Mirror Man

by McIntosh, Fiona

  Go for the jugular, she told herself. Push him off balance. ‘Rupert Brownlow.’

  His perfectly proportioned forehead knitted into a frown. ‘The teen who went joy-riding and ended up killing a lot of folk?’

  She nodded. ‘The same one who was released from prison and then murdered just two nights ago in Portsmouth.’

  He shook his head, confused. ‘And?’

  Okay, so she wasn’t even cracking his cool facade. ‘And Julian Smythe. Remember him?’

  ‘I do. What do you want me to say?’

  ‘That you’re as intrigued as I am that he too was murdered not long after his release.’

  ‘As a policeman I’m obviously interested in any crime.’

  ‘But are you linking them?’

  ‘Me personally? No, I haven’t linked them.’ Something about the careful, specific way he answered, literally interpreting her question, flagged in her mind. ‘Ms Starling, why are you asking me these questions?’ That greyish, greenish gaze began to look irritated.

  ‘I am writing an investigative piece that I believe will link these crimes, and others, to a vigilante.’

  She watched him carefully but he barely flinched. His phone rang in his pocket and, in an act of courtesy that she had to admire him for, he didn’t react to it immediately. He was rubbing day-old stubble that she could hear and for a moment wondered what it would feel like against her skin. It made her angrier to think she was falling under a spell.

  ‘For My Day?’ he qualified. She nodded, embarrassed. ‘To what, be featured alongside Paris Hilton showing off her midriff yet again? Or will you insert this exposé alongside the big question of whether to wear a frayed or non-frayed denim miniskirt?’

  Lauren hated that he nodded towards her expertly distressed skirt, which had cost her a cool fortune at All Saints. She might be down, but she wasn’t out yet. They both looked at her opaque tights, which ended at sharply angled ankles. ‘For My Day, yes,’ she said, in a tone to match those ankles.

  ‘Excuse me, Ms Starling. I have to get this,’ he said, reaching for his still-ringing Nokia. ‘Hawskworth.’ There was a pause. ‘When? All right. Where is she now? Okay, I’ll be back in a few minutes. Thanks. Yes. Bye.’ He gave a shrug. ‘I have to go.’

  ‘So I gather.’

  ‘Why me?’

  ‘Why not?’ she said. ‘You have the cred for hunting down the last two serial killers our country has been troubled by. If I were the Commissioner, I’d drag you in as a matter of priority.’

  She knew her reasoning was rock-solid but he wasn’t giving anything away.

  ‘What exactly do you want from me, Ms Starling?’

  ‘Please call me Lauren. Look, Jack . . . may I call you Jack?’ He didn’t answer. She pressed on. ‘I’m going to write this story and I’m going to be digging into these crimes. I thought I’d inform you.’

  ‘Why do I need to know?’

  Give him something . . . use it to unnerve him, she told herself. ‘Because a little birdie tells me you too are digging around in the same series of crimes. I just thought we could collaborate – you know, scratch each other’s backs.’

  He laughed and it was a lovely sound. She wished she could share that laugh over pasta and chianti. ‘Well, thank you for thinking of us . . . and of me, specifically.’

  Lauren bristled. He was gloriously impenetrable; what a lovely challenge. ‘I’m not being generous. I’m warning you of my intention.’

  ‘You sounded magnanimous a moment ago. Now you sound threatening.’

  She stood up from the bench, hating that he wasn’t taking her seriously. ‘Well, thanks for at least giving me your time.’ She pulled out a card and offered it. ‘If you feel like talking . . .’

  ‘To My Day?’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t think so.’ He took her card anyway to show good manners. ‘And apart from this amazing piece of investigative journalism, Lauren, what else are you working on?’ he said, standing too.

  She would never know why she was candid in that moment, or so self-effacing. ‘Well, it’s a searing piece about which breed of small dog in 2007 suits the single woman best.’ She didn’t blink as she said this and met his amused gaze head-on.

  He laughed with delight. ‘Excellent!’

  She joined him with a smile. ‘I know, it’s powerful stuff. Sort of thing that keeps me awake at night.’

  ‘Have you always worked at this magazine?’

  ‘No, I was with a major news magazine – and I do apologise for trading off that, but I had to reach you somehow.’

  ‘I admire your tenacity, but I’m not your guy. What happened to bring you to My Day?’

  Again, she was shocked at her honesty. ‘I met a bastard, fell for him, lost my flat, my job, my friends . . . and I suppose I’m easing myself back into the game, but it’s costing me.’

  She watched sympathy light up his eyes, as though he understood something about her now. ‘Well, I’m wishing you luck with your endeavours. I’m sorry I was no help.’

  ‘I appreciate your time. Most wouldn’t have bothered, so thank you.’

  They parted, him back in the direction of New Scotland Yard and wherever his local café was and her into St James’s Park tube station.

  As the slight breeze was blowing in the right direction, she thought she heard him mutter a cursing word of despair.

  Kate was at the morgue where Rupert Brownlow’s corpse had arrived.

  She’d been expecting Rob Kent, a pathologist who liked to make any observers suffer, especially if he sensed they were particularly squeamish. But Rob was on sabbatical and a new senior pathologist now looked up as she arrived, and with a nod acknowledged her witnessing his study of the body. He was dark-haired, slim beneath his scrubs, and had a neat ducktail beard she’d glimpsed before he pulled on his mask. His gaze was as striking as it was unnerving, with blue eyes the colour of ancient ice.

  ‘Morning. I’m Dr Cook.’

  ‘DI Kate Carter.’

  He switched on his microphone, preparing to work.

  ‘So . . . do they call you Cookie?’ she said, hoping to get off to a bright start.

  ‘No.’ He blinked behind his face mask.

  ‘Oh.’ She gave a nervous chuckle. She couldn’t tell if he was smiling behind his mask but felt it was safe to say he wasn’t. ‘Er, thanks for getting onto this so fast.’

  ‘I was told of the urgency. Shall we crack on?’

  ‘Please.’ Kate moved closer. She had never got used to the business-like manner of post-mortems; Kate understood there was a job to be done and the pathologists she’d known had been respectful towards the dead. But Kate’s mind always reached to the family beyond, and this was someone’s son. He was a convicted criminal who had served his time whether anyone thought it was appropriate or not, and he was surely loved and mourned by people on the other side of the door. In here, though, she had to be objective, alert, and not allow empathy too much room in her mind.

  Brownlow’s body was still relatively fresh, so the smell wasn’t overwhelming. She’d taken the precaution of wearing a mask but it couldn’t fully protect her from sensing the unpleasant gaseous odour coming off Brownlow. She was grateful for the tall ceiling and excellent ventilation.

  ‘You’re not going to pass out or anything, are you?’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ she replied, her sharp tone obviously amusing the pathologist, as she could see the edges of his eyes wrinkling above his mask.

  ‘Good.’ He paused for a heartbeat, looking at her, then returned his attention to Brownlow. ‘So, Portsmouth has done a very good job, presenting our victim with bagged hands and head, so we have a fighting chance of preserving any trace evidence.’ She nodded. ‘Right, I’ll just do the usual broad brushstrokes,’ he warned and began. ‘The victim is identified as Rupert Brownlow, a 21-year-old male. There are no tattoos or distinguishing marks. No needle marks in his veins.’

  Kate tuned out, allowing her thoughts to roam. When the pathologist found
something she didn’t already know, she’d hear the difference in his tone.

  The crime scene investigation team in Portsmouth had done a professional job too. The information had been emailed promptly, almost as the body had arrived at the morgue in Westminster. She’d been able to walk down to the coroner’s court in Horseferry Road, to which the morgue was attached. She wouldn’t linger – this was more a courtesy to thank the pathology team for getting onto this pronto – but had wanted to lay eyes on Rupert Brownlow.

  She’d never seen a lonelier figure than the one lying on the mortuary bench. He appeared a skinny, pale kid, who looked all the more forlorn and somehow pathetic on the stainless-steel table as his corpse was pushed, pulled and scrutinised by Dr Cookie. She couldn’t think of him any other way now.

  He’d just glanced her way again.

  ‘Pardon?’ she said.

  ‘Did you read that they found footprints at the scene? They’re not our victim’s. He’s a size eleven.’

  ‘Yes, nine and a half, I gather.’

  He nodded. ‘It’s a start for you, because Mr Brownlow isn’t giving us much outwardly. Shall I call you when it’s done?’

  She realised that he was letting her off the uglier scrutiny to come. She felt gratitude. ‘Thanks. That would be great. I can come back down.’

  ‘Or I can ring you,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you leave your number with my assistant?’

  She nodded. Dr Cookie wanted her well away from him, it seemed. ‘Er, you probably have it on your phone from my call this morning,’ she offered.

  ‘I probably do,’ he replied, without looking up from scrutinising Rupert’s toes. ‘Except you called me on the landline. Leave it anyway. I’ll put it into my mobile.’

  Yes, Dr Cookie wished her gone while he worked. She couldn’t blame him for starting at the feet. Even from where she stood she could tell Rupert’s head and torso were a mess. Obviously, Portsmouth did everything well, including killing.

  11

  Her Majesty’s Prison Holloway had daunted prisoners for decades. Jack had been intrigued to discover that when it originally opened its imposing doors in the early 1850s, it had taken both sexes; one famous inmate was Oscar Wilde. Demand for a women-only prison meant that it switched its priority at the turn of the century and for the next threescore years and ten, it had held adults and young offenders alike behind its fortress walls.

  As another new century approached, the government had decided to bring it up to date; the general agreement was that the makeover was a dismal failure, and Jack could see why if the entrance alone was an indication. It was a brief study on how to make someone feel despair from the moment of arrival. As a person who was intrigued by architecture, he couldn’t find anything about the hideous red brick blocks – which looked straight out of the communist Eastern Bloc – to fascinate him. An architect could have used their freedom and budget to bring about something that might at least feel restorative for the inmates. It hunkered down in the middle of inner Islington, although the prison was big enough to command a neighbourhood all of its own called Holloway.

  After he’d shown his warrant card, Jack handed over his phone and received a tag with a locker number. He passed through a gate that bleeped and then triggered a search. He was frisked by a granite-faced prison officer who checked his pockets and scrutinised his shoes.

  ‘I’m a detective superintendent with Scotland Yard,’ he said, making the point.

  ‘Oh, you’d be surprised,’ she said. ‘Mouth?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Chewing gum? Say aaah.’

  He opened his mouth, bemused.

  ‘Thank you, Detective Superintendent. Straight through.’ She gestured ahead.

  Another guard smiled. ‘Welcome to Holloway. I’m supposed to give you a stamp on your hand,’ she said, ‘but I think we can waive that.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Go through. The desk will get you sorted.’

  Drifting down, as though carried on the wind that was seeping into the corridor through cracks in windows and under doors, Jack could hear the shrieks of women. He knew there was something in the order of four hundred and fifty prisoners inside, and it sounded like every one of them was presently screaming.

  At the desk, another officer gave him the once-over before rewarding him with a curt smile. ‘Oh, you’ll be popular,’ she said, and he ignored the backhanded compliment.

  ‘I’ve only been here once previously. Is it always like this?’

  ‘All day, every day. You get used to it.’

  ‘Get used to women screaming? I doubt I could.’

  She said no more. Her colleague arrived. ‘Detective Superintendent Jack Hawksworth?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The Governor told us to expect you. Seems you’re liked,’ she said. ‘Anne McEvoy is just finishing up one of her group sessions. I can take you over. We haven’t mentioned to her that you’re coming.’

  ‘No, that’s all right,’ he said, trying to calm the nest of snakes suddenly uncoiling in his belly at the thought of seeing Anne again.

  They began walking through bleak corridors of scuffed lino that squeaked beneath the prison officer’s rubber soles. Fluorescents flickered on the low ceiling above, and the walls were a colour Jack could only describe as a poor attempt at aquamarine. Someone – no doubt an inmate who fancied herself an artist, but wasn’t that good – had painted murals along the long tunnels and, somehow, instead of brightening them had made them seem darker, more melancholy. They were like galleries, these older prisons, so the warders could easily see from end to end and there was nowhere for prisoners to hide or leap out from.

  ‘I’m taking you to a room we use for group meetings,’ the warder said over her shoulder. Another mural of a tree only made the place feel more depressing, if that was possible.

  Anne was serving several life sentences here and he hoped, for her sake, that she could be moved to a brighter, healthier prison, away from London, perhaps. ‘I hear they’re talking about closing Holloway.’

  ‘You hear right,’ his squeaking companion confirmed. Keys jangled from a large clip on her belt, which was holding up blokey trousers.

  ‘Must be time,’ he muttered.

  ‘Yeah, but what about our jobs?’

  ‘True,’ he agreed, not wishing to inflame her mood. He’d heard horror tales of bashings by the guards, and her hands looked like they’d ball up into a bigger fist than he could make. ‘Thank you very much,’ he said, as she slowed in front of a door.

  ‘McEvoy’s in here. You’ve got forty-five minutes.’

  Jack nodded.

  ‘I’ll be at the back of the room, out of earshot.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He stared at the door.

  ‘Go in, mate. She doesn’t bite.’

  He gave her a sick version of his smile, not that she’d know it.

  ‘No touching.’ That last was said sarcastically.

  Jack turned back to the door and looked in through the narrow window. There she was, as attractive as he remembered, and busy moving chairs around. He knocked and she looked up, but either she didn’t recognise him immediately or couldn’t see properly, because she simply beckoned. He opened the door and stepped across the threshold.

  ‘Hello, Anne.’

  She stared, looking like someone trapped in time, which in many ways she was. ‘Jack,’ she muttered, her voice gritty. ‘What?’ Then she half smiled, half sighed. ‘Really?’

  ‘May I?’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course. Come in.’ He watched her hand fly to her hair, push it back nervously around one ear. It was clean and slippery, still glowing its bright blonde. ‘Er, would you like to sit down?’

  ‘Thanks.’ He sat where she gestured, and they stared at each other before both looking back at the prison officer, who was far enough away and reading the newspaper. Jack glanced back to Anne. ‘You look surprisingly well. Thinner.’

  ‘Food’s horrid here. And thin can’t be a ba
d thing.’

  That voice. It brought back so many memories of the briefest time in his life when he was ridiculously happy. ‘Is that prison garb, or . . .’

  ‘No, we’re all allowed to wear our own clothes.’

  ‘I should have brought you something, er . . .’

  She shook her head. ‘It’s fine. I’m amazed and intrigued as to why you’re here, actually.’

  He sighed. ‘Wow, we’re awkward, aren’t we?’

  ‘You certainly are.’ She chuckled and began pulling her hair back into a ponytail as she seemed to relax. ‘Are you well, Jack? You must have brightened up the day of those prison officers.’

  ‘I felt like an insect being pinned to a board.’

  She laughed at the image. ‘Yes, well, we don’t get tall, dark, handsome strangers around here.’

  He let the compliment pass by. ‘You sound good, Anne.’

  Her smile broadened. ‘Given my circumstances, I have to admit I’m enjoying my role here. I mean, I hate prison, but I feel like I’m achieving something, giving others confidence and motivation. The prison team believe it’s worthy, so I’m given a lot of rope, you know. It’s weird, but I’m a better person on the inside than I was walking free.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say to that.’

  Anne shrugged. ‘I had a choice. I had to decide to live or die here. It’s easy to die. It’s much harder to live, to survive, to turn one’s life around. I chose the harder road and I suppose it’s giving back some reward now.’

  He nodded, again finding it hard to think of anything worthy to say to that. ‘Samantha?’ It slipped out before he could stop himself.

  Pain danced across her features and she swallowed and closed her eyes momentarily. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t know you even knew her name.’

  ‘That was brutal of me. I didn’t know I was going to mention her. I’ve kept in touch with the Governor . . . er, just to make sure you’re both, well, coping,’ he struggled, annoyed with himself for lacking his usual grace. If Martin Sharpe knew he was here without his express permission, he’d skin him. But then he probably already knew, as Joan had likely implanted some sort of spy tracker on his clothes – in his phone, maybe, or in the heel of his shoe. The skinning awaited him, but he would argue that with his promotion surely came the power to make this sort of decision, especially due to its urgency.