Mirror Man

by McIntosh, Fiona

  ‘I am. Thank you for calling back.’ She listened for more but only heard silence. ‘Amy, I’m a journalist.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I was hoping I might come and see you, please?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s about the death of David Robbins.’

  ‘No, I’m sorry.’

  ‘I won’t be asking you about—’

  ‘I don’t want to recall that time.’

  Lauren took a low breath, glancing at the clock. Her clerk was three minutes late. ‘I understand.’

  ‘I don’t think you can, or you wouldn’t have asked.’

  ‘May I at least brief you on what I’m doing? It’s not what you might think.’ Silence again. She’d take that as permission. ‘I’m preparing an in-depth feature article for a serious publication called Britain’s Voice about the public’s despair at lenient sentencing for serious criminals. Even Judge Moira Leland, who you’ll recall from the trial, has agreed to go on record and be interviewed.’

  ‘He served a few years of an already short sentence. Don’t expect me to feel an iota of sympathy for him.’

  ‘I don’t expect you to . . . and, frankly, I have no qualms about saying to you that Robbins got what he deserved. But that’s between us. As an investigative journalist, I must take a neutral position; my role is to lay out facts. It’s up to readers to weigh up the evidence and make a decision, but if enough people have those facts and can make an informed opinion, then maybe the lawmakers will have to listen. My point is that this article is not about the terrible crime against you and your family. Instead, I want to shine a spotlight on why serious and violent criminals are being given light sentences, while the victims and their families suffer the life sentence, come what may. It’s not sensationalist or lurid, that’s a promise. I will present the generalised details of your case, but be assured it isn’t the focus, nor are any of the other cases I’ll refer to. It’s about sentencing and the judicial system, not the crimes themselves.’

  ‘Then I will talk to you, but I don’t want to see you,’ Amy said defiantly. I’m sorry. I’m not very good with strangers any more. I’m returning your call and the one from the police and that’s it. I won’t be discussing this again.’

  So, Jack’s team were onto Amy. Hardly a surprise. ‘That’s fine. Frankly, I’m just grateful you’ll talk to me—’

  ‘When is this article coming out?’

  ‘Well, I suspect it will be three months in the making, at least by the time I do all the due diligence that the managing editor will demand.’

  ‘All right. When do you want to do the interview?’

  ‘How about . . . oh, hang on, Amy, someone’s brought me a message.’ She looked up at a young woman.

  ‘Are you Lauren?’ She nodded. ‘Mr Jarvis asked me to let you know that he’s running very late and will understand if you can’t wait.’

  ‘How long will he be?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t confirm but I would say about an hour.’

  ‘That’s fine. I’ll wait.’

  The young woman smiled. ‘I’ll tell him.’

  Lauren returned to her call. ‘Amy, sorry about that. Actually, we don’t have to make another time. We can talk right now if you’re up to it?’ She waited, her breath all but held.

  ‘What I’d like to say is that while victims like me obviously feel very strongly about the lenient sentencing, there are people out there who were not connected to me or my family and still they feel so angry and betrayed by the judicial system. There is no justice . . . that’s how I feel anyway.’

  ‘Your attackers—’

  ‘They weren’t just attackers. They murdered my grandmother in front of me and they laughed about it. The men who raped me got just a few years, yet they changed my life forever . . . Davey Robbins got out in less than four years. He changed the trajectory of my life. He changed my whole outlook. Now I suffer panic attacks even when I’m in the garden. I can’t meet my friends outside of my home, and attending a party is impossible for me. I can’t go on holiday with my family. I can’t go to university. But the justice system wanted to forgive Davey Robbins and give him another chance. What about me? What about my grandmother? What about our family? We’ve all suffered at losing Granny . . . my poor brother is too scared to leave us and pursue his life, just in case I top myself or something. Where’s our second chance? I’m glad Davey Robbins is dead.’

  Lauren swallowed but let Amy talk on. This was gold. She had simply unscrewed the lid on a bottle of fizzy drink that had been shaken up, just waiting to explode. ‘I hope he was as frightened as I was when that man found him and killed him. I feel no shame in saying that. I wish I could thank him properly for his—’ She suddenly stopped.

  Lauren blinked. ‘Amy?’

  ‘I’ve said too much. I shouldn’t have mentioned him.’

  ‘Who? Davey Robbins?’ she asked gently.

  ‘No, the man who killed him.’

  Lauren paused, feeling an instinctive twist in her stomach begin to knot. She opened her mouth and hesitated, then let the thought out. ‘Amy . . . do you know him?’ Her tone was soft.

  ‘I don’t know him, no.’

  ‘But you know of him . . . how?’ She could almost see Amy shrugging, not wanting to answer.

  ‘I don’t want to say any more.’

  ‘It will not appear in the article if you instruct me not to include something that you want to share.’

  ‘I’ve said too much. He said it wouldn’t matter, but I owe him.’

  ‘Amy, have you spoken with the man who killed Davey Robbins?’

  ‘No. He sent me a letter, that’s all.’

  Fuck, she mouthed silently, wishing she could tell Jack immediately. Instead she schooled her voice to sound calm. ‘You sound relieved.’

  There was a long pause. Lauren held her nerve.

  ‘I am. I’m not ashamed to be happy he’s dead, but I haven’t been sleeping, thinking that now a different sort of killer knows where I live and . . .’

  ‘Amy, you have to let the police know.’

  ‘I suppose. But I also want him to get away with it, you know. He’s the one giving us justice. Now Davey Robbins won’t hurt anyone else.’

  ‘Can I tell you something?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I think you should know that the man who killed Davey Robbins has almost certainly killed others.’

  ‘You mean in your opinion?’

  ‘No. Fact. The police have whispered to me that there are a number of unexplained deaths that they believe can be attributed to this same killer.’ That won another silence. ‘I know you’re wrestling with this, but murder is murder, Amy. And while one killer seems somehow much worse than the other, they are both taking lives. It really does amount to the same thing and the police can’t treat him differently.’

  ‘Why is that my problem?’

  ‘It’s not, but . . . I can hear it’s on your conscience, and now unfortunately it’s on mine.’

  ‘You mean you’ll have to tell the police?’

  ‘If I don’t, I’m perverting the course of justice . . . even if for you, such a thing doesn’t exist.’

  ‘Go ahead. Do what you like,’ Amy sneered but there was something contrived in her tone. It occurred to Lauren that this was precisely what Amy wanted: to avoid being the one to turn him in, even though she knew the police had to be informed.

  ‘And if the police visit?’

  ‘They want to talk to me anyway . . . some Hawksworth bloke.’

  ‘I know him. He’s a top guy.’

  ‘I don’t care. I won’t give them anything . . . unless they force me to.’

  Again she heard the little gate that Amy left open for herself. Clearly she did have a conscience; she knew what the killer had done was not right.

  ‘Amy, he’s killed at least seven people that I know about, though Robbins was perhaps the most brutal.’

  She heard the soft gasp even though Amy
tried to cover it.

  ‘I’m going to call you back. Is that all right?’

  ‘It’s fine. I’m tired anyway.’

  ‘Okay, Amy, thank you. Talk later.’ Lauren hung up and immediately dialled Jack.

  ‘Hawksworth.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘On the way to see Amy Clarke after a yummy mummy drew a bit of a blank.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. Amy is next.’

  ‘Good. Ask her to tell you about the letter.’

  ‘What letter?’

  ‘Allow her to tell you.’

  ‘Cryptic. Are you trying to stay one step ahead?’

  ‘Hardly. If I was, I’d already know what your middle name is, or your favourite food.’

  She could imagine that grin of his . . . could wish it belonged only to her, but that was the stuff of teenage daydreams and Lauren had become a realist. And that new pragmatic side reminded her, as she gave him a smiling goodbye, that Jack Hawksworth was not for keeps.

  25

  Jack decided to take the Underground followed by another train, preferring not to get stuck in mid-morning traffic. As he alighted at Winchmore Hill, still thinking about the letter Lauren had warned him about, his phone rang.

  ‘Hawskworth?’

  ‘It’s me,’ Kate said. ‘I got the team to study all the cars in the surrounding streets around Southsea, and we were able to watch the residents coming and going. Three cars arrived into various parking spots in the early hours on the night that Brownlow was murdered. Pathology tells us he died not long after nine-thirty. The closest in time was a Mazda hatchback parked at nine fifty-four in a nearby street, number plate illegible.’

  ‘Okay. Did we get a look at who was driving?’

  ‘No, it’s murky. It’s a bloke, though. He walks down the street and we lose him for a while but pick him back up at Fratton Railway Station. He catches the last train to London, which left just before ten-thirty.

  ‘Is it just the timing that has your radar up?’

  ‘Yes. The car remains untouched and in the early hours of the next morning, a different person picks it up. A woman. Again, still very dark when she departs.’

  ‘Why is that suspicious?’

  ‘I’m clutching at straws. The street is not resident-only parking so it would be a good spot if the killer needed to hide the car.’

  ‘In plain sight, you mean?’

  ‘Mmm, yes. I suppose the timing could be a coincidence. It could be his wife picking it up and driving back to London.’

  ‘Do we know which house?’

  ‘No. She arrived in the CCTV shot as she walked down the street.’

  Jack felt a flutter of hope. ‘Did we get a visual?’

  ‘This is the thing, Jack, and why it’s caught my interest. It’s like they know. She was wearing a beanie and a scarf curled up high, dressed all in black with a big overcoat so we can’t really distinguish her shape. She’s tall. In any other situation I’d think I was imagining it, but when I watch the footage I’m convinced she’s deliberately dipping her head when the camera can get its best view. He did the same. He had on a parka, a flat cap and a scarf pulled up high around his mouth. He’s short.’

  ‘Slightly mismatched?’

  ‘If they’re a couple, then yes, on the surface.’

  ‘They could have been down for a few days by the seaside.’

  ‘In winter?’

  ‘Well, they may have family in Portsmouth they were visiting. It’s too loose. That said, he has similarities with the guy who killed Peggy Markham. He wore a parka and a flat cap, if I’m not mistaken.’

  ‘You’re not.’

  ‘Keep the team at it, then. How’s Mal going?’

  ‘Going through everything he can with Hugh Pettigrew, the clerk for courtroom eleven. I’m hoping to speak with Judge Leland shortly, but she is hard to pin down. Forensics is back with details of the caravan. Lots of different DNA, as you can imagine. None that matches Davey Robbins, so he never took him inside.’

  An idea broke through his mind like a slash of sunlight. ‘Can you find out who rented it after the Polish musician moved out? Awfully convenient for the killer to have that isolated caravan, emptied of the previous tenant, and so easy for him to work in a quiet place near the roadside bend where he snatched Robbins and he could guarantee he wouldn’t be interrupted.’

  ‘Right, that makes sense. Ali wants a word.’

  ‘Okay, put her on.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘What have you got, Ali?’

  ‘I should have the list later today of all the Spurs members and the owner said it will show their purchases.’

  ‘Excellent. We’ll talk later then.’

  Kate took back her phone. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I’m with Amy Clarke if anyone needs me.’ Jack hung up, feeling the first glimmer of optimism he’d experienced in days.

  Now off the train, he made his way to Amy Clarke’s house. An older woman with a pinched expression answered the door.

  ‘Mrs Clarke?’ She nodded. ‘I’m Detective Superintendent Jack Hawksworth.’

  ‘Good morning. We’ve been expecting you. Please come in.’

  Behind her in the hallway he was met by a man. ‘Jack Hawksworth,’ he said, extending a hand.

  The man shook it. ‘Jim Clarke. Amy’s through here.’

  Jack paused. ‘Would it be all right with you both if I spoke with Amy alone? I am not going to be referring to the rape – that’s a promise.’

  They regarded each other. Mrs Clarke nodded. ‘Come on, Jim.’ She looked at Jack. ‘There’s filter coffee just made.’

  ‘Thank you. I won’t need long and I promise to tiptoe through all my questions.’

  Amy’s father walked him down and introduced him to a young woman who was curled up in an armchair, looking out across the garden through the long café-style doors. She appeared sullen; that didn’t bode well.

  ‘Morning, Amy. I’m Jack.’

  She looked up and he realised his initial assessment was wrong. She was simply melancholy, he deduced, as she welcomed him with a solid attempt at a smile. ‘I’ve been speaking to someone I think you know. She’s a journalist.’

  ‘Lauren Starling?’

  ‘Yes. She’s nice.’

  ‘May I?’ he said, pointing to a nearby sofa and winning a nod. He lowered himself to sit. ‘Lauren’s solid. You can rely on her.’

  ‘So you don’t mind me talking to the media?’

  Jack shrugged. ‘That’s your business, Amy. I just want to ask you a few simple questions. This is not about the crimes committed and not about the trial either, but simply about the courtroom itself, actually.’

  ‘Okay,’ she said, sounding relieved. ‘What do you need to know?’

  ‘I know you attended every day of the trial. Were there any other regular attendees that you perhaps didn’t know before the trial began?’

  She thought about this. ‘Dad came with me every day. Mum couldn’t stomach it, but she was there when I took the stand.’ She paused for a moment, then shook her head. ‘There were several people who came now and then. I began to recognise them. Some journalists, a couple of the police were very supportive and turned up, but no . . . you mean, can I recall someone who could potentially be the person who killed Davey Robbins?’

  He lifted a shoulder in a half shrug of encouragement. ‘Not really but I’ll think on it.’

  ‘How do you feel about his death?’

  She gave him a look that he was sure could stop traffic. ‘How do you think I feel?’

  ‘I’m asking,’ he said, equally direct but not firm; he kept his tone even and gentle.

  She blinked. ‘I’m ecstatic is how I feel.’

  He nodded. ‘That’s understandable. Did you know that Don Pratchett died in prison?’

  ‘Hooray.’ Her voice had no joy in it. Jack waited a beat and she filled it, switching topics. ‘How well do you know Lauren, the jo
urnalist?’

  ‘Well enough.’ He smiled.

  ‘Do you like her?’

  ‘I do.’ He kept his expression neutral.

  ‘Did she tell you?’ No need to play ignorant. He nodded. ‘Then she must like you.’

  ‘Will you show me?’

  ‘I don’t especially want to betray the one person who has done more for our family than the justice system.’

  He held his tongue; she didn’t need a lecture. She wouldn’t have mentioned it if she didn’t have every intention of showing him.

  ‘But I also don’t want to be an accessory or anything.’

  ‘You won’t. But I would like to see that letter, Amy.’

  She reluctantly put her hand down the side of the armchair and pulled out an envelope. She’d obviously expected him to ask. Jack immediately reached into the messenger bag he’d put on the floor beside him and withdrew some thin gloves, which he quickly stretched over his hands. ‘May I?’ She handed it to him with a scowl, although he sensed relief. ‘Have your parents seen this?’

  ‘Mum has. She said not to tell anyone. She agrees with me that whoever sent this has done us a favour.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ he said without sounding judgemental. He scanned the letter, feeling excitement quicken. This was him. The killer was here in the room with them and he had even anticipated that Amy would likely give him up; didn’t hold it against her. ‘Listen, Amy, I have to take this. It’s crucial evidence of guilt. It might also deliver us some clues.’

  She nodded with reluctance. ‘I hope you don’t catch him.’

  ‘Thanks for not standing in my way, though.’

  ‘I thought I liked Judge Leland but she turned out to be the most treacherous.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘She gave Davey Robbins just a few years. If she’d had to go through what we went through that day . . . or if it was her daughter who was raped and her mother who was murdered in cold blood, she might not have been as lenient.’

  ‘It never seems fair, but she and all judges are constrained by the law.’

  ‘That’s crap.’

  ‘Amy, I’m the last person to debate this with because I’m on your side,’ he said, trying to lower the passion in the room. ‘People like me and my team spend every waking minute of our working lives trying to hunt the bad guys down, and when we do, they get off, or they get a light sentence, or they’re let out early.’