Mirror Man

by McIntosh, Fiona

  ‘That would be great, thank you.’

  He pointed at the mugshots. ‘Is this as far as you’ve got?’

  ‘No, we do have some leads, but I’m a stickler for detail, Mr Jarvis, and I believe in following up every thread and tying it off.’ She took a big swig of her tea, obviously preparing to leave and trying to be polite about it. It was fine. He was tired and certainly didn’t need company.

  ‘Well, I applaud that. Is there anything else?’

  ‘No, that was it, although I hope you won’t mind if we stay in touch?’

  ‘I want you to. Shirley, me, all the clerks are keen to help. This is a terrible business and an awful spotlight on our courts.’

  She nodded, swallowed another long swig and sighed, putting her quarter-filled mug down. ‘That was delicious, thank you.’

  ‘Where to now?’

  ‘A long walk up the hill.’

  ‘Ah. Well, you have a lovely evening with your friend. Here, let me get your coat.’

  He helped her on with her anorak.

  ‘I’ll just get my music organised for the walk or I’ll never make it up the hill.’ She pulled out her iPod from her pocket and threaded the loop of white cord attached to the tiny headphones to come out at the top of the anorak’s zip.

  ‘Gosh, how clever,’ he noted as they entered the hall. ‘All these newfangled things.’

  ‘But don’t you do this with your iPod, Mr Jarvis?’ She nodded at the basket on the sideboard in the hallway, which contained a small bunch of keys, a separate car key, some gloves and a blue iPod.

  He picked up the revolutionary piece of technology and the action woke it up, the tiny window illuminating with the name of a song. They both stared at momentarily. ‘This?’ He put it back, gave a long sigh and considered. ‘It was a gift but I rarely use it. I’ve never thought to be so cunning with the headphones though. You’ve taught me something,’ he said, watching her put in one earbud, leaving the other hanging so she could hear him.

  ‘Well, there you go. Now they won’t flap about when you ride or walk.’ She smiled and he thought she looked embarrassed . . . or was that nervousness? He couldn’t tell with DS Jones. She was charming, with an unnervingly focused gaze, but often awkward, especially now.

  ‘Again, sorry to disturb and . . . and thanks for the cuppa.’

  There it was again – suddenly a strange atmosphere around her. ‘Night, Sarah.’

  He waited until she’d closed the gate on his small front garden and lifted a hand in farewell before he shut the door.

  Behind it, he frowned with an increasing sense that DS Sarah Jones had just made a strategic visit, which had nothing to do with the two mugshots she’d asked him to look at.

  Sarah walked up the hill a short way before swiftly turning down a street and doubling back on herself to head for the Enfield Chase Station. Every ounce of her was on alert. She knew that to keep teasing at a problem rarely delivered more than frustration; experience had taught her that distraction was a more nourishing mindset for creative thought when you can’t see the wood for the trees, as her dad often liked to say.

  She was certainly stumbling around trees; she couldn’t get the whole picture of a forest, but there were daubs of paint on those trees – like signs – leading her somewhere. She needed to let go of the rush of nervous energy so her thoughts could move systematically in the orderly fashion they preferred.

  ‘Sleep on it,’ she muttered beneath her breath.

  23

  Geoffrey Paxton didn’t expect it all to happen quite as fast as it did. One moment he was eating rubbery scrambled eggs and baked beans for breakfast and the next he was standing outside the main entrance to HM Prison Pentonville. Everything between those few mouthfuls of egg and now, staring back at the stone edifice that encased what had been his home for more than a decade, was a blur.

  Clutched in his grip was a polythene bag with the few possessions he’d arrived with all those years earlier. They were somehow familiar but strange at the same time: a wallet, a cap, a scarf, a windcheater, smokes – they’d be stale – and a cheap lighter. He was wearing his zip-up hoodie, which felt a lot looser than he recalled, and his watch was back on his wrist. It wasn’t worth much, but it spoke of his life before prison. Now tossed in the bag were a couple of books, his pastel crayons that he’d acquired through art classes, as well as his favourite drawings, which he’d rolled up carefully. He’d also tossed in the photos of his sister’s kids and one of himself with his best pal from school in happier days.

  He’d not planned properly, had told his father he’d call from the prison as soon as he knew the arrangements, but there hadn’t been time. The processing had been swift, unceremonious and the kindest words spoken were: ‘Good luck on the outside, Mr Paxton.’ To him it felt like only hatred was holding that farewell wish together . . . certainly a cool threat that the outside would beat him.

  There was another threat too, apparently. A foreign-looking bloke called Malek Khan had been to see him the previous afternoon, to warn him that there was a killer selecting criminals for a special sort of justice if they were given an early pass.

  ‘What’s this got to do with me?’ he’d grumbled at the clean-cut, well-dressed detective with a London accent and a cocky bearing.

  Khan had given a light shrug. ‘We’re just taking some precautions, Mr Paxton.’ Mr Paxton. What a joke. So polite now. He knew they all thought him scum and would sooner see him dealt with by a lynch mob than enjoy early release or any other government handouts. ‘We feel you are a potential target.’

  ‘Me?’ He laughed. ‘Why?’

  ‘I’ll give you some bullet points, sir. You were convicted and sent down for the rape of four women and the attempted rape of a further five women. You have not served your full time.’

  ‘So what?’

  The detective with the precisely contoured beard didn’t show offence at his tone. ‘We believe there is a person targeting prison inmates on early release.’

  ‘There must be dozens,’ Geoffrey reasoned.

  ‘And we shall be giving this same advice to anyone in a similar position as yourself, sir,’ the detective said in an even tone. ‘It’s a precaution.’

  ‘Can you protect us all, Mr Malek? Not that I give a toss about the others.’ Geoffrey smirked.

  ‘It’s Detective Inspector Khan, Mr Paxton. And to answer your question, there will be surveillance on your father’s home in Reading when you return.’

  ‘I don’t want to be watched. I’ve spent the last eleven years being stared at by you lot.’

  ‘I’m not a prison officer, Mr Paxton.’

  ‘Same deal . . . all pigs.’

  ‘I’m sorry you see it that way, sir.’

  ‘I couldn’t give a rat’s arse. No one cares about me and no one’s targeting me. I’ll be damned if you think I’m going to look over my shoulder from the moment I step out of here. Call your pigs off.’

  The detective stood. ‘Well, I would urge that you stay alert and contact us if anything doesn’t feel right.’ He pushed a card across the table. ‘That’s my direct number. You can call it any time.’

  ‘Like I want to call the fucking police back into my life,’ Geoffrey sneered, flicking at the card so it fell on the floor.

  ‘Keep it on hand, Mr Paxton. We’re trying to keep you safe.’

  ‘Oh, fuck off, would you?’

  ‘I shall, sir. Is anyone meeting you on your release?’

  ‘My father’s eighty – what do you think? I can make my way back to his place easily enough.’

  Khan nodded. ‘I recommend you head straight back to Reading once you’re released.’

  ‘Shove your polite recommendation up your Lebanese arse.’

  ‘I’m Pakistani,’ the detective said, and gave Paxton a look that said, you’re too uneducated to know the difference. ‘Enjoy your freedom, Mr Paxton.’

  He had left before Paxton could make a smart response. What a load of bollocks.
A killer on the loose. Well, no one was interested in him. He was going to enjoy the years he had left as a free man.

  One officer had stepped out with him through the small man-gate in the main gates. ‘All right then, Paxton. Straight home now. Your best bet, mate, is Caledonian Road and hailing a cab. There’s plenty of them.’ He had pointed in the right direction. ‘You’re sure you don’t want me to have one called?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Paxton said with a nod. ‘See you, Mr Bright.’

  ‘I hope I don’t, Geoffrey. I hope I never see you again. Good luck.’

  The officer had headed back into the prison as Paxton took his first tentative steps of freedom. Although Mr Bright had told him which way to go, he felt torn between getting to Reading as fast as he could with the little money he’d been given . . . or blowing half of it at the pub, having an ale for the first time in so many years he could believe he’d forgotten the taste. He was feeling optimistic and still defiant that any foreigner should be telling him how to live his life. He chose the pub, promising himself a quick half and maybe some tins to carry home to share with his dad. With no idea where the closest pub was, he decided to just walk for a while in the smug deliciousness of freedom until he found one.

  He set off, refusing to look back; he would never return to this place or any jail. He’d seen the therapist regularly – was as convinced as the psychologist that his urges were now under control. And if, for any reason, the devil took over in the driver’s seat, he’d seek immediate help. Part of the deal of this early release was his involvement in a new trial for a drug to chemically castrate him. The government was supportive of the scheme and although it was headquartered out of Newcastle University, he had pleaded to be allowed in on the lengthy trial when it was brought to his attention a year ago. His enthusiasm to sign any waiver on side effects, as well as continue regular visits with a psychologist and attend a weekly outpatient clinic for testing of his testosterone levels, had won through. Paxton genuinely wanted to rid himself of the formidable desire for violent sex, which from time to time overwhelmed him.

  He held no delusions that he might one day have a regular girlfriend; he was prepared to sacrifice that dream for freedom from the shadowy twin that had walked by his side during his adult life, and from the prison doors that incarcerated him. He preferred the solution of drugs and therapy for his illness. The constant monitoring by the trial made him feel safe from himself too. It was their responsibility to keep women secure from his devil, not his alone.

  As far as he was concerned, this was a day to celebrate for several reasons. He admitted to himself with a rueful smile that you actually never forget the taste of beer – he could taste it now in his imagination – and was glad he had opted for the pub first. He was wholly distracted when he realised someone was calling to him as he was about to round the corner.

  ‘Mr Paxton . . . Mr Paxton?’

  He frowned, looking across the road to where an unremarkable bespectacled man in a grey parka was waving at him. Should he know him? He nodded.

  The man beckoned. ‘Sorry, I didn’t want to come into the main yard,’ he said, approaching a few steps and then flashing some sort of card that said PRESS on it. ‘Prison guards don’t like us lurking.’ He grinned.

  Paxton shied. ‘How did you know I was getting out now?’

  ‘Oh, ear to the ground, Geoffrey – may I call you Geoff?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘I’ve been waiting for you since dawn. I didn’t want to miss you.’

  ‘Well, I’ve got no business with you or anyone from the press. Bugger off!’ Geoffrey strode away.

  ‘Hear me out, Geoff.’

  ‘Fuck off! Anyone who knows me doesn’t call me Geoff. I was warned against strangers.’

  The journalist laughed. ‘What are you, a child now? Is that what prison has done to you?’

  Paxton turned briefly to glare down at the smaller man but kept walking.

  ‘Listen,’ the fellow said, hurrying to catch up. ‘We will pay very good money to interview you.’

  Paxton slowed.

  ‘A big sum,’ the journalist reiterated.

  Paxton stopped. ‘Why would you want to?’ he growled.

  ‘There’s a side to everyone’s story, but moreso, sir, because the general public has a morbid interest in serial criminals. No offence – I know you’ve done your time.’

  Paxton noted that the creepy journalist didn’t seem to share the view he’d heard from others that the key to his cell should have been thrown away. ‘We’re doing a series of feature articles on the criminal mind, but we’ll also focus on the rehabilitation of offenders. A little birdie whispered to us that you’re on a revolutionary drug trial combined with constant therapy and testing. Well, that alone will earn you some interest. Plus, there are families out there who would like to hear of your remorse, for instance. And we’ll pay you plenty to express that.’

  ‘Saying sorry isn’t going to turn time back.’ Even Paxton thought he sounded more philosophical than most probably thought he could ever be.

  ‘No, and I’m not suggesting you necessarily apologise directly. Perhaps people will leave you alone if you show them who you are . . . that the justice system has made you pay your dues, that you’re taking real responsibility for yourself and your illness. That will say a lot about your desire for penance, if not atonement.’

  ‘All those big words.’ Paxton shook his head.

  The journo gripped his elbow to stop him moving away. ‘It might just mean you can live out your days in peace. No one will hound you.’

  ‘Except you, you mean?’

  The man chuckled self-consciously. ‘Er, so no one’s meeting you?’

  ‘Why would they? My dad’s an invalid and lives in Reading. I haven’t got anyone else.’

  ‘Is that where you’re headed?’

  ‘When I feel like it.’

  ‘Want a lift?’ The man, who stood a full head smaller than him in his flat chequered cap, lifted his hands in deference. ‘No obligation, Mr Paxton. But we can talk on the way. It’s a chilly morning and I’m happy to drive you door to door.’

  ‘To Reading?’

  The man gave a sound of dismissal. ‘What’s that? Forty miles? Nothing.’

  Would save him a lot of hassle and he could still have his beer locally before he knocked on the old man’s door. ‘How much?’ he demanded and was glad the fellow caught on fast.

  ‘Well, I’m supposed to start at three thousand pounds, but I’m actually permitted to go as high as four and a half. Push me all the way. I’ll gladly pay it if you’ll give me the exclusive.’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘It’s Peter Shepherd.’ He gestured across the way. ‘My car is just over there. I’ll take you straight to your father’s home in Reading and you can still say no to me, and I promise to leave you alone. Look, here’s a hundred quid, all yours, to keep one way or the other . . . even if you say no by the end of this journey.’

  Paxton stared with hunger at the two fifty-pound notes, Her Majesty staring benignly back at him from the side of one and a man in a curly wig with pinched lips giving him a look of challenge from the other. That was plenty of beer money right there. ‘When do I get the dosh for this story thing?’

  ‘Half up front as soon as you agree . . . so, two thousand, two hundred and fifty pounds as you sign the contract, which we can do at your father’s home this morning – I’ve got all the paperwork in the car. The other half will be paid after the interview and we can do that from the quiet of your father’s place as well – I’ll come to you at a time that suits.’

  Paxton dared himself to negotiate big. ‘I’ll do it for five big ones.’ He lifted the fingers of one hand to ensure the guy understood. ‘Or no story.’

  The man who intended on killing him gave a crooked smile and took off his glasses to polish them with a clean white handkerchief from his pocket. ‘Well, you drive quite the hard bargain. I’m sure I can lean on my management to get
that extra, but you have to say yes now – I mean right now – so I can call them and confirm we’re on. Then we can organise the fee. We can withdraw five hundred from a local ATM in Reading, but you have to sign the contract before I hand that over.’

  ‘Where’s your car?’

  ‘You can’t see it from here, but it’s parked just over there.’ He pointed. ‘About two minutes’ walk and it’s got good heating. Pretty cold spring morning, eh?’ He mimed shivering. ‘Shall we?’

  ‘I want the first payment immediately; we go straight to the bank,’ Paxton demanded. He’d never held that much money in his life. Five thousand pounds!

  ‘Done! If you don’t have a preference, I can go to any ATM we see once we hit Reading. Actually, if you’re going to do it, I’m happy to grab the money in the next few minutes if you wish?’

  Paxton hesitated only for a heartbeat, remembering the Paki policeman. Stuff him and his warnings. He gave a nod.

  ‘Come on, then. Let’s walk and talk.’

  The car was further than he’d anticipated, down a quiet residential street. The guy had lied about the distance, but he was a smiley sort of fellow who kept up a stream of chatter. Plus, he looked harmless with those owl glasses. Paxton decided he could still say no if he chose, although the money was irresistible.

  ‘Seatbelt on, please,’ the killer said brightly as he held open the door for his passenger. ‘Don’t want to be picked up by the police, do we?’ He chuckled. ‘Right, I think there’s an ATM down Caledonian Road . . . okay for you?’

  Paxton sneered, landing in the seat and snapping on his seatbelt. ‘Yeah. Put two and half thousand quid in my hand and take me straight to Reading, and I’ll sign whatever you want,’ he said.

  ‘Righto, that’s all fine with me.’ The man who called himself Peter walked around to the other side and began fussing with getting his parka off, opening the back door and placing it on the seat. Paxton looked away, trying to get his bearings after so long on the inside. He didn’t see his driving companion suddenly reach over from the back and stab something into him. It took Paxton a moment to feel the sting of the wound. He watched, confused, as the journalist closed the back door, stood outside staring at him and then deliberately held up the key to show he was locking him alone inside the car. He heard a solid clicking sound as all the doors obeyed the command.