by Luke Delaney
Addis leaned forward, but didn’t lower his voice, speaking loudly enough for anyone who cared to listen to hear what he was saying. ‘I’m sure there are,’ he agreed with an assassin’s smile, ‘but none of them have been the head of Specialist Operations in the Met, have they, Minister?’
‘Meaning?’ the minister asked, his brow wrinkled and his eyes narrowed.
‘Let’s just say that you can’t oversee covert operations for as long as I have without finding out a thing or two about people in positions of power. I’m sure you understand.’
‘Is this … are you threatening me?’ the minister asked, his voice indignant.
‘It’s the people we have to deal with, Minister,’ Addis told him with mock concern. ‘Criminals, drug dealers, informants, prostitutes. The sort of people that would sell their soul to the devil for the right price, let alone the occasional piece of unwanted information. But at least I can prevent them from going to the newspapers and embarrassing the innocent parties involved. Although I doubt their wives and children would see them as being quite so innocent.’
The minister cleared his throat and sank deep in his chair. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Of course you don’t.’ Addis took deep joy at his condescension. ‘Of course you don’t.’
‘I think our business here is complete,’ the minister told him, getting to his feet. ‘Until next time,’ he told Addis.
‘Until next time,’ Addis repeated. ‘Oh and, Minister – don’t ever threaten me again – there’s a good fellow.’
6
Sean arrived at work shortly after eight the next morning feeling exhausted before the day had even begun. He pulled the lid off a polystyrene cup of black coffee and logged himself onto the Met’s computer system, going straight to his emails, the sight of so many unread messages making him audibly groan and sink into his uncomfortable chair. He noticed a good proportion were last-minute CPS requests for probably unobtainable evidence for the upcoming trial of Douglas Allen.
‘Shit,’ he whispered to himself before Donnelly burst into his office waving a copy of that morning’s edition of The World around, making him instantly forget about the CPS memos.
‘You’re not going to fucking believe this,’ Donnelly announced, laying the paper out on Sean’s desk and jabbing his finger into the offending article. ‘They’ve only asked the Your View Killer to bloody well contact them.’
‘What?’ Sean snatched up the paper and started frantically reading. ‘Are they fucking crazy? What the hell are they playing at?’
‘If that’s not bad enough they’ve also had roaming reporters out and about in every city up and down the country asking people whether they sympathize with this psychopath or not. Canvassing the opinion of brain-dead chavs to ensure they get the result they want.’
Sean was no longer listening as he scanned the article for the name of the editor or journalist responsible until he found what he was looking for. ‘I might have known,’ he said to himself.
‘Known what?’ Donnelly asked.
‘Geoff Jackson,’ he explained. ‘Crime editor for this rag.’
‘You know him?’
‘I know of him. He covered the Allen case and the Keller case – filled in the blanks with his own version of events rather than worrying about the truth. Wrote books too, apparently.’
‘He wasn’t the only one who wrote books about those two,’ Donnelly reminded him.
‘No, but his were the only ones that sold,’ Sean told him.
‘Aye and he gave you the starring role, I seem to remember.’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ Sean replied. ‘I didn’t read them.’ He snatched up the phone on his desk and called the number displayed under the photograph of Jackson.
‘He’s even given him instructions of how he wants to be contacted,’ Donnelly explained. ‘On Twitter, if you can believe that.’
‘I can believe it,’ Sean told him before the phone was answered by a woman’s voice.
‘You’ve reached The World, Britain’s bestselling newspaper – how can I help?’
‘This is DI Sean Corrigan from the Metropolitan Police’s Special Investigations Unit. I need to speak to Geoff Jackson as a matter of urgency.’
‘I’m afraid Geoff’s not in the office right now,’ the woman’s voice told him. ‘If you give me your mobile number I’ll get him to call you as soon as possible.’
‘Tell him to call me on my landline,’ Sean told her. ‘I’m guessing he already has the number.’ He hung up without waiting for an answer.
‘Nobody home?’ Donnelly quipped.
‘No. Slippery bastards tried to get my mobile number.’
‘They’ve probably already got it.’
‘Maybe.’ The phone rang on the desk and Sean grabbed it, expecting a confrontation with Jackson. ‘DI Corrigan speaking.’
‘Inspector,’ Dr Canning began, instantly deflating him. ‘Everything all right?’
‘Yes,’ Sean stammered. ‘I was expecting someone else, that’s all.’
‘I have an update for you re our victim from the Thames.’
‘Go on.’
‘More confirmation, really. Cause of death is, as suspected, strangulation caused by hanging. He was most definitely dead before being disposed of in the river – the absence of river water in his lungs tells us that – and despite the best efforts of the Thames, I’ve managed to recover some adhesive from his skin where he was taped at the wrists, ankles, et cetera. We should be able to match it if you can find the roll it came from, but it’s probably not exotic.’
‘Anything that could help us trace the scene?’ Sean asked impatiently.
‘I’m afraid not,’ Canning told him, ‘or at least nothing I can see with my equipment. Once we send his clothing to the lab with the samples I’ve taken you never know your luck, but you know what it’s like once a body has been in the river, Inspector – unless something was deposited inside it then you can’t expect to find too much, forensically speaking.’
‘OK,’ Sean conceded. ‘Keep me posted.’
‘Naturally,’ Canning told him before the line went dead.
‘Anyone interesting?’ Donnelly asked.
‘Dr Canning,’ Sean answered.
‘Anything from the post-mortem?’
‘Nothing that helps,’ Sean answered. ‘Get the team together for an update on the second victim, will you? Give me a few minutes to get all my shit in one bag.’
‘Aye, no problem,’ Donnelly told him and walked quickly from the office, almost bumping into Assistant Commissioner Addis who’d somehow ghosted in undetected. ‘Guv’nor,’ Donnelly acknowledged him and slid into the main office. Sean groaned inside. This was all he needed.
‘Inspector,’ Addis began, his rarely seen, less than convincing half-smile unnerving Sean more than if he’d been blowing thunder.
‘Assistant Commissioner,’ Sean greeted him.
‘Thought I’d pay you all a personal visit and see how things were progressing,’ Addis told him. ‘A show of support, if you like.’
Addis’s words only added to Sean’s suspicions. ‘I need a show of support?’ he asked.
‘From time to time,’ Addis explained, sounding almost friendly, ‘we all need a little support and I just wanted you to know that you have mine, for now.’
‘OK,’ Sean answered, still feeling more than a little unnerved. ‘That’s good to know.’
‘And the investigation,’ Addis continued, ‘progressing satisfactorily?’
‘It’s progressing,’ Sean told him, pursing his lips. ‘As much as it can.’
‘As much as it can?’ Addis questioned.
‘This isn’t a join-the-dots-up investigation,’ Sean tried to explain. ‘That much I already know. One minute we’ll have nothing and the next we’ll have everything. It’s just the way these ones work. Progress can be difficult to judge. You never know you’re at the tipping point until you’re actually there.’ He
shrugged his shoulders for emphasis and waited for Addis’s response. The normal Addis would probably blow a fuse, but this new one …
‘Well … I see,’ Addis replied, looking like he was struggling a little to maintain his slightest of smiles, ‘but don’t take too long to get to this tipping point. I have it on reliable information that the City’s beginning to get a little nervous about the situation. Apparently the markets are already losing millions and if someone else were to be abducted millions could become billions.’ His smile broadened slightly. ‘If you have any shares, Inspector, now would be a good time to sell them and buy yourself some gold, or silver perhaps.’
Sean realized it was Addis’s attempt at a joke. ‘Stocks and shares – not really my thing,’ he replied.
‘No,’ Addis agreed, his smile fading somewhat. ‘I don’t suppose they are.’ Neither man spoke for a few seconds, a silence that Sean knew he was enjoying more than Addis. ‘Anyway, I won’t take up any more of your time, but if there’s anything you need don’t hesitate to ask. Anything at all.’
‘A press appeal could be useful,’ Sean told him. ‘No need for the victim to appear in it. We can just put out the facts we know, the use of a van, the drop-off areas, that sort of thing.’
‘Of course,’ Addis replied. ‘Leave it with me.’
‘I’ll prepare you a brief.’
‘Good,’ Addis told him and headed for the door, still looking at Sean, talking as he walked. ‘Remember – anything you need. Anything at all.’ For one horrible moment Sean thought Addis might even wink at him.
Once Addis was clear of the main office Sean let out a long breath he felt he’d been holding since Addis had first arrived. He got up from his desk and headed into the neighbouring room where Donnelly was waiting. ‘Problem?’ he asked.
‘No,’ Sean replied. ‘Our esteemed Assistant Commissioner’s acting a little strange, but nothing I can’t handle.’
‘Strange how?’
‘Strange-friendly, that’s how.’
‘That’s not good,’ Donnelly offered. ‘Assistant Commissioners acting friendly is never good.’
‘All right,’ Sean shouted across the main office. ‘Listen up and I’ll give those of you who are here a quick update on the second victim, Georgina Vaughan.’ He gave them a few seconds to end their phone calls and typing before speaking again. ‘As with the first victim, she works in the City, but, unlike him, not in a particularly senior position. She was abducted early yesterday evening from South Park in Parsons Green and taken to wherever it is our man is using for his broadcasts. You all saw what he did to her.’ He looked around at the serious, determined faces. ‘After he humiliated and tortured her he released her on Putney Heath, although he left her with her hands tied behind her back, her mouth taped over and her top cut open with her chest exposed. Clearly he wanted her humiliation and suffering to continue even after her release. She was found and taken to hospital. Her injuries are unpleasant, but not serious. I spoke to her last night and she confirmed the suspect is using a white panel van that’s been fitted inside with arm and leg restraints to prevent the victim from struggling or escaping. It’s safe to assume he used the same restraints on the first victim – all further evidence that he’s been planning this for some time. She remembers being driven for a while and then being taken from the van and walked through an outside location to a building – a building in which the suspect made his broadcast from. DC Bishop tells me the signal from the broadcast puts our man somewhere on the outskirts of London. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is about it. Maggie and Fiona are checking the abduction location and so far we’ve found the victim’s mobile phone and headphones and some partial footprints. They’re checking the area for CCTV, but haven’t found anything yet, although I’m certain they’ll find some footage of the van, as will Paulo who’s looking after the drop site at Putney Heath. There’ll be plenty of enquiries coming everyone’s way – get them done quickly and back to Dave or Sally as fast as you can. The more information and leads we have on this bastard the quicker we’ll find him. That’s all,’ he finished and headed back to his own office, reaching it just as his desk phone began to ring. He grabbed it and sat all in the same motion. ‘DI Corrigan.’
‘Well, well,’ the voice on the other end told him. ‘Finally we get to talk. How’s the shoulder? I heard they didn’t manage to get all the shotgun pellets out. Bet that hurts on a cold day.’
‘Who is this?’ Sean asked impatiently.
‘Geoff Jackson,’ the voice told him. ‘Crime editor for The World, Britain’s biggest selling …’
‘Save the advert,’ Sean interrupted him. ‘I know who you work for and what you do.’
‘Of course you do,’ Jackson laughed into the phone. ‘Tell me, Inspector, did you ever get round to reading my book about the Keller investigation? Or what about my latest one on Douglas Allen? How d’you like the title – The Toy Taker. Stroke of genius, don’t you think?’
‘Jackson,’ Sean told him, ‘I wouldn’t wipe my arse with one of your books.’
‘A bit harsh, Inspector.’ Jackson laughed again. ‘They were nominated for best true-crime works for their respective years.’
‘Congratulations,’ Sean said sarcastically, ‘but listen to me, Jackson, what the fuck d’you think you’re playing at trying to get this psychopath to contact your paper? You trying to encourage him to abduct somebody else?’
‘Just doing my job, Inspector.’
‘Which is?’
‘Covering the story, of course. Nothing more, nothing less.’
‘Bollocks,’ Sean argued. ‘You’re trying to create the story, not cover it.’
‘Cover – create,’ Jackson replied, ‘what the fuck’s the difference?’
‘Plenty,’ Sean told him. ‘Anything you find out about this son of a bitch you tell me, Jackson.’
‘No can do,’ Jackson answered. ‘Journalistic privilege, Inspector. You can’t make me hand over shit, although I may chuck you a bone from time to time.’
‘We need to talk,’ Sean insisted, snarling into the phone.
‘Isn’t that what we’re doing?’
‘Face-to-face. Now.’
‘Why? So you can beat the crap out of me to scare me off the story?’
The fact Jackson was probably recording their conversation dawned on Sean. ‘You’re still living in the eighties, Jackson. That doesn’t happen any more. Not sure it ever did, but if it makes you feel better you can pick the location.’
‘Errm,’ Jackson mused. ‘How about a nice little café I know in Wapping? Public enough to be safe – private enough so we can talk.’
‘Fine,’ Sean told him. ‘Where?’
‘Café Italia in Pennington Street.’
‘Be there in an hour,’ Sean demanded and hung up before Jackson could argue. Sean knew he’d be there. He grabbed his raincoat and filled his pockets, poking his head around Donnelly’s door. ‘Grab your coat,’ he told him.
‘We going somewhere?’
‘To see a journalist,’ Sean answered.
Donnelly rubbed his hands with enthusiasm. ‘Jackson?’ Sean just nodded. ‘Oh yes,’ Donnelly said excitedly. ‘This I do not want to miss.’
Sally sat opposite Anna in a large comfortable chair, resting a glass of water on her thigh while Anna read through her patient notes, Sally still feeling uncomfortable despite their familiarity. Finally Anna looked up and smiled.
‘Thanks again for seeing me so early,’ Sally told her. ‘I know you must be pretty busy, especially now you’re attached to another case.’
‘No need to thank me, Sally,’ Anna replied. ‘What are friends for?’
‘I suppose,’ Sally answered unconvincingly, ‘but before we start, I was wondering if you think anyone may have put two and two together and come up with four?’
‘You mean do I think anyone has worked out that you’re seeing me – professionally?’
‘Yes. You know, you and I being so close to ea
ch other at work – maybe someone’s suspected something. Said something?’
‘No,’ Anna reassured her. ‘No one’s said anything. Why do you ask? Has someone said something to you?’
‘No. No,’ Sally told her. ‘Nothing. It’s nothing. I just get a little paranoid sometimes. Sorry, have we started now, or are we still just talking?’
‘Just talking,’ Anna smiled. ‘Have you confided in anyone that you’re seeing me?’
‘No,’ Sally lied.
‘Not even … Sean?’
Sally sighed before answering. ‘How did you know? Did he tell you?’
‘No,’ It was Anna’s turn to lie. ‘I just guessed you’d trust him. We all need someone to confide in, especially after what you went through. Speaking of which, how have you been? It can’t have been easy watching that young woman being hurt on Your View.’
‘No,’ Sally answered. ‘No it wasn’t, but I did it.’
‘And when you got home – when you were alone?’
‘Fine. Like any other night lately. I’m off the tramadol and the codeine, not drinking to excess and staying off the hard stuff – a glass of wine to unwind with now and then, but nothing over the top.’
‘And the fear?’ Anna asked, the question making Sally flinch.
‘Better,’ she answered. ‘Much better. I still get a little nervous if I get home late, when it’s dark, but once I’m in my flat I’m fine. Any feelings I have of anxiety quickly fade. No tears. No depression. No dreading waking up the next day.’
‘Any dreams?’ Anna asked, making Sally shift a little uncomfortably in her chair.
‘Dreams?’ Sally asked.
‘Yes,’ Anna clarified. ‘Like the ones we’ve discussed before.’ Sally didn’t answer. ‘Often our fears linger longest in our dreams – in our subconscious. They sneak in when our guard is down.’ She smiled at Sally.
