‘Mr Beaton, this is a powerful claim. Are you sure? I mean, how can you prove—’
There was a sharp rap at the open door and they turned to see DS Coombs looking agitated. ‘Pardon me,’ he had the grace to say. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt, but we’ve just got a suspected rape victim over at Edmonton. There’s only us, Bernie, who can respond. I’m sorry, we have to go. Come on, Lisa, shake a leg, eh?’ He nodded his head towards the hallway.
DC Farrow looked apologetically at Bernie. ‘Okay, Sarge. Thank you again, Mr Beaton. If we need more—’
Coombs pointed a thumb behind his shoulder in an impatient gesture. ‘Yeah, we know where to find you, Bernie. Thanks for stopping by. Find your way out, matey?’
DC Lisa Farrow watched the curious tramp as he shuffled out of Hornsey Police Station.
Behind her, Coombs smiled. ‘And how did that go?’
‘Actually, he sounded sincere. I believed him. Is there really a rape?’
He nodded. ‘Apparently – we’ll find out more shortly. No rush, though. The victim is in hospital. We’re going over there now.’
Her shoulders slumped slightly with exasperation. ‘I hadn’t finished, Sarge. What about the witness statement?’
‘Look, love, I’ve known that fellow for years. He’s a known drunk and a schizophrenic. Even if he’s on his meds, which he often isn’t, then he’s blurring their effects with whatever hallucinogens he can get his hands on. Used to be LSD but more recently he’s had to settle for ketamine – stolen from vet surgeries and sold on the street cheaply enough. Were his pupils dilated, did you notice?’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t believe so.’
‘Well, even so, let me assure you that Bernie believes aliens from another planet are hunting him, and he “feels colours” sometimes,’ DS Coombs said, gesturing inverted commas in the air. ‘He is paranoid a lot of the time and suffers panic attacks. You can’t rely on him, luv. He’s read the headlines and they’ve sunk in to his addled mind.’
She didn’t look amused. ‘You’re saying he’s not a reliable witness, Sarge.’
He grinned at the gentle sarcasm. ‘That is indeed what I’m saying, DC Farrow. Leave your notes with Phil at the desk. He’ll put them in the file. I doubt they’ll ever be read, let alone relied upon. But you’ve done your bit.’
‘Right, Sarge.’
‘Bet you feel like taking a bath now, eh?’ He winked.
‘Not really; felt a bit sorry for the old guy.’
‘Okay, well, we leave in two minutes. Make sure that interview room is sprayed with air freshener.’
Phil tossed her a can with a wry grin.
As they departed for the hospital, the station doors groaned open and a man wearing an Arsenal sweatshirt arrived, a crying child in tow. She was in a tiny version of the same hoodie.
‘Oh dear. What’s happened?’ Phil asked kindly, giving the weeping girl a sympathetic smile. ‘Very late for you to be out, little one.’
‘Missing dog,’ the father said, picking up his daughter. ‘Her name’s Trixie . . . er, the dog, that is.’
‘Trixie, eh? And what’s your name?’ he said to the girl, who was staring at him through red but now wide eyes. The reception officer reached beneath the desk and retrieved a small basket of lollipops. ‘Why don’t you take one of these and tell me everything?’
Bernie Beaton was forgotten within moments, and his witness report was dutifully yet haphazardly filed as handwritten notes. The ripe smell of his visit was also forgotten, courtesy of a determined spray of lavender-scented air freshener.
7
Jack leaned against the desk with his tie loosened. It was cool in the office, but the heaters were either already off for spring or dodgy on this floor. He would have preferred to have his jacket on, but he wanted to give the impression of getting down to business – that he was rolling up his sleeves and he too would be getting elbow deep in this operation rather than simply being a chieftain. He scanned the room where his team had assembled for the first official day of Operation Mirror; the Met’s book of names for operations had randomly assigned them yet another vague op name. Jack, long used to the bizarre titles that bore no relation to the crimes being investigated, was comfortable to be working with this one, although, honestly, he’d be happy to call it Operation Doing-Us-All-A-Favour or Operation Who-Cares.
The familiar faces gave him a boost of confidence, while the few new faces were looking back at him eagerly; he would need to say all the right stuff to settle the first-day nerves. He smiled. ‘Morning, everyone.’
‘Morning, sir’ was spoken in a chorus.
‘I see you’ve all made use of our clever little machine in the kitchen.’ He got a round of cheers in return. ‘We have Joan to thank for that blessing,’ he said, using this to introduce her. She waved away his comment as he slid her a broad smile. ‘Joan is going to keep us all on the straight and narrow, so please keep her in the loop about your movements. “Ask Joan first” is the best piece of advice I can give you.’
‘Hello again, everyone,’ she said, before turning towards reception. ‘I’ll be here. Pay your dues into the swear tin, keep the kitchen tidy and we’ll all get along.’
Jack chuckled as she departed. ‘Okay. So, welcome to Operation Mirror. For those who haven’t met me previously, I’m Detective Superintendent Jack Hawksworth and I’ve been appointed to spearhead this new op, which is going to do its utmost to fly at speed but as low as we possibly can. We’re a small group and that’s deliberate; we’ve been pulled together quietly and quickly to test whether a trio of deaths from our criminal underworld have any relation to each other.’
He pushed away from the desk so he could move freely as he warmed to this important initial briefing. ‘Our task is to either disprove any correlation or to find evidence that links these deaths – and if we can find it, then I suspect we have a serial killer on our hands.’ He paused, letting his gaze land on each of them for impact. The younger members of the team sat noticeably straighter. ‘But’ — he held up a finger — ‘to begin with, our remit is to gather information. We’ve been entrusted to see if there are any other deaths connected to the criminal underworld that have passed without raising any sort of flag within the Met.’
‘That’s broad, sir?’ Malek said, turning it into a question.
Jack was pleased that the more experienced detective was making the query. ‘You’re right, Mal. Criminals who kill other criminals are usually either efficient for expediency, or they’re messy to send a message. What they aren’t is elaborate or bizarre, and you’ll know what I mean when we work through the examples that have brought us together. What we’re looking for is some commonality, no matter how small – a sort of invisible current flowing through them all . . . if there is one.’
Jack had been walking and talking. Now he halted to face them. ‘You’ve all been selected because we trust your resourcefulness, diligence and especially your discretion. We tread lightly wherever we go. Please understand this: we are not pointing fingers at other police officers for their work on past cases. We’re after cooperation at every turn. However, if something’s been overlooked or people have been sloppy, this group of smart people have to find it and note it – within these walls only. If there is someone out there killing and thinking they’re getting away with it, Operation Mirror is now underway. Our work, if we can prove there are links, will ultimately set off the hunt for that person or persons. But we’re not about to broadcast it.’
‘Why, sir? Wouldn’t the media be a help?’ One brave newcomer, a PC, was finding her feet.
‘The media can be a brilliant help, but we have to be strategic about what we make public and when. To simply let people know that we might be hunting another serial killer in Britain will potentially cause unrest. And—’
‘Only in criminal circles, surely?’ the PC wondered. He liked her courage to interrupt him with another question while he was answering the first.
‘Yes,
you’re undoubtedly right, since this killer would be targeting only criminals, but we don’t want to create grisly interest that becomes addictive and thus unhelpful. All we’ll do is drive the perpetrator and their accomplices, if there are any, into hiding. Right now, if there is a single killer, they are operating under the presumption that the deaths are not drawing attention, or they could be wrongly believing that no one particularly cares about a group of crims getting their comeuppance.’ He let that remark sit among them for a couple of heartbeats, so they were in no doubt of his intention.
Jack grinned again. ‘I am reassured to see so many of our old team reunited. Thank you for making yourselves available.’ Malek and Kate nodded back. ‘Welcome to the new troop of constables we’ve pulled in. We’re pleased to have you here and you are not to feel reluctant to ask questions. If you’re thinking it, someone else surely is. What’s more, we’ve got some experienced officers working here – DI Kate Carter and DI Malek Khan, who has returned from an op in Europe . . . serious thanks for coming back, Malek.’ Khan gave him a thumbs up. ‘We’re awaiting the final member of our team, DS Sarah Jones, who should be with us later this week. Please introduce yourselves, and convey your strengths and background to each other. No thought is a bad one, so share it; the more we talk, the better informed we all are. Don’t ever be afraid to chat to me or any of the senior officers about even the smallest matter in connection with the cases we’re about to go through together. We’re not infallible and this is to be a tight team that looks out for each other, so share your ideas, expand on your thoughts. There’s a file for everyone at the end of this initial meeting. Study it. Familiarise yourself with every detail of each case. I’ve promised our superiors that we’ll have some answers within a week or so.’
There were a couple of gasps and he held up a hand, with mock guilt.
‘I know that’s not much time, but we’re going to work hard, fast, smart – all of us. Now, I’m going to hand over to Kate, who has come over from her important role at Special Branch to help us. Kate and I have worked on two major investigations together and I trust her judgement implicitly as my next-in-command, so please help her in every way. I’ve asked her to walk us through what we know so far. Kate?’
‘Thanks, sir.’ She stood and joined Jack at the front of the room.
At Jack’s introduction, a feeling of comfort swept over Kate. For the first time in a year or so, she felt like she belonged. This building, even this room, the familiar colleagues, a killer potentially on the loose, the hunt . . . and him, of course. Jack standing nearby, encouraging her. Most, she guessed, would see this situation as either dangerous or exciting – certainly thrilling – but to Kate it was akin to a hot bath. It calmed her to know her place, her role; she felt confident as DI Kate Carter. It was the other, less confident Kate Carter – who was deeply and helplessly attracted to Hawksworth – who struggled . . . the one who had a string of dates that led nowhere and one broken relationship with the brilliant Geoff Benson.
Geoff was kind, funny and generous, and he understood her prickly manner, but the problem she couldn’t allude to with Geoff, of course, was Jack Hawksworth, his best friend – the one she needed to entirely rule out as a prospect. For a long time she’d felt safe and in control of the unrequited romantic affection she had felt for Jack since they met. He wanted friendship and to be reliable colleagues and so did she, of course, but she hated how he unintentionally weakened her. His presence produced an electricity around her. Even so, she was older and wiser now; definitely more capable of holding her emotions tight. So long as Jack didn’t show her any sympathy or special attention, she was going to enjoy working alongside one of her favourite people in the world and would not allow it to tip into that more destructive feeling that could derail her.
That was the firm promise she’d made to herself in the bathroom this morning as she readied for day one of Operation Mirror. She’d chosen her clothes carefully: a plain, elegant pencil skirt for the first day so she achieved a feminine appearance, but muted in charcoal grey, with a simple white shirt and lighter mercury-grey cardigan. Marks & Spencer’s latest cashmere range was exxy but fantastic. She was planning to steadily invest in each colour, starting with the neutrals. Barely any make-up – just a tinted moisturiser, a dust of blush and a soft sweep of natural-coloured lipstick – and her dark golden hair in a ponytail. Neat and professional.
She gave a sympathetic, slightly crooked grin and cast a look Jack’s way, where he’d taken a seat on a nearby desk. At his encouraging nod she began, delighted that he’d given her this task. He could have kept it for himself, could have been the big guy in the room, but this was typical Jack – he managed his team with a skilled hand and a heightened awareness of what they needed. After a year of hating her world, she needed this.
‘Morning, everyone, and welcome. I’ve spent the last year working with Special Branch, but wild horses wouldn’t keep me away from this op when Jack asked.’ She used his name deliberately and the women constables’ eyes snapped to hers. They now knew she had his ear. ‘This op is as intriguing as it is challenging, and by that, I mean that the victims are criminals who perhaps we all feel deserve what they got. I understand that it’s human nature not to care much about these people who create so much misery for others . . . but we’re being asked to set that sentiment aside and work on these cases as we would those of any innocent victim. That’s our role as police in any capacity, so let’s work hard at doing what we all set out to do when we first joined the force – to protect without prejudice.’ Kate moved to the board where she’d neatly pinned up photographs of the victims.
She pointed to the image of a bespectacled man with unruly pepper and salt hair. ‘Julian Smythe, forty-five, university lecturer in astrophysics and inmate at Pentonville Prison prior to his death. Smythe was a wife beater. His bashings were vicious enough that on one occasion Eleanor Smythe, a teacher-librarian at a local school, died of her wounds on the floor of their family home.’ She could feel the fury rising off the other women in the room while the men looked down momentarily as one. ‘Smythe got five years. He was out in three.’ She waited a beat. ‘He’s on this wall because he died under suspicious circumstances after his release. The reason we don’t have an image up here of the crime scene is because his features were unrecognisable and the detectives had to rely on dental records. Mr Smythe was found in a warehouse building in Eastbourne back in 2004 but his death remained a cold case . . . until now. The warehouse was used as government storage only and did not have people coming and going, so Smythe’s body was badly decomposed by the time it was found. The coroner’s report concluded that he died from third-degree burns to his head and face, most likely from several litres of boiling water being poured over him repeatedly.’
Sounds of disgust rippled through the group.
Kate nodded. ‘I know. Before he died he was burned a dozen times – quite deeply, we gather – using a car cigarette lighter. Full details are in your file. Even those who believe he deserved to pay wouldn’t wish that end on anyone and, as our boss has just mentioned, this is not a typical execution-style death. It’s torture, yes, but he had no history of any other criminal activity, no links to any criminals that the investigation team could find. I might add that every family member of his wife’s had a solid alibi and, frankly, not one of those people would strike you as a revenge-taker. You’ll see that most tried repeatedly to help Eleanor escape her husband, but she consistently refused. Three of her close family members live in the US, and their only child, a son – who was perhaps the most outspoken against his father – took a teaching exchange in Asia for two years just over a month before his father was released. He did not leave Singapore during those two years and has since extended his trip. He only returned briefly – for around thirty-six hours, apparently – to bury his father.’
‘In other words, no suspect?’ Mal queried.
‘Correct. The case remains open. Clearly a suspicious death.’
Kate waited for any further questions before pointing to the next photo. ‘Moving on. Here we have Peggy Markham, fifty-nine, whom some of you might know of. She’s reputed to have run a chain of high-end brothels across our city that many suspect were linked to drugs and human trafficking, but to date police haven’t been successful pinning any of that on her – not even tax evasion, although that was probably going to be our only way to escort Peggy Markham into a prison cell.
‘She never married but had a son to one of the city’s well-known gangsters from the sixties – he died during the late eighties. We finally got a charge on pimping; within the right circles it was known that Peggy could acquire the right girl, or boy, for any pleasure. The case in question was an underage girl – fifteen – sent as an escort for a Turkish businessman with a particular sexual deviancy. The girl died as a result. Peggy was acquitted, as her legal team proved that the escort was a contractor who lied about her age and that Peggy had merely introduced the pair at a party. There was no evidence to prove otherwise.’ Kate pointed again to the picture of Peggy, features slackened on the pathology table at the morgue. ‘She died as a result of speedballing – that’s a mixture of heroin and cocaine. Hers was an overdose of about two grams, which is big.’
She looked towards Jack; she felt it was time for him to take over again. He took the cue and seamlessly returned to the presentation.
‘The thing is,’ he began, pushing off the desk, ‘Peggy had absolutely no reason to overdose.’
Kate watched him hold up slim fingers to count off what they knew. He looked good today . . . strong again after all that nasty business a couple of years ago. The tan would fade soon, like the darkness around the hair at his ears, revealing a few dabs of silver. She looked away.
Jack held up the last finger as she tuned back in. ‘She had money and was essentially laughing at the police trying to pin her down to any crime. She’d just dodged prison on a charge that was the closest we’d ever come to putting her behind bars. Acquitted. You’d think Peggy would be out celebrating, not contemplating suicide. Her son, a squeaky-clean family man running a hotel for a reputable group in Spain, assured police that his mother was in good spirits and he’d spoken to her the day before she was found dead. She’d been planning to visit him and the family. They hadn’t seen each other in years – while he admitted to loving his mother, he wanted distance from his notorious parents – but they were in touch regularly.’
Mirror Man Page 7
