Mirror Man

by McIntosh, Fiona

  ‘No.’ Jarvis gave a sound of relief. ‘But apparently he’s on an early release.’

  ‘That was Leland too. A twenty-year sentence, as I recall. A lot of broken victims and certainly not long enough, in most people’s opinion.’

  Jack nodded. ‘Well, he’s out in a day or so.’

  ‘So will you watch over him?’

  ‘A logical move,’ Jack replied. ‘Keep up the good work, you two, thanks again.’

  ‘Just finished up, sir,’ Sarah said. ‘I’ll show you out, Mr Jarvis.’

  As they stood to leave, Mal appeared at Jack’s side. ‘Shall I alert the Thames Valley Police in Reading and ask them to assist?’

  ‘That’s home for Paxton, is it?’

  Mal nodded. ‘He’s returning to his father’s place in Reading.’

  ‘Yes. Have them there from first thing, day after tomorrow. I don’t know what time he’ll be let out but our people will do round-the-clock surveillance at his father’s house.’

  ‘Will do.’ They saw Sarah and Jarvis waiting as they blocked the corridor. ‘Oops, sorry,’ Mal said. ‘Goodnight, sir,’ he said to Jarvis as the clerk and Sarah moved past.

  Jack returned to pick up his phone and Kate caught his attention. ‘Paxton might be our chance.’

  ‘It’s a good shot,’ Jack agreed.

  ‘Right. Shall we summarise for everyone? Keep us all up to speed?’

  He let Kate take the floor and give the team a run-down on everything discovered in Hastings with Bernie and then an update on Mal’s findings about Paxton heading to his father’s home in Reading. ‘We’ll be bringing in a special undercover team for that. And they’ll report back through Mal.’

  Judge Leland’s name came up.

  ‘Well, we can’t deny that the killer is preying on convicted criminals – plus Peggy Markham – who have had Moira Leland sit in judgement at their trials,’ Kate observed for the group. ‘We can’t say there aren’t other corpses, yet to be discovered, who were not on trial under Judge Leland, but the deaths that this operation has come together to scrutinise were all from her court.’

  Jack stood, deciding to share his thoughts with the team. He’d been prodding at them for a couple of days, concerned that by airing them he’d take everyone’s thinking down a particular path. Now he was convinced he was right.

  ‘Before we head off, I have something I’d like you to ponder overnight.’

  Everyone waited, expectantly.

  ‘I’m now convinced we’re dealing with a vigilante.’

  There were sighs of surprise, some wry smiles; Kate lifted an eyebrow.

  ‘While I agree that we can now link the crimes through the use of the drug propofol, through North London Crown Court, and now Judge Leland . . . I’m convinced there’s more commonality.’

  A hush gripped the ops team.

  ‘I drew up two sheets. Original crimes against the perpetrators’ deaths. And the name of our op is, for a rare time, highly appropriate. I believe our killer is, to a point, mirroring his murders with the original crimes.’

  That sent a buzz around the room.

  ‘Peggy Markham was never convicted.’ Kate frowned.

  Jack didn’t falter. ‘I did some digging. The man who fathered her child and shared her life for many years was one of the drug lords who gave cocaine and its sister, crack cocaine, their rise in popularity in this country. Did you know that we snort more than any other country in Europe?’ The question was rhetorical and he didn’t wait for an answer. ‘I believe her death via the drug overdose was simple, effective but also symbolic.’

  Kate pressed. ‘Subtle, I’d say, given she was on trial for procuring.’

  ‘All right,’ he accepted. ‘Try this. Brownlow was dragged behind a car – you know two of the children he killed were dragged beneath his father’s four-wheel drive.’

  The group was nodding as one.

  ‘The district nurse we learned about through journalist Lauren Starling? She was killed by smothering.’

  Sarah gave a sound: her understanding dawning.

  ‘I thought she was killed by an overdose?’ Mal said on behalf of everyone.

  ‘Pathology showed there was plenty of propofol in her system. Either he was making sure she wasn’t going to do anything surprising like regain consciousness or he was hoping for sloppy pathology to focus on the drug.’

  ‘It worked,’ Kate remarked.

  ‘Exactly,’ Jack said, eagerly leaning forward. ‘She was added to the suicide statistics. But Lauren Starling actually interviewed the pathologist years ago. He said his report showed this woman had stopped breathing through suffocation. The police team, meanwhile, latched onto the lethally high dose of the drug in her blood.’

  ‘I suppose we can’t blame them. It is logical,’ Mal said.

  Jack nodded. ‘And that’s why this op has never been about a witch-hunt of our own, or we’d be hauling in the Hornsey team as well for ignoring Beaton. Mistakes are made, but they say the devil’s in the detail. And I’ve now given you three murders of criminals that match their criminal ways.’

  ‘All right – Smythe? The wife basher who had litres of boiling water poured on him?’ Kate challenged his theory.

  ‘Ah, that toad. Clearly symbolic. I know there was propofol in his system, probably to sedate him. But we’ve all now read everything about the original crime. Buried in the back of the original file notes are interviews with the hospital nurses who cared for his wife when she’d come in bruised or broken, making excuses. I rang that hospital a few minutes ago to talk with the most senior nurse and she confirmed, although it wasn’t specified in the report but came out in the trial, that Smythe’s favourite torture was to burn her with his cigarettes or splashes of freshly boiled water, but only in places it didn’t show.’

  Kate’s mouth opened in silent surprise.

  He nodded. ‘I am certain now this is the work of one person, and he is killing his victims with references to their previous crimes.’

  ‘So where does this take us, sir?’ Sarah asked, looking owlish and determined through those round glasses of hers.

  ‘I do think this is someone on the inside.’ At the sound of their surprise, he held up a hand. ‘I don’t mean the police, but I do mean someone with access to police files . . . it could be from hospitals or morgues, or anyone connected with the courts, especially. We need to scrutinise Leland’s cases and find any more suspicious or inexplicable deaths of crims she’s sent down.’ He gazed around at their thoughtful faces. ‘Okay, let that percolate and we’ll regroup. Goodnight, everyone.’

  ‘Jack?’ He looked over as everyone was moving to leave. It was Joan. ‘Lauren Starling just rang. Said she tried your phone but couldn’t get through. I said you’d call back. It’s about the press office . . . apparently.’

  Apparently. Bloody hell, now Joan was onto him. ‘Thanks, Joan. I will. Good work today, everyone.’

  Jack was seated again in front of Anne McEvoy, in a different room this time; it was small and airless, with only a high oblong window. Their knees almost touched beneath the desk they sat across, nursing chipped mugs of tea.

  ‘It’s good to see you again so soon,’ she began, once the prison officer had departed. They’d been left alone this time with the officer outside the door.

  To avoid any more awkward moments, Jack launched straight into an explanation of how the original crimes had occurred in and around the Borough of Enfield, and he also gave her the information on North London Crown Court.

  ‘Oh, that’s gold, Jack,’ she said. ‘That has surely narrowed things down.’

  ‘You’d think so,’ he said, not sounding overly positive. ‘We still feel like we’re blundering around in the dark.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking on your prey.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘It’s my opinion that he’s a person in a position of power.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Well, I already believe him to be educated,
of higher than average intelligence, plus I reckon he maybe doesn’t have a family.’

  ‘Because?’

  ‘From what you’ve told me, he’s getting around, isn’t he? Yorkshire, Portsmouth, Eastbourne, Hastings . . . he’s got the money to move around at ease and presumably to use whatever transport is required, from trains to hire cars. Or even his own car, potentially . . . and none of that comes cheaply. He’d need to be earning and have flexibility at home. If he’s answerable to a wife or children, he wouldn’t be able to respond to his needs or the timing of the victim’s release dates.’

  She was making sense. ‘So he lives alone, you think?’

  She sighed. ‘Well, without anything to study, I’m poking into thin air but, yes, I would say that this fellow lives alone and quietly. Doesn’t draw attention to himself.’

  ‘A loner?’

  ‘Not necessarily.’ She shook her head. ‘I wouldn’t jump to that conclusion.’

  ‘But you said in a position of power.’

  ‘Let me clarify: by power, I don’t mean he intimidates people. I mean I believe he has status.’

  Jack frowned, listening intently.

  ‘I’m probably reaching, but he has access to information, right? Either that or he’s seriously well connected. He can’t be relying on the news headlines alone.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking on that. What about prisons?’

  ‘Prisons would make their internal recommendations for early release well before they become public knowledge. I know that for a fact.’

  ‘That’s good to know.’

  ‘The courts – any luck?’

  ‘We’ve narrowed it down to one judge, whose lenient sentencing is where our killer’s attention is focused. I’m wondering whether we need to throw a ring of protection around the judge in question.’

  Anne nodded, but finally shook her head. ‘If the judge was my target, he’d have been the first person dealt with.’

  Jack didn’t correct her on the gender of the judge but agreed with her sentiment. ‘I think his wrath is reserved for the system that he feels is letting victims down.’

  ‘Yes. Judges, defence lawyers, barristers and everyone connected with the cases that catch his attention. He can’t kill them all – much as he’d probably like to – so he targets the perpetrators. I suspect he’d win sympathy from the public at large.’

  Jack nodded. ‘At times from us too, if we’re honest.’

  ‘Mirror Man doesn’t just get angry and appear out of nowhere. This is likely an old grudge.’

  ‘I’m thinking someone who has lost someone he’s loved to a crime and the system has let him down. If the system can’t look after the victims and award justice, he will.’

  She smiled. ‘You don’t need me. You never did.’

  He wasn’t sure whether she was talking about the present investigation or including the past. He didn’t overreact. ‘Helps to talk it through, though.’

  ‘Good.’ She looked at him and he knew what she needed.

  ‘Er, listen, I don’t have any information yet on the other business, Anne, but I’m working on it.’

  ‘No rush, Jack. I’m not going anywhere.’

  He pulled a wrapped box of chocolates he’d been allowed to bring in that had been X-rayed, opened, rummaged through and pressed all over. ‘They let me bring these for you. I’m sorry the seal is broken but . . . well, you know.’

  ‘Thorntons,’ she murmured with shock, as though he’d just handed her a key to Holloway’s gates. ‘You remembered.’

  ‘You used to have a thing for the chocolate-smothered licorice toffees, didn’t you? I got some of those but also a box of assorted . . . their premium. They look delicious.’

  He could swear her eyes looked damp as she laughed and lifted the two chocolate boxes from the bag. ‘I did . . . I mean, I do still have a thing for their chocolate-coated licorice chunks. Thank you. I’ll have to find a hiding place for these in my cell with the same care that someone else would hide a shiv.’

  That switched off the smile he’d been beaming. It was easy to forget that she was living around dangerous people every hour of every day.

  She noted his anxious gaze and laughed. ‘Don’t worry, Jack. I told you, I have respect in here. No one would knife me for my chocolates. Besides, I’ll probably share them. What a treat.’

  Now he felt embarrassed that a spend of less than twenty pounds could generate so much gratitude. ‘Is there anything else I can bring in for you?’

  ‘Don’t offer that – there’s a million and one things I could want but I have already learned to live without. You know what I need . . . just the confirmation that you have the information.’

  He nodded sadly. ‘If I can get it, then I’ll tell you I have it.’ He stood to leave; wanted to shake her hand at least but dared not risk breaking any rules, knowing they were being watched over by cameras. He made a silent promise to himself that seeing Anne was too hard on his heart and so until he discovered – if he could – what she wanted in return, he would not be back. Besides, without allowing her access to the files, he couldn’t imagine she could do much more for the investigation . . . and then she did.

  ‘One more thing.’

  ‘Yes?’ He turned.

  ‘Don’t for a moment believe he doesn’t know you’re onto him.’

  Jack blinked. ‘But we haven’t gone public with any of this.’ He thought about Lauren. ‘We may soon, but as yet it’s all under the radar.’

  She gave a tight smile. ‘You may think so. But don’t forget that I stayed ahead of all of you. This guy is every bit as cunning.’

  ‘We’re all hand-picked. My unit would tell me if any stranger had suddenly entered their lives.’

  Anne cut him a patient look. ‘Well, he’s not obvious . . . Always watch those who watch. And Jack?’

  He waited.

  ‘If he’s escalating, that means slightly more desperate actions. If he knows you’re onto his scent, he might turn on you, and by you I mean your people. Nothing more desperate than a trapped animal.’

  She lifted a hand in farewell in a way that suggested she understood this was likely his final visit. With her sharp perceptions and insight, Jack could imagine the good that Anne McEvoy could have done in the world if only she’d been allowed to grow into herself, without that blight in her teenage years that split her into two people.

  ‘Bye, Anne.’

  ‘Goodbye, Jack.’

  22

  The killer had waited. He was in no hurry but he had been surprised to follow Jack Hawksworth to Holloway. What on earth was the detective superintendent doing here . . . at a women’s prison? He realised quickly that there were potentially several reasons – including that Hawksworth had recently put one of its inmates behind bars. The chocolates were intriguing though; one could hardly miss that big bag containing Thorntons. Even so, he let go of the intrigue as he was here purely for self-interest, especially now that Hawksworth’s team were inching closer; he needed to move faster and put some distance between them and him so he could finish the task he’d set himself.

  It was a mild enough early evening, and he was dressed for the eventuality that it would begin to drop in temperature shortly. It was necessary to remain unobtrusive, but he’d always held to the belief that people could be fooled into not recognising someone if they didn’t expect to see them out of context. He nevertheless showed caution, reminding himself that this was an individual of equal intelligence he was pitching himself against . . . a bit of a sharp one, if his instincts served him right, and he shouldn’t consider himself superior. Hawksworth hadn’t got to his senior status without impressing all the right people and being exceptionally good in his role as detective. He would likely have a sixth sense for noticing someone who was loitering or somewhere they shouldn’t be.

  Holloway stretched like a sleeping beast down the main artery, where cars and bikes dodged and weaved while London buses lurched and groaned on their way, creating obsta
cles for other drivers each time they hauled into a bus stop. The prison’s main doors could be seen if he sipped a takeaway coffee, pretending to talk on his phone, just at the tip of the triangle where Camden Road met Parkhurst. Roadworks created a jumble of untidiness to frustrate drivers further, but the slightly chaotic conditions meant he could stand just behind a bus shelter unnoticed and still have a reasonable view.

  He’d turned his reversible parka from his favoured tea-coloured beige into its hidden gunboat grey and had changed his flat cap for a charcoal-coloured woollen beanie. He removed his glasses. His vision was still reliable; it would do. He felt confident that he was not only unrecognisable from a skimming glance, but his garments meant he would all but disappear into the background colour and turmoil of traffic if Hawksworth happened to look his way.

  He’d expected the visit to take longer – at least an hour or so – but the senior detective was making his long strides away from the prison, without his bag of chocolates, within a half hour of arriving. Hawksworth looked lost in his thoughts, reaching for his phone while craning his neck to search out a taxi. Perfect. He would use his prey’s distraction to get closer. He moved swiftly, but without rushing, so as not to draw any undue attention. He turned away from Hawksworth’s preoccupied gaze and signalled to the taxi down the road that he could tell Hawksworth had his sights fixed on. He risked a glance, along with a small ping of helpless schadenfreude as he noted the policeman sigh with frustration to see someone else flag the taxi. The taxi fortunately found a nook in the traffic to pull into and he clambered in.

  ‘Where to, sir?’

  ‘Er, I know this is going to sound odd, but do you see the gentleman standing there outside the prison?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘He’s flagging a taxi too.’

  ‘Excellent, so two cabbies are happy.’

  The gentle sarcasm was not lost on him. ‘I want to follow him.’

  The taxi driver laughed. ‘This isn’t Hollywood, mate.’

  ‘No, I realise it’s unusual but I just need to know where he’s going.’