by Luke Delaney
‘Well,’ Sally began before stalling to take a sip of water, ‘there is one that doesn’t seem to want to let go – one that seems to get me when I’m particularly tired – when I’m in the deepest of sleeps. Funny, I always thought you only dreamt just before you woke up – when your sleep was at its lightest.’
‘No one really knows for sure,’ Anna explained. ‘The subconscious is still a mysterious place. So what happens in this dream?’
‘I don’t dream it that much,’ Sally tried to explain, fearful of mocking her own proclaimed progress. ‘Only now and then.’
‘I understand,’ Anna told her. ‘It’s best if you tell me about it and then we can discuss it, but only if you feel comfortable with it.’
‘I’m happy to talk about it,’ Sally answered, aware of her own feelings of defensiveness and eager to banish them.
‘Then, whenever you’d like to begin,’ Anna encouraged.
Sally filled her lungs and exhaled before beginning. ‘It’s always the same house, big, with lots of rooms, one leading to another and then another, but there never seem to be any corridors or hallways, just rooms leading to each other. I don’t recognize the house. It’s not familiar to me. If I do know it then I don’t remember it.’ Sally suddenly stopped, as if she was trying to work something out, or place the house of her subconscious in the real world.
‘Go on,’ Anna brought her back.
Sally gave a little shake of her head and continued. ‘The ceilings in the rooms are high and the windows are very tall, but they don’t have glass in them, just a … a blackness … an impenetrable blackness, and the doorways are tall as well, but narrow and difficult to fit through.’ She paused again as she recalled more of the house. ‘And there are no curtains or blinds, in fact there’s no furniture at all of any kind, or carpet, just bare floorboards and a single bulb hanging from the ceiling in each room. And the only colour in the house is …’ Sally stalled again, covering her mouth with one hand as she swallowed hard to stop the tears as a sudden rush of emotions and memories ambushed her.
‘It’s all right,’ Anna comforted her. ‘Take your time.’
After a few seconds Sally recovered enough to continue, battling through the dark demons of the past. ‘The only colour … everything in the house, including the light is … is red.’
She closed her eyes for a second, remembering the night she’d been attacked in her own flat more than two years ago, her would-be killer, Sebastian Gibran, turning the room red by draping a silk scarf over a lamp before burying a knife deep into her chest.
‘And I’m running,’ she eventually continued. ‘Running from room to room, my shoulders hitting the frames of the narrow doorways, and I’m scared. I know someone’s in the house, and that they’re looking for me – searching for me – getting closer and closer as I run aimlessly from room to room, looking for a way out, but there isn’t any, just door after door leading nowhere. I feel him in the house. I can’t see or hear him, but I know he’s there and he wants me. He wants to finish what he began.
‘I’m crying and stumbling, falling down and scrambling back to my feet as I feel his presence growing closer and closer, my fear becoming as real and raw and overwhelming as it’s ever been, and then suddenly he’s there, looming over me, no matter what direction I turn in he’s there, and then I feel …’ She stopped, pretended to sip water from her glass, hiding behind it until she’d composed herself.
‘Can you tell me what happens next?’ Anna asked. ‘If it’s too much then …’
‘No,’ Sally interrupted. ‘I want to tell you. I need to tell you … Christ, I need to tell someone.’
‘Tell me what?’
‘I feel the knife go in, but not like it’s really happening. In the dream I watch the knife point being placed against my chest and then it’s slowly pushed into me, sliding into my chest. There’s no pain, so I just stand there and watch it slide deep into me, the red blood almost too faint to see in the red of the room, but eventually I do look up from the knife – I look up from my chest and I see the face of the man who’s doing this thing to me and …’ Once more Sally paused as she tried to make sense of what she was about to say.
‘And you saw Sebastian Gibran.’ Anna thought she’d answered for her. ‘You saw the face of Sebastian Gibran.’
‘No,’ Sally told her, her face pale and serious. ‘It was … Sean. It was Sean holding the knife. It was Sean doing it to me.’ Sally watched as Anna’s jaw fell open. ‘Funny thing is,’ she continued, ‘once I see it’s Sean I’m not afraid any more, or at least I’m not afraid for me any more – I’m afraid for him. What does it all mean?’
Anna cleared her throat before talking. ‘Oh … nothing. It’s just a dream. They’re rarely clear and often confusing. We need to be careful not to overestimate their importance. Both you and Sean have suffered violent traumas in the last couple of years. In your subconscious you probably consider him a kindred spirit, hence he appears in your dreams. A friendly face, perhaps?’
‘A friendly face with a knife?’ Sally questioned, not believing a word of Anna’s explanation.
‘Like I said,’ Anna tried to convince her, ‘dreams can be confusing.’
‘I see,’ Sally lied. ‘Like you said – it’s just a dream.’
Sean and Donnelly found the café Jackson had described in Wapping easily enough. One side of the street was dominated by a long, low, brown brick building where numerous small businesses had made their homes in the archways it provided. The other side was a mish-mash of old and new buildings, some seemingly made out of nothing more than plastic and corrugated iron. The decidedly un-Italian-looking café was nestled in amongst the other ugly buildings.
‘What a fucking dump,’ Donnelly complained as they walked from their car to the café. ‘Was it asking too much to meet in the West End?’
Sean smiled, knowing Donnelly would rather be in a place like this than the West End any day – it was very similar to their old stomping ground in Peckham. ‘He’s a crime journalist,’ he joined in. ‘Hanging round places like this makes him feel the part.’
‘Aye,’ Donnelly reluctantly agreed. ‘Bet you he doesn’t live round here though.’
‘No,’ Sean agreed, opening the door to the café. ‘I don’t suppose he does.’
Once inside he scanned the clientele and soon spotted Jackson sitting in the far corner, back to the wall like a cop, but concentrating on the food on his plate, never looking up between mouthfuls, unlike a cop. He and Donnelly crossed the café and sat at Jackson’s table, Donnelly right next to him and Sean on the other side of the table facing him.
‘Not eating, gentlemen?’ Jackson asked without looking up, loading his fork with food while the other hand typed constantly on his iPhone.
‘I’m particular who I eat with,’ Sean told him.
‘Whatever,’ Jackson replied, finally looking up, ‘but remember, before you get too choosy – if it wasn’t for me you lot would still be fumbling around in the dark trying to find out which celebrities were really paedophiles and which ones weren’t. I handed you that job on a plate. Evil bastards. I hope they get some serious time in some serious prisons.’
‘We weren’t involved in that investigation,’ Donnelly reminded him. ‘Not our sphere of influence, but on behalf of the Metropolitan Police I thank you for the information and your cooperation.’
‘Can we cut the shit,’ Sean impatiently interrupted. ‘Before I decide to tell you what I really think of you.’
‘Careful, Inspector.’ Jackson smiled a warning at him. ‘Every other person in here is a journo, so I’d be careful what you say if I was you.’
‘I’m not here to threaten you, Jackson,’ Sean told him. ‘I’m here to warn you – stay away from this man. He’s dangerous. He’s already killed one person. This isn’t a game.’
‘And if I don’t?’
‘If he doesn’t kill you, which he probably will, I’ll arrest you for interfering in an investigation.
’
‘If he decides to talk to me, that’ll hardly amount to interfering in an investigation. And if he does talk then anything he tells me is subject to journalistic privilege and therefore excluded material – material you couldn’t take off me even with a search warrant,’ Jackson argued.
‘Not with a search warrant,’ Sean agreed, ‘but I could take it with a production order.’
‘Only if you can convince a judge it would be of high value to the investigation, which you couldn’t,’ Jackson told him. ‘I know my business, Corrigan. I’m not interested in evidence – entertainment’s my field, so good luck with that production order.’
‘Trust me,’ Sean warned him, ‘if I need a production order I’ll get a production order.’
‘We’ll see,’ Jackson smiled, ‘but anyway, this is all pie-in-the-sky. He hasn’t even contacted me yet – he probably never will, but you can’t blame a man for trying. Look,’ he threw his arms open, ‘we seem to have got off on the wrong foot here. I’m not here to work against you guys. I want to work with you. I can help you.’
‘I can’t let you meet him,’ Sean told him. ‘It’s out of the question.’
‘No problem,’ Jackson lied. ‘So I won’t meet him, but I can still talk to him, and I promise, anything he tells me that could help your investigation you’ll be the first to know.’
‘And you’ll set him up for us,’ Donnelly told him more than asked. ‘Lure him into a trap.’
Jackson shook his head exaggeratedly. ‘Oh no. No way. No can do. I didn’t catch your name, by the way.’
‘That’s because I didn’t tell you,’ Donnelly said. ‘If this psychopath contacts you, we need you to set him up. Tell him you’ll meet him somewhere and we’ll be waiting for him.’
‘Can’t do it,’ Jackson insisted. ‘I do that and I lose all my journalistic credibility. My sources have to know I’ll protect them – even from the police. Sorry.’
‘Fine,’ Sean cut in, ‘but if he contacts you I want to know everything and I want to know it immediately. You understand, Jackson?’
‘No problem,’ he lied and smiled. ‘You’ll be the first to know.’
Sean began to stand. ‘You know how to contact me.’
‘A mobile number would be good,’ Jackson tried.
‘My mobile number?’ Sean answered. ‘To a journalist? I don’t think so.’
‘Fair enough.’ Jackson shrugged before continuing, speaking a little too loud. ‘By the way – I hear the Douglas Allen trial starts soon. Any information for me? D’you think he’ll plea at the last minute?’
Sean sat back down, his pale blue eyes burning into Jackson’s. ‘You’ve had your money’s worth out of Douglas Allen. Stay away from the trial.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Jackson laughed. ‘You won’t see me hanging around the Bailey – trials can drag on for so long, don’t you think? Besides, Allen’s yesterday’s news. He’ll plea to or be found guilty of manslaughter, get a few years in open prison and we all move on. The public don’t care about him any more, not when they’ve got the Your View Killer to keep them entertained. I go where the action is, gentlemen, and that isn’t at the Bailey.’
‘Glad to hear it,’ Sean told him.
‘No,’ Jackson continued. ‘The action is wherever you are, Inspector Corrigan. Wouldn’t you agree?’
‘It’s time we were on our way,’ Sean told him.
‘Douglas Allen, Thomas Keller and before that Sebastian Gibran, although I never covered that one – they all fell into your lap. I wonder why? Not long ago Assistant Commissioner Addis forms the Special Investigations Unit, plucks you from obscurity in Peckham and puts you in charge of every high-profile missing persons and murder case in London. Surely you didn’t think it would go unnoticed? You’re the action, Corrigan. You’re like a fucking shitstorm magnet. Oh, I’ll be watching you closely from now on, my friend.’
‘Goodbye, Jackson,’ Sean told him, pushing his chair away as he stood. ‘He contacts you, I want to know, immediately.’
‘My card,’ Jackson suddenly announced, holding a business card that magically appeared pinched between his thumb and index finger. ‘In case you need to contact me.’ Sean took the card without speaking and without any intention of returning the gesture.
He and Donnelly walked away from the table and out of the café, leaving Jackson alone to consider his next move. Fucking police, Jackson thought to himself. If Corrigan thought he could push him around he was sadly mistaken. He knew the law around journalistic privilege better than anyone. They couldn’t touch him. All he had to do now was pray the killer contacted him and set up a meet. Once he got the scoop rolling Corrigan and his cronies wouldn’t dare interfere and he’d have everyone exactly where he wanted them – right in the palm of his hand.
Sean and Donnelly climbed back into their car without speaking and pulled away from the kerb, Sean doing the driving.
‘Do you trust him?’ Donnelly asked.
‘Do I fuck,’ Sean answered.
‘Think he’ll actually try and meet this psychopath?’
‘He will.’
‘Then his might be the next body we fish out of the Thames.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Sean explained. ‘Jackson doesn’t fit his victim type. He won’t go off script and do a journalist and risk being seen for what he is.’
‘Which is?’
‘I don’t know,’ Sean shook his head, ‘but he’s no noble avenger of the people, even if that’s what he thinks he is. He’ll turn out to be some bitter loser, blaming the rest of the world for his own mistakes, using Your View to appeal to all the other bitter losers who haven’t got the courage to look at themselves when things go wrong. Easier to blame everyone else.’
‘A little harsh, don’t you think?’ Donnelly asked. ‘A lot of people voted to save the last victim. Remember?’
‘Whatever,’ Sean dismissed it, the thought of the hooded man on the Internet and the meeting with Jackson making him feel soiled and corrupted.
‘Sneaky bastard all the same,’ Donnelly changed the subject, ‘trying to get your mobile number. A pound to a pinch of shit he’d have your calls and texts intercepted within twenty-four hours.’
‘No doubt,’ Sean agreed. ‘So why don’t we return the favour?’
‘Listen in to his phone?’ Donnelly asked, sounding a little surprised.
‘Why not?’ Sean argued. ‘If he’s gonna be talking to our man then we need to know what’s being said. Addis said anything I need, so let’s listen to his conversations and read his texts and while we’re at it we should triangulate his phone’s signal so we can track his movements. If it can lead us to the killer then it’s justified.’
‘Turn the tables on our phone-hacking Fleet Street friends – I like it,’ Donnelly told him as he looked out of the window at Wapping, the new home of the national press. ‘Not that many of them are in Fleet Street any more.’
Sean felt his phone vibrating in his pocket before the Bluetooth device echoed its ringing tone around the inside of the car. He pressed the answer button on the steering wheel and spoke. ‘DI Corrigan speaking.’
‘Mr Corrigan,’ the officious-sounding voice replied. ‘It’s DS Roddis.’
‘Andy,’ Sean acknowledged the sergeant who headed up the forensics team he always preferred to use. ‘D’you have something for me?’
‘Nothing to get excited about,’ Roddis managed his expectations. ‘We’ve looked at the scene victim number two was abducted from and the scene where she was found. There’s nothing other than partial tyre tracks and partial footprints at the abduction site – we got nothing off her mobile and headphones. Similar story at the drop site – some partial footprints that may or may not be the suspect’s. No tyre tracks, meaning he probably stayed on the road. Better news on the victim’s clothes though.’
‘Go on,’ Sean encouraged.
‘We have a couple of fibres – black nylon I’m guessing, which matches what we believe the
suspect wears. They could have come from the good Samaritan who found her – we’ll need to get hold of them and seize what they were wearing when they found her.’
‘We’re working on it,’ Sean explained.
‘But I’m quietly confident they’ll be from the suspect. They’re nothing unusual, so they won’t help us find him, but they could help us convict him.’
‘Well,’ Sean sighed, ‘better than nothing. Anything else?’
‘Not yet. As soon as I know, you’ll know.’
‘Thanks,’ Sean told him and hung up.
‘At least he’s leaving evidence behind him,’ Donnelly offered.
‘Yeah,’ Sean agreed without enthusiasm, ‘but it’s evidence he doesn’t care about. Evidence he knows will take us nowhere.’
‘Until we catch him,’ Donnelly pointed out.
‘Yeah,’ Sean agreed. ‘Until we catch him.’
He sat in the white room reading the lead stories of the main national newspapers on his laptop. All were following his story, in varying degrees and styles, the red-tops giving him far more prominence than the broadsheets. But all were clearly aware of who he was and what he stood for, and one thing above all others was clear: the police knew nothing and their investigation was going nowhere.
He was glad not to be wearing the stifling ski-mask and awkward voice-distorting equipment, although he still wore his black boiler suit to contain any exchange of forensics from his clothes to the room or vice versa, the rolled-up ski-mask acting as a hat for the same purpose − just in case by some miracle the police stumbled across the room. Thin leather gloves prevented him from leaving his fingerprints. It wouldn’t be long now before he wouldn’t have to be so careful.
He started to read the coverage of the Your View Killer in The World. ‘The Your View Killer’ – what a ridiculous name, but if it helped focus the public’s attention on him then he wouldn’t complain. The coverage was far more extensive than even that of the other tabloids. Clearly someone there had taken an exceptionally keen interest in his quest. He scanned the story for the name of the journalist and soon found not just a name, but a small photograph of Geoff Jackson – crime editor no less. There was something else too – an appeal, small and easy to miss, at the bottom of the page in smaller print than the story, the sort of thing only someone paying special interest to the journalist would notice – someone like him. They wanted him to contact them, to contact the journalist. Do they really dare to contact him? Are they working with the police – trying to trap him? He read the brief instructions they’d left: he was to set up an anonymous Twitter account, follow Jackson and send a tweet to him so Jackson could follow him back. When that was done, Jackson would send him a private message via Twitter containing a mobile number. Once he had the number he would close the Twitter account and communicate solely via mobile phone. The number would apparently be secure at their end. Seemingly it would be up to him to make any phone he used also secure. He knew enough about the law to know that any communications between himself and Jackson would be protected by journalistic privilege and therefore out of reach of the police.
