Mirror Man

by McIntosh, Fiona

  Jack hoped everyone would hold onto their patience; Sarah was telling them stuff they already knew.

  ‘But the database has told us that each of the original crimes was committed in the Borough of Enfield, and every one of those original court cases was heard at North London Crown Court.’

  Her words were met with stunned silence.

  Jack broke it from where he sat on the corner of a desk. ‘Good work, Sarah!’

  She gave him a nervous beam of pleasure.

  ‘Excellent,’ he continued. ‘All right, everyone. Now we have something. This is great policing and a fast result. Our superiors will be impressed. So, we focus on Enfield. We need to talk to the court and see what the staff remember about these cases and any others that smack of any similarity. Kate, can you get Mal to handle that and to work out who does what?’

  ‘On it,’ she confirmed.

  ‘Sarah, I want you breaking down those old cases for us and with special emphasis on the courts, so we can target them properly like a wolf pack.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve begun that, sir.’

  ‘Good stuff.’

  ‘Kate, perhaps you can focus on scrutinising the original crimes – I’ll help with that. Which police teams were involved, and original investigating officers, et cetera.’

  She nodded. ‘Yes. Everyone, I know we’re not ready to call it yet, but we do have a shoe size from the Portsmouth killing and it doesn’t belong to the victim. So at this point we are presuming the person who killed him was wearing a size nine and a half trail shoe, if that helps any of you with your enquiries.’

  ‘So, Enfield is potentially where our killer hails from. What else?’

  There was a silence as the group pondered this. Jack broke it. ‘Commonalities in pathology?’ He looked at Sarah.

  ‘Er . . . hang on.’ She tapped on her keyboard, scrutinising the screen. Everyone waited expectantly. ‘Of the four we have, we’re waiting on toxicology for Robbins and Brownlow, but Peggy Markham had traces of propofol. No sedatives with Toomey. No drugs at all, in fact, which is refreshing for a long-haul truck driver.’

  Jack nodded. ‘Let’s keep a watch on the propofol.’

  Mal frowned. ‘If he is using drugs to make victims compliant, then it might be worth having a chat to our local street pharmacists in the Enfield area.’ The incident room people chuckled at his polite term.

  ‘Okay, you can handle that?’

  Mal nodded. ‘Easy.’

  ‘Right,’ Jack said, sighing as he drilled down into his thoughts. ‘We’re moving a click back into the original crimes. I want us sifting through every aspect of those crime scenes, forensics, pathology, investigation and trials – nothing left unchecked, okay?’ He won a series of nods. ‘That’s a lot of work, so call it early doors tonight and get a good night’s sleep, because we’ll be hauling through the weekend. No partying, folks.’

  Kate began ushering people away. ‘Go on, you heard the Chief. Have a good evening and see you all tomorrow. Sorry to ruin your Saturday.’ She checked her email and then tapped on the glass that separated Jack’s office. ‘I’ve just heard back from Pathology on Brownlow. His full report will be in overnight – they were just a bit late for our briefing.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Brownlow may well have taken his last breath on the end of that rope attached to the car, but his fate was already sealed by a hefty amount of Rohypnol that was in his final meal – mostly fish and some chips, plus a cola soft drink. Our killer made sure he would have died from that overdose alone.’

  ‘Dragging him up the road was a flourish?’

  She shrugged. ‘A final certainty, perhaps, and certainly symbolic if we go with the vigilante theory.’

  ‘Which I’m not prepared to do yet.’

  ‘Just saying. Are we still on for dinner?’

  ‘Yes. Seven?’

  ‘I still don’t know where you live.’

  He pulled out his phone. ‘Doing it now.’

  Kate emerged from the Barbican tube station. Jack didn’t live that far from her place at Stoke Newington, but here? This maze of inner-city accommodation didn’t feel like Jack at all. He was known for preferring creaky buildings that were centuries old, or elegant, cutting-edge glass and steel. This felt cumbersome. She couldn’t stand the thought of hunting around endless pathways, so she sent Jack a text.

  I’m standing by the central pond and near a waterfall.

  She waited a moment or two and, right enough, he was back quickly. I’m coming out onto the balcony.

  She waited, glancing around for movement among the various backlit windows that gave her the impression they were eyes looking at her. There he was. He lifted a hand in welcome and she felt something give inside. Wouldn’t it be so easy and lovely if this was her coming home?

  Dream on, Kate, a voice inside cautioned. Don’t be a drag. He’ll shut you out immediately if he senses it.

  She smiled, waved back and texted. See you in a mo.

  He was waiting at the open door of his apartment in slippered feet and navy trackies, although she noted the brand, which probably contributed to how well they hung from his narrow hips to cover those long legs. He’d finished off his casual ensemble with a mid-blue crew-necked sweatshirt.

  ‘Well, you look comfy,’ she said.

  ‘Forgive the slippers. They’re my guilty secret.’ He grinned. ‘Come in.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have placed you here at the Barbican,’ she said, handing over a bottle of wine.

  ‘Thank you for this, we can have it later. I’ve got a pinot open.’ He helped her to slip the coat off her shoulders and hung it on a hook.

  ‘It’s hardly you, right? All these people, all this concrete; the sheer scale of it seems to fly in the face of what you enjoy.’

  ‘And yet isn’t there something splendid about the way the water runs, the ponds carry lilies and birds visit? No vehicles . . . easy pedestrian routes throughout.’

  ‘So you can run, I suppose. Don’t you miss your park running?’

  ‘Indeed, I do miss the big breathing expanse of green.’ He gave her the glass of wine he’d poured for her, lifted his own and they clinked.

  ‘Cheers,’ she said, sipping and sighing her pleasure. ‘What do you call this sort of architecture?’

  ‘Brutalist. Now Grade II listed. A principal landmark of London architecture of its time.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Late sixties, early seventies.’

  ‘I think you should grow a porn-star moustache and wear bell-bottoms to go with it.’

  He laughed delightedly. ‘It belongs to a friend who is on a year’s posting overseas. Made it easy for me returning from Australia because I rented my place out, then the tenants extended and I haven’t got the heart to throw them out. Plus, I’m in no rush; for now, this place is convenient. I can walk to work.’

  ‘Well, that’s gold, I’ll admit.’

  ‘I’m going to keep cooking.’ He pointed to the open kitchen. ‘Stay comfy and chat to me from there.’

  She wasn’t just comfy . . . it felt so easy to be here, with him. ‘And so the concert halls and everything are all around?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said from the kitchen, stirring a big pot. ‘The arts complex is massive, sort of hugs the rest – the tower blocks, thirteen terrace blocks, two mews and a few courts thrown in. And, of course, I really enjoy that adjacent is the Museum of London, the Guildhall School of Music and Drama, the—’

  ‘All those schoolgirls whistling at you when you dash out in your running gear.’

  He laughed. ‘They haven’t found me yet.’

  They will, she thought. ‘This is a very large apartment. Must cost a bomb.’

  ‘A maisonette, and of course that view is everything.’

  She smiled. ‘It’s wonderful to look out, I’ll admit, even though it’s all concrete in front. Amazing, really, how the designer achieved . . . well, beauty.’

  ‘It’s the lighting, the water, the way t
he night falls in and all the apartments illuminate from behind their curtains and blinds. And it’s quiet, believe it or not, for all these people among approximately two thousand living spaces. I find it extremely easy to live here.’

  ‘You certainly look relaxed. What are you stirring?’

  ‘Risotto.’

  ‘Can I help?’

  ‘No, we’re eating on our laps – nothing to do but hold a bowl and a fork.’

  She couldn’t think of anything nicer. Sitting at a table made it formal and potentially awkward with too much eye contact.

  ‘Ooh, it’s a good brew, Kate. Avert your gaze, I’m going to toss in a pile of butter now.’ He covered the dish with a flourish. ‘Now we just leave that to do its alchemy.’

  He came back to sit with her, putting down a bowl of fat roasted cashew nuts.

  She took one. ‘Your wine is delicious.’

  ‘Glad you like it.’

  Their gazes held and Kate looked away first, unable to meet the challenge she’d set herself to be cool and easy around him.

  ‘I saw Anne McEvoy today,’ he said.

  Kate was taking a sip of her wine and had to prevent herself from spilling it. ‘You did? What happened?’

  He shrugged. ‘Not a lot. It became easier as we talked and forgave each other silently.’

  ‘You have done nothing to forgive.’

  ‘No . . . but I do feel responsible for her being behind bars for the rest of her days. She was as much a victim as Amy was.’

  ‘Except Amy didn’t kill anyone. Anne McEvoy murdered those men in cold blood. Do you still feel . . .’

  He gave an abrupt shake of his head. ‘No. But there’s a tenderness, a sort of sorrow, if I’m honest, that this is where she’s ended.’

  Kate blinked. ‘And how is she?’

  ‘She’s resigned, accepting that she needs to pay her debt for the crimes she committed, and making the very best of herself as she can.’

  ‘And her child?’

  He looked uncomfortable at her query. ‘I don’t know. Her daughter’s been adopted. Shall we eat?’ He smiled, getting up and moving around the small kitchen again.

  ‘Yes, please,’ she said, noting his shift away from the awkward question. ‘I’m starving. I only realise now as I smell that delicious risotto that I forgot to eat today.’

  He made a tutting sound, returning with a small lap tray with a napkin and cutlery laid on it.

  She laughed. ‘When you said a bowl on the lap, you really meant something else, didn’t you?’ As he turned, self-conscious, she kept smiling. ‘It’s lovely, thank you. No one’s done anything like this for me in a long time.’

  ‘That’s your fault, Kate. You’re beautiful, intelligent, witty . . . a bit prickly sometimes, but essentially we both know men would fall over themselves just to have a drink with you.’

  ‘Oh, yeah. Where are they, then?’

  ‘Everywhere, but you have to pay attention.’

  ‘Not quite ready, Jack,’ she admitted.

  He nodded. ‘Well, I’m glad you feel spoiled. Here,’ he said, handing over an attractively plated bowl of risotto with basil leaves as garnish and a light sprinkle of freshly grated parmesan.

  ‘Wow, yum.’

  ‘Made with my own stock – don’t laugh.’

  ‘Go on, tell me what I’m eating.’

  ‘This is chicken, sweet potato and tomato risotto with a lovely hum of saffron and chilli.’

  He sat down opposite her with his tray and watched her take a first forkful. ‘Bloody hell, Jack,’ she said, after chewing for a moment or two. ‘That is fantastic. If you ever give up police work, open a takeaway.’

  ‘I only cook for people I like.’ He winked, and together with the pleasant heat of chilli, his words warmed her.

  ‘So is Anne helping?’

  He nodded. ‘From what I told her, which wasn’t much.’ He sighed. ‘I tiptoed with care.’

  She gave him an understanding nod back.

  ‘She is convinced this is a single killer. She believes it’s a man and she spoke the word we’ve been avoiding with some assurance – this is a vigilante’s work.’

  ‘All right, let’s say it is one. What’s his reason for killing a wife-bashing academic, a brothel owner, a careless driver, and a stupid kid who unintentionally killed a lot of people due to his emotional episode?’

  ‘It doesn’t add up. But Anne assures me it will.’ He traced a path through his risotto with the fork.

  ‘Mal called while I was making my way over here.’

  Jack looked up sharply. ‘Anything?’

  ‘Nothing new, but he confirmed that Peggy Markham had no known reason to top herself. The night before her death she was dining at Marcus Wareing’s restaurant in Knightsbridge – chef’s table, no less . . . with all the theatre that the Michelin-starred restaurant could bring,’ Kate said, one eyebrow lifting. ‘According to Mal’s source, there were about ten of them, on her tab. One was an acquaintance of the guy who took out the young escort who died.’ Jack sighed. ‘The acquaintance – an Egyptian man – said it wasn’t a celebration; Peggy called it her relief dinner. She was happy, drinking but not drunk, full of good spirits at being exonerated, with no evidence to suggest that she was responsible for the girl’s death, which incidentally involved a lot of cocaine.’

  Jack considered the implications of this. He forked another mouthful of his risotto as Kate hungrily enjoyed hers. Finally, he shrugged. ‘Martin made it clear to me that Peggy was not a candidate for suicide, and while she lived on the fringe of the serious criminal underworld, she didn’t openly commit any crimes that we could pin on her. Her real crime was to be a friend of that underbelly, providing what others couldn’t. She even paid her taxes.’

  ‘So we’re back to someone with a grudge sticking a syringe of heroin into her neck,’ Kate said. ‘But he’s also got a grudge against the wife basher and the sixth-form kid.’

  Jack nodded. ‘Who might that person be?’

  Kate ate and thought. ‘Someone who loved someone who was collateral damage?’

  ‘But if you wanted to unleash your rage upon the boy who killed all those people, why would you also kill Peggy?’

  ‘Well, because she was associated with the death of the youngster.’

  ‘All right, then why the professor?’

  ‘Because he was a bully?’

  Jack smirked but more with helplessness. ‘But that means logically you or I, or ten million others, could be easily motivated to go out killing too.’

  ‘I know. I’m just trying to think this through.’

  ‘Skin in the game.’

  ‘What?’ She was finishing the last mouthful.

  ‘To be this driven, you’d need skin in the game.’

  Kate stopped chewing. ‘Who has a vested interest in such a diverse range of deaths?’ she asked, finally swallowing.

  ‘Well, that’s what Anne was getting at: when we can establish that, we might be getting much closer to our guy. He’s got pain that’s connected to all of these people.’

  ‘To all these victims?’

  ‘Somehow, yes.’

  Jack’s phone rang from the kitchen counter and Kate sighed inwardly. Couldn’t they just have this one evening uninterrupted? She watched him audibly show his disgust and quickly scoop up the last couple of mouthfuls before he stood and reached for the phone. She stood too, gazing longingly at her bowl and wondering if she could run a finger around its remains.

  He pointed with pain at the phone and mouthed sorry. Then he spoke aloud. ‘Hawksworth.’

  Kate waited, noting his expression darken. ‘You’re one hundred per cent sure?’

  She felt a claw of tension, followed by a dozen others sinking into her as he began running his free hand through his hair.

  ‘Right. I want the body brought down from the York District Hospital mortuary to London immediately. I’ll get the authorisation tonight.’ Another pause. ‘All right, tomorrow latest, pleas
e. I appreciate it and, listen, thank you for moving so fast on this.’ The person on the other end spoke and Jack seemed to cringe. ‘I can’t say any more. But what you’ve done by contacting me tonight is, how can I put this . . . a massive favour.’ He smiled as he listened. ‘I’ll let you know. Thanks so much. Bye . . . yes, bye.’ He rang off and looked at her. ‘Davey Robbins has been murdered.’

  ‘Davey Robbins,’ she repeated. ‘How?’

  ‘Kidnapped, mugged, sedated, hands and todger chopped off.’ Kate gasped. ‘He bled to death, left outside a caravan that was parked in a field not too far away from where he picked vegetables. The killer apparently rang it through to police, even providing the address.’

  ‘Bloody hell. What now?’

  ‘Dessert,’ he said, somehow looking focused and distracted at once.

  ‘Really? Shouldn’t we be . . .’

  He looked at his watch. ‘It’s nearing nine.’

  ‘I thought you’d want to go in.’

  ‘No. I promised everyone a night off and that goes for us too. I don’t mind talking about the case, but we are not going to live, eat and breathe from that incident room, seven days a week, twenty-four hours daily. That’s how we all got trapped last time. We’ll think better if we step back, like now.’

  ‘I guess there’s not much we can do tonight anyway, until we know more about how Davey met his end. SOCO will be working through the night, presumably.’

  ‘I’ll take the first train to Yorkshire tomorrow. Can you hold things down here?’

  ‘No problem. Book it now.’

  ‘Yes, okay. There’s pudding in the fridge. I know you like chocolate, but I hope you like it rich and dark and chewy.’

  ‘Ooh . . . may I?’ He grinned, nodding at the fridge as he moved to a desk in the corner of the room where his laptop blinked into life. ‘It’s mousse but for grown-ups. Get the glasses out, let it warm up a bit.’