The Jackdaw

by Luke Delaney

  He leaned back in the chair his victims had been taped to and considered his options. He doubted it was a trap. Too clever for the police, he decided. But could Jackson be somehow trying to catch him himself – make himself some sort of hero? Again, he decided not – the coverage in The World had been as positive as it could be, damning his crimes, but subtly implying he might just be giving the rich and greedy exactly what they deserved. What should he do? What would the people want their vengeful angel to do? He read the article again and Jackson’s instructions to contact him and thought for a while longer before deciding he had little choice. The followers he already had would want – expect – him to do it and the media coverage would allow him to contact hundreds of thousands more, maybe even millions. The Your View Killer could not refuse such an invitation. Very well Mr Jackson, he spoke in his mind. We’ll play your little game, but if you cross me – you die. He shook any further thoughts of meeting Jackson from his head and began to prepare the white room for the next accused, the next trial – the simplest and yet most difficult yet. The one where he’d need all his strength of conviction to achieve what he’d set out to achieve. It would be at times brutal and horrific, but he’d have to push himself further than ever before or face failure, his need for vengeance forever unsatisfied.

  Sean and Donnelly arrived back at New Scotland Yard and headed straight to Donnelly’s office where Sally and Anna were drinking coffee from cardboard beakers and reading reports.

  ‘Morning, ladies,’ Donnelly told them as he threw his coat on the cheap metal hat stand squeezed into the corner of the room. Sean said nothing.

  ‘Is it?’ Sally replied without looking up from the papers in her lap.

  ‘Having a bad morning, Sal?’ Donnelly asked.

  ‘Endless useless reports of sightings,’ she complained. ‘Information reports that have no information. I’ve had better mornings.’

  Sean sensed there was more to Sally’s mood than thankless police work, but decided now wasn’t the time to find out. ‘Anything positive?’ he asked instead.

  ‘Well,’ Sally leaned forward, ‘we have CCTV of what we’re pretty sure is the van he’s using. One of the council’s cameras picked it up as it turned left coming out of Peterborough Road and into the King’s Road very close to the time of the attack – a white Renault Trafic panel van. Different registration number from last time—’

  ‘No surprise there,’ Donnelly interrupted.

  ‘The new plate comes back to an electrician in Bromley,’ Sally continued. ‘Local CID checked out him and his van, which was apparently stuffed to the rafters with electrician’s stuff – certainly no room for an abducted adult. Locals say he’s not our man anyway – not the type.’

  ‘Type?’ Sean questioned. ‘Not the type. We have no idea what type of person we’re looking for.’

  No one spoke for a few seconds, unsure whether Sean was genuinely annoyed or just talking out loud.

  ‘D’you want me to get a couple of the team to check him out? Just to be sure,’ Sally asked.

  ‘No,’ Sean answered with a sigh. ‘Our man’s using his own van and borrowing the identities of others, which tells us nothing we don’t already know. The registration numbers will always lead us away from him – not to him. He’s somehow either making false number plates or he’s stealing them. We can add that to any press releases we do, but I doubt it’ll help. The CCTV shows him turning left and driving along the King’s Road, so he’s heading west.’

  ‘Doesn’t mean he didn’t turn north or south at the next major junction,’ Donnelly reminded him, ‘or even doubled back and headed east.’

  ‘No,’ Sean agreed. ‘It does not. But the body of the first victim was dumped in the Thames somewhere west of Barnes and the second victim was found wandering around Putney Heath. And what do we know about serial offenders – what’s one of the basic rules we can nearly always apply to them?’

  ‘They like to stick to geographical areas they know well,’ Anna answered. ‘No matter how confident they appear and how well they seem to plan, working within an area they know well, even best, makes them feel … safe.’

  ‘Exactly right,’ Sean replied. ‘Get the CCTV checked on all routes heading out west,’ he told Donnelly and Sally. ‘He’ll drop off the grid eventually, but we might be able to track him all the way out of London.’

  ‘Even if you’re right,’ Donnelly pointed out, ‘and west London and further out is his preferred territory, that’s still a hell of a big area to cover.’

  ‘It’s better than the whole of the southeast,’ Sean told him. ‘Tell DC Bishop to concentrate his efforts on the western outskirts of London.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Donnelly agreed.

  ‘What about this journalist I hear you went to meet,’ Sally asked, ‘from that rag The World? I hear he’s trying to get the killer to contact him. Is he planning on actually trying to meet him?’

  ‘He says not,’ Sean explained. ‘He’s promised that if our man does contact him then he’ll restrict it to a telephone conversation.’

  ‘D’you believe him?’ Sally asked.

  ‘No,’ was Sean’s blunt answer. ‘He wants to meet him – no matter what he says. He’ll want a face-to-face, photographs of our man in his Halloween outfit, the whole thing.’

  ‘Then can’t we use that?’ Sally continued. ‘Put the little prick under surveillance and he might just lead us straight to the killer.’

  ‘Wasting our time,’ Sean told her. ‘He may be a little prick, as you said, but he’s a sly little prick. You don’t get to be crime editor of The World without learning a few tricks. If our man contacts him and they arrange a meet you can bet he’ll be looking hard for surveillance and he’s probably gonna spot it.’

  ‘What then?’ Sally asked. ‘How are we going to use this to our advantage?’

  ‘His phone,’ Sean answered, producing Jackson’s business card from his pocket. ‘Prick gave me his mobile number. I’ll speak to Addis about getting him listened to – texts too.’

  ‘Assuming he uses his own phone,’ Donnelly reminded them.

  ‘Nothing we can do about that,’ Sean told him before turning to Anna. ‘What d’you think the chances are our man will take the bait? D’you think he’ll go for it?’

  All eyes fell on Anna. ‘Well, he clearly craves attention – otherwise why use Your View? That being the case, the idea of appearing in a mass-market newspaper may well appeal to him.’

  ‘But he’s already getting massive coverage in the media,’ Donnelly argued, ‘so why take a risk and meet a journo?’

  ‘Because so far the only coverage he’s had is what’s been written about him by other people,’ Anna told him. ‘What they write is beyond his control, but if he speaks with them directly presumably they’ll predominantly be reporting what he says. His message. That, I believe, would be a powerful draw for him, so long as he felt in control. He likes to be in control.’

  ‘He gets his message out through Your View,’ Sally reminded them. ‘Why suddenly turn to the newspapers?’

  ‘Because he can reach more people through them,’ Anna explained. ‘His audience on Your View will always be limited to certain demographics, but once he hits the papers – his words printed in The World – then he can appeal to a much wider audience.’

  ‘Although he’ll still be appealing to a particular type of generic group,’ Sean added. ‘The World know their target audience well.’

  ‘Which makes it the perfect paper for him,’ Anna continued. ‘They’ve been hammering on about greedy bankers ever since the financial crisis began – how the people suffer while they grow richer, despite their obvious failings. They’ve practically been spreading the same message anyway, so why not use them? He’ll undoubtedly know they’re sympathetic towards him, or at least as much as they can be.’

  ‘So you think he’ll go for it?’ Sean asked.

  ‘I think it’s a distinct possibility,’ Anna told him. ‘He’s about commun
ication. How could he resist the opportunity to communicate with so many people, many of whom he already knows are of like mind, even if they object to the violence – and not forgetting there are a great many who don’t.’

  ‘If that’s what he’s about,’ Sean threatened to drop a fly in the ointment, wishing his doubts had stayed silent.

  ‘If he’s about what?’ Sally asked.

  ‘Communicating with the general public,’ he replied. ‘Maybe his message is more … more personal?’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Anna told him. ‘Personal to his victims or personal for him?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Sean answered honestly, shaking his head. ‘I guess we’ll find out soon enough: if he goes for The World’s offer then everything that Anna says is probably right, but if he turns it down, then perhaps there’s more to this one than we’re considering.’ He turned quickly to Anna before anyone could question him. ‘And Jackson – do you think he’s in any danger of becoming a victim?’

  ‘No,’ she shook her head. ‘His victim selection is too specific and, as I’ve previously stated, The World’s something he may see as an ally and therefore Jackson too. To turn on him wouldn’t make sense.’

  ‘I agree. But what about his victim selection?’ Sean asked. ‘He goes for a CEO, which makes sense, but then he drops down to a project manager.’

  ‘A project manager who’s clearly on her way up in the world,’ Donnelly reminded him.

  ‘All the same,’ Sean replied, unconvinced.

  ‘After Paul Elkins was murdered the other CEOs and senior players probably beefed up their security – got the company chauffeur-cum-minder to take them home. Not the sort of luxury they’d afford to a mere project manager,’ Sally suggested.

  ‘Makes sense,’ Anna agreed. ‘He adjusts to easier targets, but still people from the financial sector. The message is the same.’

  ‘But he’s a planner,’ Sean told them. ‘He picked his targets well in advance of abducting them – watched them, learned their lifestyle, habits.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Anna said.

  ‘Then we’re saying he predicted that the most senior people in the City would become more difficult to abduct and deliberately picked Georgina Vaughan because she was less senior and therefore more vulnerable,’ Sean argued.

  ‘It appears so,’ Anna agreed.

  ‘Then his intelligence and instincts are not to be underestimated,’ Sean told them. ‘All of which makes him even more dangerous than we first thought. If he can predict what moves people in the City are going to make, then we have to assume he’s cunning enough to predict our next move.’

  ‘Meaning?’ Donnelly asked.

  ‘Meaning we’re going to have to continually think outside the box – try not to do anything predictable.’

  ‘No,’ Anna partly disagreed. ‘Better to be seen to be doing the predictable. Show him you’re doing exactly what he’d expect you to do – a false front while more covertly doing the unusual.’

  ‘Good work, Doctor,’ Sean praised her. ‘OK. So the first thing we need to do is stop thinking about the victims he’s already chosen and try and think about what type of person could be next.’

  ‘Well,’ Sally suggested, ‘he’s gone from a CEO to a project manager, so maybe he’ll keep sliding down the scale. A barrow boy, maybe – something like that.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Donnelly rolled his eyes. ‘Where do we start … where do we stop? We can’t predict who he’s going to take next – if anyone at all, for that matter.’

  ‘He’ll take someone else,’ Sean insisted. ‘There’s no doubt about that.’

  ‘Why so certain?’ Sally asked.

  ‘Because he hasn’t finished yet,’ he told them. ‘Whatever this is about, whyever he’s doing this, he’s not finished yet. Of that much, I am certain.’

  Geoff Jackson fidgeted at his desk in the large open-plan office of The World, trying to concentrate on tomorrow’s update on the Your View Killer, although he was beginning to tire of that name – not catchy enough and carrying too much implication that the man he hoped to meet was nothing more than another sadistic loser killing for kicks. The anxiety of waiting for his phone to squeal and vibrate with an email alert telling him he’d just received a tweet was driving him to distraction. For the umpteenth time he checked his phone, just in case he’d somehow missed an alert.

  He’d already received more than two dozen tweets from people claiming to be the killer. Most had been transparent enough and he’d simply blocked them, but several had been convincing enough to cause him to reply, sending them the number of his newly acquired anonymous pay-as-you-go mobile phone. However, he had quickly satisfied himself none were the real killer and had summarily dismissed them and blocked their numbers. What was the matter with these people? he asked himself. Pretending to be a murderer for kicks. Christ. Was nothing sacred any more?

  His phone suddenly sprang to life and caught him daydreaming, startling him. He checked the screen. It was another tweet. Despite his scepticism his heart still missed a beat as he grabbed the phone and read the message.

  It said simply –

  You know who I am. What now?

  Something in Jackson’s street brawler instinct told him this one was different. He pressed reply to tweet and typed Call me on … followed by the number of his pay-as-you-go phone, his finger hovering over the send icon as something made him stall, his heart and breath feeling as if they’d both stopped. What are you doing, Geoff? he asked himself. Are you going too far this time, my old China?

  ‘Fuck it,’ he said out loud and touched the send icon with the tip of his finger. A few seconds later the phone told him the message had been sent. He huddled over his computer screen, eager to keep the call as private as he could, and waited for the mobile to ring, his body frozen in anticipation.

  A minute passed and still nothing.

  ‘Come on,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘Don’t bottle out now, my friend.’ He tapped his desk with a pencil, losing hope of grabbing the scoop of the decade with each passing second. ‘Come on, come on,’ he encouraged the phone until once again it suddenly jumped into life and somehow managed to catch him by surprise. He quickly regained his composure and checked the screen − caller ID withheld. ‘Clever boy,’ he told himself, allowing the phone to ring three more times before answering it. ‘Geoff Jackson speaking.’

  There was a silence on the other end of the line – nothing but a strange breathing sound.

  ‘Hello,’ Jackson encouraged, increasingly sure he was connected with the real killer. ‘Is that you?’ he whispered. ‘You called, so you must want to speak.’ Still nothing but the strange breathing sound. ‘Hello.’

  ‘What do you want to know?’ the voice suddenly asked in the same strange electronic voice Jackson had heard in the Your View broadcast.

  ‘First I need to know it’s really you,’ Jackson told him, his mouth dry, ‘and not just another fake wasting my time.’

  ‘Do you think me a fake?’ the voice asked, pushing him onto the back foot.

  ‘No,’ Jackson assured him. ‘I mean that you’re not just another crank call.’

  ‘You know I’m not.’

  ‘All the same,’ Jackson stuck to his guns, knowing he needed to maintain some control, ‘I need to be sure.’ There was a long silence before the unearthly voice returned.

  ‘Very well. Ask your questions.’

  ‘Tell me something about the case that hasn’t been in the papers or on the television,’ Jackson demanded. ‘Something only the police could know.’

  ‘How would that prove anything?’ the voice asked. ‘As you yourself are not a police officer, unless of course you’re working with the police?’

  ‘I’m not,’ Jackson assured him, ‘but I have contacts in the police – contacts in the investigation team. I know things.’

  ‘Then you’ll know there is nothing,’ the voice told him, ‘because the police have nothing other than what I have allowed them
to see, which is no more than what I have allowed you to see.’

  It was the final confirmation he needed and now he knew beyond any doubt he was talking with the real Your View Killer. It wasn’t just the words he spoke, but the tone of the mechanical voice – its calm self-confidence – things too specific for some lunatic or joker pretending to be him to fake.

  ‘We shouldn’t speak too long on the phone,’ Jackson warned him. ‘Short conversations for instructions only. They’re not safe.’

  ‘I agree,’ the electronic voice told him, making the hairs on the back of his neck tingle and uncoil.

  ‘We need to meet,’ Jackson told him, expecting some objection, but there was none.

  ‘Agreed,’ the voice answered. ‘I’ll call you on this number at exactly nine am tomorrow and give you instructions as to where and when. Goodbye, Mr Jackson.’

  ‘Wait,’ Jackson almost pleaded, but it was too late – the line had gone dead. ‘Fuck and bollocks,’ he cursed, staring at the phone and for the first time noticing his hands were trembling with both fear and excitement. He dropped the phone and clenched his fists to try to stop the shaking. ‘This is it, baby. Get your shit together, Geoff my old son. You’re about to land the big one.’