by Luke Delaney
‘What makes you think that?’
‘Just the way he conducts himself. The way he speaks. The way he moves. It doesn’t scream at me criminal.’
Sean studied her for a while, but knew exactly what she meant. ‘Misguided it is then,’ he deduced.
‘Maybe,’ she answered unconvincingly, ‘but he’s made several references to being in a war.’
‘So?’ Sean asked.
‘It’s possible he believes that, I mean really believes it.’
‘And if he does?’
‘Then he probably considers his actions, the killing of the first victim and the torture and humiliation of the second, to be necessary and therefore justified, in order to win the war.’
‘Then we’re back to mad or bad,’ Sean argued.
‘Are we?’ Anna said. ‘You know, during the Vietnam War the Americans used to go into villages and vaccinate the children against various diseases, as part of their hearts and minds campaign. When the North Vietnamese arrived in the same village the first thing they’d do would be to cut off the vaccinated arms of the children, not because they wanted to harm them, but to send a message to the Americans that they would stop at nothing to win the war. The men who did this were normal men who’d become soldiers – men with families and children of their own. Were they all mad or bad, or were they just determined, with so much belief that their cause was right that they were prepared to do anything to win?’
‘That was different,’ Sean answered weakly.
‘Not to our man. To him it’s exactly the same thing.’
‘Maybe, but will he stop?’
‘Like the Vietnamese, maybe he’ll stop when the war is over.’
‘Great,’ Sean told her. ‘And this invitation from The World – will he do it?’
‘If he’s as much about communication as I think he is then I’d expect him to do it.’
‘But not hurt Jackson?’
‘No. I’d be surprised if Jackson became a victim. He’s too valuable an asset.’
‘Uhmm,’ Sean grunted, leaning back in his chair as he considered Anna’s observations. ‘Could his need to communicate with as many people as possible be about ego?’ he asked.
‘Ego?’ Anna asked, a little confused. ‘In what way?’
‘In any way.’
‘Well, I suppose possibly, if he’s lost his job, maybe his business or home, it would be a blow to his ego, particularly if he’s a male and we’re fairly certain he is. So yes, feeling he has a huge audience hanging on his every word may very well be his subconscious effort to repair his damaged ego.’
‘Wasn’t exactly what I was thinking,’ Sean told her without sharing his own stirring thoughts further.
‘Then what were you thinking?’
‘I’m thinking there has to be a connection between the victims.’
‘Sally said there isn’t,’ Anna reminded him. ‘She looked into it and, other than they both work in the City, there’s nothing there.’
‘Then we’re missing something. Not going deep enough into their backgrounds.’
‘If he’s a disgruntled member of the public who’s suffered because of the banking crisis then the fact they both worked in the City could be enough.’
‘I’m not so sure,’ Sean admitted. ‘I think there could be something else. I just don’t know what.’
‘And this is related to you asking about his ego?’ Anna asked. ‘What’s going through that complicated mind of yours?’
He rubbed his face with both hands trying to make sense of his own questions, but the pieces of the puzzle were still too random, floating in his mind like snow – snow that melts as soon as it falls to the ground.
‘I don’t know,’ he confessed. ‘Not yet.’ His mobile phone buzzed on his desk, distracting them both. Sean read the text message and raised his eyebrows.
‘Problem?’ Anna asked
‘No,’ he answered a little sheepishly. ‘Just Kate reminding me we’re supposed to be meeting some friends for dinner tonight.’
‘You have friends?’ Anna asked only half jokingly.
‘Kate’s, not mine,’ he answered a little too quickly, causing a moment of awkward silence between them. Sean shuffled the reports on his desk, names of white van owners who various members of the public had decided were the Your View Killer.
‘Want to help me pick a winner?’ he asked.
She pulled up a chair and sat opposite him, pulling a pile of the reports towards herself. ‘Why not?’
After he’d dropped Jackson back at the car park, he returned to the white room. He’d been careful enough to check his mirrors from time to time, but he was already sure he wasn’t being followed. Jackson had come alone – greedy for the story – greedy for the exclusivity. He continued to think of Jackson while he prepared his technical equipment for the next broadcast, ensuring the cameras could be operated remotely, checking the newly installed motion sensors were working correctly.
Despite Jackson keeping his word and coming alone, he still didn’t trust him. How could he? He was a journalist, making his living reporting on the suffering of others. But he had no choice but to deal with him. It was one more thing he simply had to do to keep the public on his side and the police off balance.
The police, he thought to himself. What did he know about the police who were hunting him? Not enough, he decided and immediately logged on to his personal laptop – not the one he used for his broadcasts. He looked up his own case, reading through various online newspaper articles, quickly discovering that his crimes were being investigated by the Special Investigations Unit. He continued to search through the stories, many mentioning an Assistant Commissioner Addis and a Detective Superintendent Featherstone, but they held little interest for him: he knew enough about the police to know they would just be the front men, the bureaucrats. What he needed to find out was who was actually investigating him. Hunting him.
Inevitably he turned to the article written by Jackson. If anyone had cut to the core of the Special Investigations Unit then he had to admit it would probably have been Jackson. Within a few minutes of reading through his coverage of the Your View Killer case he had the name he was looking for. Detective Inspector Corrigan. But why no pictures? Did he have a past to hide, or wasn’t he interested in nurturing a high profile to use as a tool to climb the ranks? Maybe a bit of both, he decided. But in that case, if he’d been entrusted to head up the Special Investigations Unit, it meant Detective Inspector Corrigan was interested in only one thing – hunting down his man.
Jackson had thoughtfully mentioned other recent cases DI Corrigan had been involved in: Sebastian Gibran, Thomas Keller, Douglas Allen, all names vaguely familiar to him from things he’d heard or seen on the news, but nothing more. The exploits of madmen held no interest for him, but Corrigan …
He entered the names of the previous cases into the laptop and commanded the Internet to search for them, the hundreds of thousands of hits immediately coming back to him as he selected the most informative-looking site and read about the men DI Corrigan had already hunted down and locked away: a motiveless sociopathic killer, a psychopathic rapist and murderer from a predictably abused childhood and, last but not least, a schizophrenic who apparently heard the voice of his dead wife telling him to abduct children from their beds. They were nothing, he decided. Easy prey for a man like DI Corrigan. Whereas he, he was the voice of the people – little less than an avenging angel come to punish the rich and greedy. The public had wanted these other men found and punished, but not him. If they wanted him, first they would have to fight their way past his growing army. He smiled to himself. He’d never given any consideration to what type of man would be sent to hunt him. The realization it was an obsessive made him feel suddenly a little uncomfortable. But he wasn’t afraid of DI Corrigan. He leaned back and stared at the ceiling for a while, a slight smile spreading across his lips as he considered his preconceived plan – his idea to keep the police where he could see th
em. When the time was right he’d lead them directly to where he needed them to be. And now the police had a face, the face of Detective Inspector Corrigan – a hunter of men.
Sean was still in his office with Anna reading through the seemingly endless files of potential Your View Killers. They’d long since dismissed suspects suggested by members of public because they didn’t like the look of the man down the street who owned a white van, or the builder they’d used who owned a white van, who did a terrible job of their extension. Hours wasted on other people’s petty vendettas. Now they were focusing on real suspects – people with cautions and convictions for threatening banks and bankers. Some had threatened arson, physical violence or even death, others simply revenge and retribution. All were potentially dangerous in their own right, but none leapt from the pages and shot Sean between the eyes with a crystal-clear bullet of purpose. None made his heart race as soon as he began to read their background, although some were so clearly disturbed, so full of hate and loathing, that they couldn’t be completely discounted. A number of them clearly saw themselves as avenging angels. But Sean was becoming increasingly convinced the man he hunted had never come to police notice before, at least not for attacking or threatening bankers or banks. The man he hunted had been keeping his powder dry, playing the long game – the patient game – and, as he knew all too well, patient killers were the ones who didn’t want to be caught … ever.
He looked up from the files and tried to rub the stiffness out of his neck. ‘Found anything interesting?’ he asked Anna.
‘There’s some real hatred here,’ she answered, glad of the chance to take a break from reading, ‘and hatred is a powerful motivator. But there’s not enough in these reports for me to properly profile them. Without seeing their psychiatric reports, those that have them, or transcripts of interviews, I can’t narrow much down.’
‘I’ll get them for you,’ Sean promised before being distracted by DC Bishop walking past his office. ‘DC Bishop,’ he called out, stopping him mid-stride.
‘Yes, guv’nor?’
‘Any luck on tracing where this joker’s broadcasting from?’
‘No,’ Bishop replied. ‘Nothing more since last time he went online.’
‘Can’t you speed things up?’ Sean asked impatiently. ‘You’re still our best hope of finding him.’
‘I’m trying, guv’nor, but we just don’t have the equipment to do it any faster. We’re not the CIA.’
‘Then get hold of the CIA,’ Sean told him. ‘Call the American Embassy and see if they can help, or anybody else for that matter.’
‘Really?’ Bishop asked, unsure if Sean was being entirely serious.
‘Yes,’ Sean answered. ‘Really.’
‘OK,’ Bishop agreed and moved to walk away before Sean stopped him again.
‘Wait a minute,’ Sean demanded. ‘Why aren’t you monitoring Your View?’
‘I don’t have to,’ Bishop explained. ‘I’ve flagged the website. If our man comes on it’ll automatically send a text to my iPhone and I’ll log on and watch it.’
Technology, Sean thought to himself, shaking his head. ‘Fine,’ he dismissed Bishop. ‘Anything happens, let me know immediately.’
‘No problem,’ Bishop assured him in his Birmingham accent and wandered off just as Sally appeared at Sean’s door.
‘Boss,’ she told him. ‘I’ve got our first victim’s work on the phone, wanting an update on the investigation.’
‘Paul Elkins’s work?’ Sean asked with surprise. ‘Jesus. They’ll get an update when it’s safe and proper to give them one. What’s the matter with these people? They think they have the right to know everything.’
‘Georgina Vaughan’s family and work have been on the phone too,’ Sally informed him. ‘All wanting to know what’s happening – what we’re doing – how close we are to catching the Your View Killer.’
‘Christ,’ Sean said, shaking his head. ‘Palm them off for me, will you, Sally. Tell them we’re making good progress, but it’s all confidential – we’ll update them when we can.’
‘No problem,’ she told him and spun away from the door, immediately being replaced by DC Jesson.
‘What now?’ Sean snapped, impatient to get back to his own thoughts, to clear his mind of the detritus of the investigation and interference of outsiders – to give himself the clarity of thought that could lead him all the way to the suspect’s front door.
‘Geoff Jackson from The World newspaper on the blower for you, guv’nor,’ Jesson answered.
Sean felt a little surge of excitement, sensing Jackson was about to tell him something important. ‘OK,’ he told Jesson. ‘Put him through.’ Jesson hurried back to his desk to transfer the call.
‘Your journalist friend?’ Anna asked.
‘Not a friend,’ Sean had time to tell her before the phone on his desk started chirping. He snatched it up. ‘DI Corrigan.’
‘Detective Inspector Corrigan,’ Jackson began. ‘Just a courtesy call really – to let you know I met with the Your View Killer, or as he now wants to be known, The Jackdaw.’
Sean was pretty sure he knew whose idea the change of name had been. ‘Damn it, Jackson,’ he exploded. ‘If he contacted you, you were supposed to inform us immediately. You don’t know anything about this man. He’s dangerous. I’ve got enough to do without having to investigate the murder of a bloody journalist.’
‘Relax,’ Jackson told him. ‘Clearly I know more about him than you give me credit for.’
‘How so?’
‘I’m still alive, aren’t I?’ Jackson almost bragged.
‘More by luck than judgement,’ Sean answered.
‘Whatever.’
‘We could have used this,’ Sean explained. ‘If you’d arranged to meet him we could have tailed you and taken him out.’
‘It’s not my job to catch him,’ Jackson laughed, ‘or to help you catch him. My job’s to report and that’s what I’m doing.’
‘Any notes you made, any recordings, anything and everything you remember, I want it all, Jackson,’ Sean insisted.
‘No can do,’ Jackson mocked him. ‘Journalistic privilege, remember? You want it, you need a production order and good luck with that.’
‘Don’t play around with me,’ Sean warned him, his voice serious enough to momentarily silence Jackson. ‘We need to meet. I need to know everything you learnt – off the record if you want, but I need to know.’
‘Fine,’ Jackson relented, ‘but not yet, although there is something you need to hear right now.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘He told me … he told me to keep watching Your View. Said something was going to happen real soon.’
‘Like what?’ Sean asked.
‘I don’t know, although I’m sure we can both guess what he meant. I’ve done for you, Inspector, now you need to do for me.’ Jackson hung up.
‘Shit,’ Sean swore, forgetting Anna was there.
‘Problem?’ she asked.
‘When is there ever not?’ he replied before his mobile started vibrating, distracting him. He read the message and swore again. It was another reminder from Kate about dinner that evening. ‘Shit.’
‘And yet another problem?’ Anna enquired.
Sean pushed deeper into his uncomfortable chair. ‘No,’ he told her. ‘Nothing I can’t handle.’
Detective Superintendent Featherstone sat in one of the front rows of the lecture theatre at Scotland Yard, his hands tired from applauding the parade of lower ranking officers marching to the slightly raised stage where Assistant Commissioner Addis was presenting them with commendations for everything ranging from bravery to detective ability. Featherstone couldn’t wait to get the whole ceremony over, grab a pint at a little pub he knew close to the Yard and then escape back to Shooter’s Hill police station, away from prying eyes. He watched Addis hand out the last of the awards, smiling his crocodile smile and reminding Featherstone of just how much he wished he’d nev
er met him in the first place.
The ceremony over, everybody slipped out of the theatre and into the large function area just outside, past the portraits painted in oil of previous commissioners. Featherstone was in no doubt that one day Addis’s picture would be amongst them. He tried to avoid catching Addis’s eye as he hurriedly congratulated his own detectives who’d been awarded commendations and began to look for an exit strategy, but somehow, like a panther in the night, Addis was suddenly on top of him.
‘Alan,’ Addis ambushed him, almost making him drop his cup of unwanted tea. ‘Here to show solidarity with your hard-working officers?’
Featherstone looked around at the detectives he’d been congratulating, all of whose eyes were firmly fixed on him, all of whom he knew would be thinking the same thing: Rather you than me, sir.
‘Something like that, Assistant Commissioner,’ Featherstone replied, the frustration at being captured before he could escape gnawing at him.
‘Good. Good,’ Addis told him, having not listened to his answer. ‘And are any of these officers part of DI Corrigan’s team?’ he asked, making Featherstone even more concerned. ‘Anyone part of the Special Investigations Unit?’
‘No, sir,’ Featherstone answered. ‘They’re all attached to other southeast London murder teams I look after.’
‘I see,’ Addis told them. ‘Well never mind. A quick word, if you don’t mind, Alan.’ Featherstone’s blood ran cold as he followed him to a quieter corner of the function room where Addis wasted no time in getting to the point. ‘So, tell me, how’s the Your View investigation coming along? Has Corrigan come up with any useful insights as to how we’re going to catch this lunatic?’
‘Nothing particular that I know of,’ Featherstone confessed. ‘I’m sure you know as much about the investigation as I do.’
‘Come, come,’ Addis disagreed. ‘I know what you detectives are like – never too keen to share everything with us wooden-tops, eh? Is there anything going on that I don’t know about, that I should know about?’
Featherstone could almost feel Addis’s eyes cutting into his soul, reading his innermost thoughts, secrets and fears.
