Mirror Man

by McIntosh, Fiona

  ‘Which presumably he brought with him in what . . . a backpack?’

  Bernie considered. ‘A sort of holdall, I think.’

  ‘Anything distinguishing about it?’

  ‘It was a Tottenham Hotspur holdall; greyish blue material with a distinct cockerel logo, which struck me as odd.’

  ‘Why?’

  Bernie gave a snort. ‘You don’t walk around the Arsenal stronghold of Finsbury Park wearing anything to do with Spurs.’

  Jack grinned. ‘I’m a Chelsea man myself.’

  ‘I’d never declare that, because it’s just as bad to Arsenal folks. I’m Spurs, but I used to wear the red and white on game day just to prevent getting my head kicked in. Yobbos everywhere like to pick on the rough sleepers . . . especially if their team just lost. The Spurs bag wasn’t the usual one, though.’

  ‘Not usual, how?’ Kate asked.

  ‘It was a limited edition and I recognised it because I had one once too, but it was stolen.’

  Jack nodded. ‘Okay, Bernie, thank you,’ he said, sounding as impressed by the man’s clarity and eloquence as Kate felt. She had anticipated neither. ‘If you think of anything new, anything at all, you must call us,’ Jack said, reaching into his pocket, even though Kate was already handing Bernie her card.

  ‘I will. Anyway, folks, I’d better get a move on. The senior citizens of Hastings cut me no slack on bingo day.’

  They shared a chuckle as they stood and prepared to leave. ‘Thanks for your help, Bernie,’ Jack said, ‘and I really am glad that you’ve turned your life around.’

  Bernie nodded. ‘What a life I’ve led. From the heights of riches and fame to rolling around a gutter in soiled trousers. The extremes I can do without. I find myself in a good place now, a good headspace, recovered from my addiction and fortunate to be able to say that.’

  ‘Pleased for you, Bernie.’ Kate nodded. ‘You’d better not keep the bingo gang waiting – thanks again for your time.’

  He gave them a little salute and Kate realised they were both smiling as they walked away.

  21

  The family-sized bag of Revels yawned open between Jack and Kate as they helped themselves on the journey home; from time to time one of them would make a face of disgust as they bit into an orange one.

  He didn’t want to admit that his favourites were not the coffee ones because that would be inconsistent with his passion for the flavour. He moved on to the case. ‘So, what do we derive from Bernie’s revelation?’

  She chewed as she considered – lucky thing, it had to be a toffee, Jack decided. ‘Well, the man we’re after increasingly sounds like someone who knows his way around policing, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Exactly. He’s left no forensic evidence other than some obvious things like footprints, and after what Bernie said today, I think he wanted us to find them.’

  ‘Red herring?’

  He nodded. ‘Smart enough to throw us off looking for Solihull shoes . . .’

  ‘Saloman,’ she corrected, trying not to laugh.

  ‘. . . that are size nine and a half.’

  ‘Which he removed straight after the murder of Peggy.’

  ‘Alan Chingford categorically remembers the shoes his mugger wore. They’re smart enough for work and, I suppose from a distance, could be described as formal. I don’t think Bernie meant formal as in dress shoes, do you?’

  She shook her head. ‘Just shoes, as opposed to sneakers.’

  ‘Good, well, our killer favours Hush Puppies and I have the style number, so we need to get a photo of that type circulated.’

  ‘Bernie mentioned that he walked as though uncomfortable in those sneakers, too.’

  ‘Yes, so maybe our hunch that he’s not size nine and a half is on the money. What if that’s smaller than his shoe size? That might explain the discomfort. And the change into proper fitting shoes means he can walk properly.’

  ‘So he’s left footprints deliberately in the wrong size for us to find.’

  Jack gave a sniff. ‘Forensics would have told us as much any minute. Even so, I reckon he thinks he’s a smart bastard.’

  ‘Yes, I agree and I’m wondering where else he’s toying with us.’

  ‘We’ve got to get ahead of him.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Get onto Mal. Let’s find out which prisoners who originally committed crimes in Enfield are about to get an early release.’

  While Kate did that, he called the eager Constable Johnson.

  ‘And you want me to find out how these limited edition holdalls were purchased?’

  ‘Yes, Ali. Anything you can learn. Brief me when you know more, if at all.’

  ‘I’m on it, sir.’

  Jack smiled and rang off, then pondered absently, listening while Kate gave instructions to their colleagues.

  He rang Sarah. ‘Hi, it’s me. Did anything erupt from that itch you couldn’t scratch last night?’

  ‘It did, sir,’ she said with no amusement. ‘I didn’t want to interrupt you while you were interviewing Mr Beaton, but we’ve got a break.’

  He sat forward. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘All it will do is narrow things down, but it will put us in a better position than we were yesterday.’

  Jack knew to remain patient.

  ‘Not just a couple, as we originally surmised, but every one of the original crimes committed by the people who have been picked off – and I must qualify that these are the people that we know about – was tried by Judge Leland.’

  ‘Fuck me!’ he breathed. ‘Don’t tell Joan I said that.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘Does Judge Leland work one courtroom?’

  ‘Well, I’m pretty certain the judges like to settle into one they consider their own but if they have to, they’ll move for reasons of the case. She is normally in Courtroom Eleven.’

  ‘So we need to tap into the regulars of that courtroom.’

  ‘Mal’s already onto it. He’s gone down there.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Also, I saw Mr Jarvis last night and he gave me a pretty good description of a couple of men who are regulars who, in his opinion, had that whiff of something not quite right that you asked for. But he’s also got some others in mind who are a bit righteous, from other courtrooms.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He’s got a good memory, sir, so he’ll be in to look at CCTV with me to fast-track. He’s arriving shortly.’

  ‘Good work, Sarah. We’ll be back soon – we should be pulling into Charing Cross in about . . .?’

  Kate, keen to hear what he’d discovered, murmured, ‘Fifteen minutes.’

  ‘In about fifteen. We’ll jump in a taxi and hope to miss the evening crush.’ Jack hung up as Sarah said she’d see them soon. He’d remembered something. ‘Kate, about the call Bernie mentioned the killer made.’

  She looked back at him as if waiting for more clues.

  ‘When he was describing the killer, he mentioned a mellow, educated voice.’

  ‘Yes, and that he could hear him clearly, even though his scarf was pulled up close to his mouth . . .’

  ‘. . . when he made the call, is what Bernie said,’ Jack reminded her.

  She gaped back at him now as its importance hit. ‘He called someone.’

  ‘Go back to Bernie. Find out everything you can about that phone call.’

  She tried. ‘No answer. Not even voicemail. He’ll still be calling bingo.’

  They stood to gather up their stuff as the train began slowing into the station. With summer not far off it was still so light, but it felt like a long day. ‘Stay on him,’ Jack insisted.

  They arrived back at the op room and Jack immediately went to the visitor area where he knew Sarah would have taken the clerk of Courtroom Seven.

  He didn’t bother knocking. ‘Hello again, Mr Jarvis . . . Sarah. Sorry to keep you both so late.’

  ‘Evening, sir,’ Sarah said.

  Jarvis beamed and stood. ‘Good ev
ening, Detective Superintendent Hawksworth. It’s only six-thirty . . . not too bad. We’ve found one of them but also a couple of others that I know lurk around the courthouse itself. I don’t know if they’re relevant, but I’ll point them out to Sarah. I’ve just realised I’m the clerk who has been there the longest by at least five years, so I probably do have a reasonable handle on those regulars.’

  ‘Excellent,’ Jack murmured. ‘My apologies to have you cramped in here, but we don’t normally have visitors—’

  ‘Don’t mention it. I’m pleased to help. I know how it goes. I have no desire to look upon details in the incident room – it’s bad enough in court when we have to look at pathology photos.’

  Jack nodded. ‘Can we get you anything?’ he said, noticing the empty table. ‘We do reasonable coffee here.’

  ‘Oh, well, I’m all in then.’

  ‘I’ll get it, sir,’ Sarah said, looking appalled that she’d overlooked fundamental hospitality.

  ‘No, no. I’d be happy to.’ Jack smiled. ‘You’ve got work to do, Mr Jarvis.’

  ‘Brian,’ he insisted.

  ‘Want one, Sarah?’

  ‘No, thanks, sir.’

  Jack pondered while the small machine whirred and groaned, spurted and clicked, finally delivering two good-looking lattes. He delivered the clerk his coffee with tiny packets of sugar, remembering Jarvis had taken sugar with his tea the other day. Old-school . . . a child of the sixties. ‘Sarah, I’ve got a call to make,’ he said, mimicking holding a phone to his ear. ‘See you with the others shortly.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  He shook the clerk’s hand. ‘This is really good of you, thank you. Has Sarah mentioned that all the murders we know about were originally tried in Court Eleven?’

  Jarvis blanched. ‘That’s Judge Leland.’ His voice was tight, almost choked.

  ‘How long have you clerked at North London Crown Courts?’ Jack asked, reaching for any lead.

  ‘Fifteen years in number seven.’

  He nodded. ‘And Judge Leland?’

  ‘Um, let me see. Judge Leland arrived in winter 1994. It was the end of January, I can recall, as Terry Venables became the new coach for our English football team.’

  ‘What’s he like, this Judge Leland?’

  ‘She,’ Brian corrected with a smile. ‘Clinical. By that I mean she’s a real professional. But she has heart.’

  ‘What does that actually mean?’ Jack asked, his head tipping to one side in query.

  ‘Well, as Shirley and I remarked, she’s lenient. She sentences within the full range of the law, but she errs on the side of caution because she takes the more liberal view that doesn’t believe prison equals rehabilitation.’

  ‘And the other judges?’

  ‘A mix. We have those who always hand out a maximum sentence. We have those who, in my opinion, are too lenient, and then we have judges who are troubled.’

  ‘Troubled?’

  He nodded. ‘I shouldn’t be speaking out of school, but I suspect that Moira Leland struggles to reach her decisions. She certainly takes her time weighing everything up.’

  Jack frowned. ‘And how do you feel about that?’

  ‘Me?’ Jarvis looked surprised to be asked. ‘I am not a political animal, Detective Superintendent. I learned a long time ago in my career to remain in a neutral gear. No sentence is ever harsh enough for the victim or their families. No sentence is lenient enough for the perpetrator or their families. I don’t envy the role of a judge, but I do admire someone like Moira, who does a lot of hard yards to reach her decisions.’

  ‘Because it means she’s considered everything, you mean?’

  ‘Yes. Moira Leland is able to step away from all the emotion, the personalities of the people involved, the accusations and the hurt. She scrutinises which laws have been broken and pays long consideration to how best to interpret our laws against the crimes committed. Her sentencing is always measured.’

  ‘But still, in your opinion, too lenient?’

  Jarvis nodded unhappily. ‘Yes. But then that’s the opinion of all the clerks I know. Judge Leland and I have had this conversation. We’re about the same age, and I filled in for her clerk on a major case, so she knows me. I accept her argument that if she metes out the toughest sentences, then all that’s going to happen within our overcrowded prison system is that those people will get early parole. They will be considered quickly because their sentences are especially harsh, and they will have their time reduced.’

  ‘Why? You can see how much goes into putting those people behind bars.’

  ‘But to what end?’ Jarvis queried. ‘I mean, don’t get me wrong, I agree with you and even your despair that police are giving every waking hour to catching these people. It is surely soul-destroying to see them walk out of prison having only done a few years. But all the research does confirm Leland’s view that prison is not a deterrent. All it does is take those people off the streets for a while.’

  ‘I’d settle for that,’ Sarah remarked, and then looked instantly embarrassed for having joined the conversation.

  Brian smiled sympathetically. ‘You and the rest of us who live within the law. But you surely know that the Blair government is looking to release thousands of prisoners prematurely in order to ease overcrowding and the massive drain of the prison system on the public purse?’

  ‘So we hear.’

  ‘There’s rumours of numbers as high as twenty thousand or more . . . this year alone.’

  Jack was stunned. It must have reflected in his expression because Jarvis nodded and gave a helpless shrug. ‘You catch them, we convict them, Leland puts them away briefly, and the government releases them even earlier. That’s the cycle. No one to blame, but caught in the middle are the victims and their families, who serve their full sentences with no reprieve.’

  ‘The Clarke family will be relieved, then,’ Jack remarked.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Davey Robbins is dead. Killed last week.’

  Shock wrinkled the clerk’s face. ‘I’ve been so busy this last week I haven’t read the newspaper, haven’t watched the news; I knew there’d been a death though. Up north, wasn’t it?’

  Both nodded.

  ‘Heavens. I had no idea it was him.’

  Jack shrugged. ‘It’s part of our inquiry.’

  ‘Davey Robbins dead,’ he repeated, as though still trying to process it. ‘I can’t say I feel sad. It’s a young life, but he struck me as a bad sort who would only go on to worse things. He was impressionable and, even though he displayed arrogance and confidence in our court, I suspect that lad was a follower and would be easily led into more crime. That poor Clarke girl was in court every day of his trial, as I understand it. Takes courage.’

  Jack sighed. ‘Anyway, that’s why what you’re doing here with Sarah is a great help.’

  ‘I’m very glad to, and I know Hugh Pettigrew from eleven will do all he can. One more thing that occurs now you talk about a specific judge . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Is Moira Leland a target, do you think?’

  Jack blinked.

  ‘I mean, will you be putting any protection in place?’

  ‘Potentially,’ Jack replied, making a mental note to check the judge’s security measures.

  Jarvis nodded. ‘Maybe all of us from North London Crown Court need protecting,’ he quipped and then chuckled at his own jest.

  ‘I think you’re safe.’ Jack grinned. ‘Thanks again for your help. I’ll leave you to it.’ He nodded at Sarah and left, finding Kate.

  ‘Are they making any headway?’ she asked.

  ‘Some. Listen, have we contacted Amy Clarke?’

  ‘The rape victim?’

  ‘Yes. Apparently she came to the courtroom every day. She may remember something others haven’t, or just open us up to something fresh. We need to find out everyone who worked that trial as well.’

  ‘Will do. Now, Bernie . . .’

&
nbsp; ‘Yes?’

  ‘I got him. All he could give us is that as the killer turned away, he paused briefly to dial a number on his mobile phone. Bernie didn’t hear the conversation but he could just make out the words “It’s done” before the man got out of earshot.’

  ‘It’s done?’ Jack asked. ‘Like a hit?’

  Kate shrugged.

  ‘So . . . had he been ordered to kill Markham? Paid to kill Markham?’

  ‘The plot thickens,’ she remarked unhelpfully.

  His gaze narrowed. ‘But does that mean he was ordered or paid to kill the others too? We need motive! And if it is a paid hit, then we need to get behind the killer to his boss . . . and why? I need to think. Thanks, Kate.’

  ‘Sorry I had nothing more helpful.’

  He shook his head absent-mindedly and wandered off towards Mal. ‘Anything?’

  ‘Two early passes from jail.’

  ‘Go on?’

  ‘Jimmy “The Lad” Parsons,’ Mal began, ‘is a career criminal but mostly for petty thieving. The other, Geoffrey Paxton, has made a career of rape and attempted rape. Nine victims. Served eleven years of a twenty-year sentence.’

  Jack could see Mal was filled with an excitement he couldn’t contain; his eyes were glinting. ‘I just know you have more to tell us.’

  ‘Sent down from North London Crown Court.’

  ‘Judge?’

  Mal frowned; he hadn’t expected that. ‘Er . . . just a mo. It’s in this file.’ He reached over and shuffled some folders, selecting one. ‘Sorry, guv. Er . . . yeah. Judge Moira Leland.’

  To Jack it felt like someone had just lit a rocket firework in his belly; he was sure he flinched as the news zoomed around, exploding in his thoughts. Who was targeting Judge Leland’s cases? ‘When is he being released?’

  ‘Day after tomorrow. He’s worth a look, right?’

  ‘Hang on.’ Jack walked back to where Sarah and Jarvis were still poring over a computer. ‘Mr Jarvis?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Do you recall the case of Geoffrey Paxton?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ he said, pulling off his glasses to give them a polish. ‘Not my courtroom, though. Maybe Hugh’s, from memory.’ He put his glasses back on. ‘Don’t tell me,’ he suddenly said, his voice tight.