Mirror Man

by McIntosh, Fiona

  ‘Not the bank or Reading, actually. Straight to hell, Geoffrey Paxton, for you,’ Peter said through the closed window.

  ‘What the f—’ His hand flew to the site of the sting. ‘What was that?’

  ‘Propofol,’ the journalist said through the glass. ‘Don’t fight. Just relax.’ He grinned. ‘I’m sure that’s something you whispered to all your victims. Well, this is for them but especially for the mother of four you abused so heinously that she needed several surgeries after you’d finished with her.’

  Geoffrey Paxton’s last sensible thought was strangely abstract . . . that he’d forgotten to ask the journalist where he worked. The face of the smart-arse detective loomed large in his mind, waggling an admonishing finger. I tried to warn you.

  ‘Bye-bye, Geoff,’ he heard before he lost consciousness.

  Later, with the body dumped down by the canal, no longer dreaming of beer . . . no longer dreaming at all, the killer made a call.

  ‘It’s done’ was all he said before he rang off and slipped the Mazda into first, pulling back out into traffic to make for the garage where he hid the car.

  Lauren was thrilled to have an appointment with Judge Moira Leland, especially in her new capacity as a feature writer for a weekend magazine that had clout. Jack had been as good as his promise and all the arrangements had moved fast and slick to transfer her within the publishing group. Rowena had wished her well, giving her a nod of approval that implied she wasn’t surprised.

  She had arrived at the St John’s Wood apartment promptly at eight-thirty as the judge had requested. Judge Leland opened the door, glancing at her watch and speaking into a phone. ‘Right, thanks for that,’ she said, and her smile lifted to see Lauren. ‘On time. I’m impressed.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dare do otherwise. Thank you so much for seeing me.’

  ‘Come in. I’m sorry I don’t have very long.’

  ‘No, that’s fine. This was always just an introductory meeting so you could assess what I hope to achieve with the feature.’

  Lauren entered the elegant reception hall of the judge’s apartment, where parquet flooring sprawled in all directions.

  ‘This way, Ms Starling.’

  ‘Please, call me Lauren.’

  ‘Can I offer you anything?’ the judge asked, showing Lauren into a large drawing room flooded with sunlight from two tall windows. Books lined three of the walls and the fourth was a gallery of artworks, she noted as she lowered herself onto a huge, plump sofa in a muddy chalk colour, littered with sumptuous cushions. ‘I was just having a peppermint tea,’ the judge said, reaching for a Japanese porcelain cup that had no handle.

  ‘No, but thank you. These are beautiful; colours like jewels,’ Lauren remarked, gesturing at the cushions while she dug into her bag for a notebook and her pen.

  ‘A traditionalist,’ Moira Leland said, nodding at the notebook.

  Lauren smiled. ‘I find a lot of people won’t open up if I switch a recorder on.’

  ‘And you’re sure I will?’

  ‘No, I’m not. I’d like to try, though, because I know that you are someone who has an opinion on lenient sentences.’

  ‘Oh? Who tells you that?’

  Lauren held the gimlet stare that matched the scarily sharp haircut, which had greyed to steely perfection for this statuesque woman. She must have her hair trimmed each week for that exquisite line to be kept, she mused, then realised the judge was waiting for her to reply.

  ‘No one. I have looked at your cases and all of them seem to favour leniency.’

  ‘And this is what your feature is about?’

  ‘Yes, Your Honour.’

  ‘Well, I have respect for Britain’s Voice.’

  Lauren felt a soft thrill to hear someone else refer to the top publication she was now writing for. ‘I promise it will be balanced and thoroughly researched.’

  ‘And you wish to talk to me about why so many of our worst criminals seem to do so little jail time in the eyes of the general public . . . does that sum it up?’

  ‘Perfectly.’

  Judge Leland nodded, sipped. ‘Do you know how many people are in jail across Britain right now?’

  ‘Around seventy-five thousand?’

  ‘A little higher, actually.’

  ‘Near enough double from ten years ago, as I understand it.’

  The judge nodded. ‘And the average annual cost to keep a prisoner?’

  ‘Er . . . nearly forty thousand pounds per prisoner.’

  Moira Leland sighed. ‘Does that trouble you?’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘That all that money might be spent more wisely in our health or education system.’

  ‘Does it matter what I think?’

  ‘You’re one of the public.’

  ‘To be honest, Judge Leland, I think I’d rather know I was safe from a rapist. My research shows that more than forty per cent of adult men in prison are there for sexual offences.’

  ‘Exactly! And do you think that when they are released they magically stop being sexual offenders? Some maybe, because they’ve got old. But generally it’s unlikely that those urges and motivators change – not without some intervention. The statistics show that long-term prison sentences do not achieve rehabilitation, and it’s my belief that we have to find ways to make serial sexual offenders, for instance, more accountable, by combining their prison sentences with both physical and mental therapies.’

  Lauren nodded. ‘May I ask, are you and your fellow judges under pressure to not jail people?’

  Judge Leland gave a slightly cynical laugh. ‘No. But we’re certainly encouraged to be aware of the crush in our prison system. Locking people away is all very well but there’s an enormous toll on the public purse, and recidivism rates are real.’

  ‘I can hear your frustration.’

  The judge shrugged. ‘Absolutely. I and every other judge has to weigh up sending a man down for his second or third rape, for instance, knowing he’ll likely be back at it. And even if we do jail him for the maximum term, it will be reduced . . . it’s just a nasty cycle. I find it easier to campaign for therapies that cut that vicious cycle. Less time in jail, more money to spend on finding solutions to sexual offenders. And that’s just one area – there’s the thieves, the hardened criminals, the drug suppliers and sellers, the murderers . . . on and on it goes. Once we send them down, half of them start to suffer from depression and anxiety – and how do you think that plays out within the prison system? And then when they’re released?’

  ‘It’s a question with no answer, really, isn’t it?’

  Moira Leland held up her cup as though making a toast. ‘Welcome to my world, Ms Starling. I know the public want harsher sentences – put them away, castrate them . . . some might even argue for capital punishment in some instances. I respect that view, but my role unfortunately is less black and white. Courts wrestle with this dilemma every day, every trial.’

  Lauren nodded slowly, thinking on what the judge had said. ‘With your permission, I’d like to schedule an appointment to talk to you at length.’

  ‘Who else are you speaking with?’

  ‘Well, I guess to keep it balanced I would need to speak with a judge who believes in dishing out the maximum sentence.’

  ‘You should. I would recommend Judge Edwin Fenshaw. Old-school, and will argue his position eloquently.’

  Lauren smiled. ‘Thank you. Is he at North London Crown Court?’

  ‘No, the Old Bailey. And if I were you, I’d organise to speak with Justice Laurence Brimfield; he’s at Blackfriars these days. He takes a sort of midline view, you could say.’

  ‘What about the clerks of the court? Are they worth talking to?’

  Judge Leland shrugged. ‘The more the merrier, I suppose, if you want to take the temperature of the legal system. But they run the courts, as you know; they have no say in what actually happens.’

  ‘Do you talk cases over with your clerk, Your Honour?’
/>   ‘Yes. Often.’

  ‘Then I probably will follow through on a meeting I’ve arranged with one of the clerks from North London Crown Court.’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Brian Jarvis; he’s being very helpful.’

  The judge nodded with a soft smile. ‘He’s a lovely man, that’s why. He’s also been around the longest, so you’ll get a solid snapshot of the courts I work from.’

  ‘You don’t work with him, though?’

  ‘Only once,’ she said, glancing at her watch and managing to stand up in a way that Lauren felt sure she should practise at home for its grace. She understood it was time to gather up her things. ‘It was a terrible case and I was glad for Mr Jarvis and his calm, very reliable and pedantic running of the engine room, so to speak. He kept all parties very clearly on track.’

  ‘Was this the Davey Robbins case?’

  ‘You have done your homework, Ms Starling. I’m impressed. I agree to see you again. Call my clerk – her name’s Andrea – and let’s set something up for next week. You can come to my chambers if you wish.’

  Lauren shook the judge’s hand, noting well-kept fingernails polished with clear varnish.

  ‘That would be perfect, thank you. This is a lovely apartment, if you don’t mind me saying. Do you live here alone?’

  ‘I do, since my husband died. This was his choice though. I’m sure you didn’t fail to notice Lord’s Cricket Ground all but next door.’ The judge grinned.

  Lauren stepped back across the threshold and turned. ‘My dad’s a big cricket fan.’

  ‘Oh, Gerald was just crazy for the MCC and I’d lose him for days. He could stroll there – he loved it.’

  ‘I can hear in your voice you miss him.’

  ‘Do you have someone in your life?’

  Lauren smiled coyly. ‘There’s someone new who would be so very easy to fall in love with, but I suspect pain only awaits me.’

  The judge frowned. ‘Gorgeous, confident career woman like you . . . why do you say that?’

  ‘I think he’ll break my heart. Not deliberately; his line of work doesn’t make for an easy lifestyle if you’re the partner.’

  ‘Oh, what does he do?’

  ‘He’s in the police force. A senior detective.’

  Moira Leland nodded. ‘Well, don’t be alone too long. I do it well enough, but I’m decades older and it’s not a state to envy.’ She smiled.

  ‘Oh, forgive me, I haven’t had a chance to ask you about your feelings on the criminals you’d tried and sent down who have been murdered. I hope you won’t mind if we touch on that next week?’

  The judge looked pained. ‘What a conundrum that is. Yes, no problem – we can discuss it next week. I’ve been contacted by a detective from Scotland Yard, no less, who has made it clear to me, despite my protestations, that his boss has ordered a security detail.’

  ‘I think you should.’

  ‘It’s preposterous. More waste that could be spent where it’s better needed.’

  ‘You’re not frightened?’

  ‘Why should I be? I agree it’s bizarre that my cases are the target, but whoever is killing these people is killing criminals. The grudge is obviously with them rather than the court system that put them away. I’d like to wring the neck of the person who got it into their head that I need protection.’

  Lauren decided not to tell her it was the same man she was not going to fall in love with.

  ‘Goodbye, Lauren. Good luck with your research.’

  Lauren left the leafy, quiet neighbourhood. It was hard to believe it was barely a couple of miles from this affluent street to busy Charing Cross. She walked to St John’s Wood Underground station and caught the Jubilee Line to Green Park, changing onto the Piccadilly line north to Wood Green and the criminal courts in North London to meet with Brian Jarvis.

  As she hurtled through the dark tunnels, she decided that one day she was going to live in an apartment not dissimilar to Judge Leland’s and have that totally powerful approach to life that she seemed to possess.

  24

  Mal Khan arrived at Jack’s office. ‘Sir? Sorry to interrupt.’

  ‘Yep?’ Jack said distractedly. He had been listening to the audio file of the emergency call made by Brownlow’s killer but switched it off. ‘This guy is brazen,’ he said, something nagging at him to take notice, but Mal was waiting. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Paxton was released at eight this morning.’

  ‘Yes. You said we’ve got Thames Valley police in position around the father’s place in Reading.’

  ‘They’ve been there since the dawn chorus.’

  ‘So?’

  His DI looked doubtful. ‘So . . . he never arrived at his father’s.’

  Jack’s attention snapped to the moment in sharp focus as he frowned. ‘He was wearing a cuff, right?’

  ‘That’s what they told me yesterday, but I’ve got one of ours confirming with Pentonville now.’

  ‘Okay. But definitely released at zero eight hundred?’

  Mal nodded. ‘The doors closed behind him at less than a minute past. An officer called John Bright walked him out and made sure no one was lurking around. Paxton was given information about catching a cab, but the CCTV shows he left alone. The cameras followed him halfway down the road safely.’

  ‘Right,’ Jack said, thoughtfully. ‘I probably wouldn’t blame him if he headed for the nearest pub. In fact, what is the nearest pub?’

  Mal frowned. ‘Er . . . I think it might be that three-storey place called Balmoral Castle, is it?’

  ‘McLaughlins, I think, sir,’ one of the constables said, arriving with a note for Mal. ‘Paxton is definitely wearing an ankle cuff. Part of his release rules. Here’s who to call.’ She left with a nod.

  Jack sighed. ‘Get onto it.’

  ‘Righto!’ Mal said, ducking out of the office.

  He was in the midst of standing up when it hit Jack like a punch. Righto . . . that was it! He looked up to see Kate arriving.

  ‘Inspiration or horror?’ she asked, noting his expression.

  ‘The former.’

  ‘Good. Tell me,’ she said, placing a small cup of coffee on his desk for him. ‘That’s the one you like . . . purple.’

  ‘Do I?’ He smiled, took the cup and sipped. He scratched his head, frowning, as though reaching for something.

  ‘Well, don’t keep me in suspense,’ she said.

  ‘The killer has an expression. He says righto. I mean, it’s common enough, though not a word I use – but Mal did just now.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Our killer said righto on his emergency call. He might have disguised his voice and probably disguised his shoe size, but, perhaps, in his excitement, his regular vocabulary remained intact.’

  ‘You’re basing this on one phone call?’ She didn’t sound convinced.

  ‘No. He used the identical expression when he attacked and tied up Chingford. But here’s the thing, Kate.’

  She sat forward.

  ‘I’ve heard it recently.’

  ‘You just said Mal uttered it.’

  Jack shook his head, his gaze turning distant. ‘Someone else . . .’

  ‘Well,’ she said, looking bemused, ‘that little knot is best waited for . . . it will loosen itself.’

  He accepted her rationale with a sigh. ‘Have you heard about Paxton?’

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ she said, as if warding off bad news.

  He looked back at her steadily.

  ‘I thought we were watching him.’ Her voice was filled with disbelieving despair.

  He explained. ‘Either he’s having a long and understandable early-morning walk around London waiting for pubs to open . . .’ He expressed a look of worry. ‘Or he’s been snatched somewhere near the prison.’

  ‘Fuck!’

  ‘That’s a pound coin from you, please, Kate,’ Joan said, striding in, no smile this time. ‘Jack, very bad news, I’m afraid.’

 
‘Please don’t say Geoffrey Paxton, Joan,’ he warned.

  ‘All right, I won’t. I’ll say instead that a newly released inmate from Pentonville Prison has turned up at the Whittington emergency unit having been dragged from the Regent’s Canal. I’m very sorry, both of you, but although he arrived breathing – just – he has died.’

  She watched both of them sigh out despair and hang their heads.

  ‘Sir.’ It was Mal.

  ‘We’ve heard,’ Jack said, standing and flinging a stapler across the room.

  ‘I don’t have a penalty for stapler flinging,’ Joan admitted, ‘but I do have a glimmer of good news for you.’

  Jack took a breath and joined all the other gazes staring at Joan. ‘We may have a witness. One of those yummy-mummy joggers. Here’s her address.’

  ‘Let’s go,’ Jack said, and Joan held up some car keys. ‘Thanks. Mal, I want that CCTV scrutinised. Anything yet on the footprint?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Definitely not a size nine. The weight distribution wasn’t right. He deliberately wore bigger sneakers, as we guessed.’

  Sarah was arriving as Jack and Kate were moving with haste.

  ‘Er, sir . . .’

  ‘Not now, Sarah.’

  ‘Please, it’s—’

  ‘Back soon. Get the others to bring you up to speed.’

  They left her in the corridor, not waiting for the lift but using the fire stairs.

  Lauren was seated in North London Crown Court’s cafeteria, waiting for the clerk of the court. Her phone lit and hummed quietly against the table.

  She recognised the number she’d dialled earlier. ‘Is this Amy?’ she asked, excitement trilling through her but not showing in her voice.

  ‘It is. You’re Lauren Starling?’