the board in letters almost big enough to fill it:

THE YOUR VIEW KILLER

‘Drop your other stories,’ he told them. ‘From now on this is the only story. I want to look into the victim’s background. I want to know everything about him. How rich was he? How did he live? Did he have any secrets, or vices? Was he liked, or disliked? Everything. And let’s find out what the public are thinking. Do they agree with what the killer’s doing, or do they think he’s just another sicko? Let’s speak to them and find out and get an online poll going so people can tell us if they’re for him or against him. And get hold of your sources and see if any of them know anything. Someone must have heard something on the criminal grapevine, so find out what. I’ll email you all your assignments within the next hour, so let’s get on with it.’

‘You reckon he’ll kill again, then?’ one of the journos asked.

‘I bloody hope so,’ Jackson answered deadpan, causing muted laughter amongst his audience. ‘Not much of a story if he doesn’t, is it?’ He looked away from them, checking his iPhone for messages. The journos took their cue and started to file out of the room, leaving Jackson alone to think.

He was happy enough with the meeting, but knew he needed more. The Your View Killer was gold dust, but he still needed to make it different – the public were growing immune to press coverage of protracted cases, preferring to get quick updates from the Internet or the multitude of twenty-four-hour news shows on television. He needed something – something no one else had. He pulled up a chair and sat staring out of the window, waiting for that magical moment when an undeniably brilliant idea popped into his head. He didn’t have to wait long. A smile spread across his face at the sheer audacity of the idea and he jumped out of his chair in celebration.