by Luke Delaney
‘Not that I’m aware of,’ he answered truthfully, glad that if Sean was up to something he hadn’t shared it with him. What he didn’t know he couldn’t betray. ‘But it’s early days and not much to go on yet,’ he said, trying to throw Addis off whatever scent he was following.
‘I’m not sure I entirely agree with your assessment,’ Addis told him, making him swallow hard. ‘Two victims. Two broadcasts. CCTV footage of the suspect’s van and, unless I misunderstand, at least two eyewitnesses. Seems to me there’s quite a lot to be getting on with.’
‘And we are, sir,’ Featherstone tried, ‘but you have to understand this is a very difficult investigation and—’
‘I don’t have to understand anything,’ Addis hissed across him, ‘but what you need to understand is that this case has the highest of profiles. People in the City are growing increasingly alarmed at our failure to bring this matter to a close, and that’s beginning to cost the economy money, Alan – lots of money. And that makes the politicians worried and that’s when they beat a path to my door, with their unrealistic demands and petty threats, but still … they have a point.’
‘I understand,’ Featherstone told him, desperate to conclude their business and be on his way.
‘I hope you do,’ Addis added quickly, ‘because I’ve already protected DI Corrigan more than you could imagine – given him every support, but …’ He left his unfinished statement hanging in the air.
‘I’ll speak with him,’ Featherstone assured him. ‘Make sure he understands the urgency of the situation.’
‘You do that,’ Addis added threateningly, ‘and make sure he knows I created the Special Investigations Unit for my purposes, not for his.’
Sean paced around the perimeter of the small car park in South Park from where Georgina Vaughan had been abducted. Despite being a stone’s throw from the King’s Road it was remarkably peaceful, just far enough off the beaten track to be forgotten. As he walked he tried to imagine what it would be like at dusk, the time when she was taken – the time when a small green oasis could quickly turn into an intimidating forest, the sound of the leaves in the breeze drowning out any warning sounds of approaching danger, the shadows hiding lurking violence – just as it had for Georgina.
He reached the tree the killer had stepped out from behind and paused, staring at the trunk as if for invisible clues, trying to place the man he hunted there, trying to see him for himself, but nothing came – nothing anyone else wouldn’t have been able to see.
‘Come on,’ he whispered to himself. ‘Get it together. Think. Think.’ He scanned the park: a large central area of grass surrounded by mature trees and a path Georgina Vaughan would have jogged around – just the sort of location he’d expect a madman or rapist to stalk. But an avenging man of the people?
Is that all you really are? he asked himself. A madman? A murdering madman who can’t accept what you really are, so you give yourself a cause to justify your need to kill?
He wasn’t so sure, but the park reminded him of so many scenes of rape and murder he’d been called to, going right the way back to his first ever murder investigation in Putney Heath – the one Anna had been so interested in. It had become his life: violence, murder, victims with their lives torn away by people who were more often than not tragic figures themselves. Was he becoming the final victim in the desperate triangle, consumed by his job as his wife drifted away from him and his children grew up without him? He thought of Kate and his two girls and then he thought of Anna and was left feeling mournful and displaced. He pulled the sides of his thin raincoat together against the early spring chill and walked to the edge of the grass area, allowing the fresh breeze to clear his mind.
He considered the evidence from the scene, such as it was – some indistinct footprints, some drag marks where the victim had resisted and possible tyre marks, although even if they did come from the abductor’s van, they were nothing unusual. If he was going to find The Jackdaw he would have to rely on evidence of another kind. Evidence of the mind.
No matter what this killer thought of himself, he was a serial offender and therefore he’d have a pattern, following predetermined psychological rules that he probably didn’t even know existed. But Sean did. He knew them all too well. You’re nothing special, he tried to convince himself. You’ll make the same mistakes they all do – your kind. He took another sweeping look around the park. And your kind like to stick to areas they know well, so they can feel safe. He could just about make out some of the houses that ringed the park, tall terraced houses, well maintained, some undergoing loft extensions − all the homes of the wealthy. This is the King’s Road, he continued the conversation with himself, where the rich and privileged live and play, so how come you’re so comfortable here? Why did you choose this place? Not the sort of place the avenger of working people would know to the point of being comfortable here, not even the sort of place they’d know about, unless they’d worked here, or spent weeks watching their victim here or, or, or …
‘Fuck it,’ he cursed loudly enough to be heard by a passing cyclist who gave him a wide berth.
There was nothing here for him. He’d have park employees checked over once more, but his instinct already told him it was a dead lead. He slid his hands in his pockets and headed back to his car feeling like he was on a different planet to everyone else. Despite the lack of any new evidence, he felt that the dam had begun to show its first cracks − invisible to the naked eye, but there nonetheless. Patience, he told himself. He knew not to even try to work out what his mind had discovered, not yet. It was too early to make sense of what was little more than a feeling. Just keep punching at the dam, over and over, until suddenly the invisible cracks turned to seeping wounds as more and more water gushed through, the bricks tumbling away faster and faster, until the puzzle that seemed so difficult became so blindingly obvious he would chastise himself for having not seen it earlier. If he could just get into this one’s mind, start to think like him then soon the dam would collapse.
Donnelly and Featherstone sat tucked away in the corner of the Prince of Wales pub in Wilton Street, Victoria – far enough from the Yard to prevent it becoming a police pub, but close enough to the train station for it to be a convenient place for a drink before heading home or, in Featherstone’s case, back to southeast London. They lifted their full pint glasses and chinked them together with a subdued ‘Cheers.’
‘Thanks for meeting me,’ Featherstone told Donnelly. ‘Thought it would do us both good to catch up over a pint.’
‘No problem.’ Donnelly assured him, before sipping his drink. ‘Any reason to get out of the Yard for a bit is a good reason.’
‘Life at the Yard not suiting you, then?’ Featherstone grinned.
‘Feel like I’m living under a microscope.’
‘I know what you mean,’ Featherstone agreed. ‘Uniform top-brass can make you feel that way.’ He shook the image of Addis away before it ruined the taste of his beer.
‘Aye. You’re not wrong. How did I ever end up there?’ Donnelly asked, shaking his head with bewilderment at his situation.
‘I could get you out, if you want?’ Featherstone offered. ‘But it’ll mean leaving the Special Investigations Unit. I could get you on one of the MITs closer to home.’
‘Nah,’ Donnelly dismissed it and took a mouthful of drink. ‘The travelling and the Yard’s a pain in the arse, but the work and the team suit me fine. I’m not sure I could go back to investigating domestic murders and gang bangers now. It’d bore me to tears.’
‘Very well,’ Featherstone told him, ‘but if you change your mind …’ He let the offer hang.
‘Aye. Thanks anyway.’
‘Speaking of your team,’ Featherstone shifted gears, ‘how’s Sally doing?’
‘Sally?’ Donnelly asked, sounding surprised Featherstone would even ask. ‘She’s fine. No problems. Back to her old self. She’s a tough one, that hen.’
‘Good,’ Featherstone told h
im, sounding pleased. ‘And DI Corrigan?’
‘Corrigan? He’s fine. Still one of the best I’ve worked with and I’ve worked with a few. It’s the investigation that’s a bitch, but we’ll get there – eventually.’
‘But you’re making progress?’ Featherstone asked.
‘As much as we can,’ Donnelly assured him. ‘Although we’ve got the Douglas Allen trial started today, so we’ll no doubt be up and down to the Bailey while we’re trying to sort this new one out. Could slow things down a little.’
‘I hope not,’ Featherstone told him, deliberately not hiding the concern in his voice.
‘Oh.’ Donnelly picked up on it. ‘Problem?’
‘Just the aforementioned uniform top-brass – Addis in particular. They’re getting twitchy for a result.’
‘We all want a result,’ Donnelly reminded him.
‘Yeah, but for different reasons,’ Featherstone pointed out.
‘Go on,’ Donnelly encouraged him.
‘Apparently your boy’s costing the City millions in absenteeism and that’s got the politicians worried and they in turn have got the brass worried. They won’t let this investigation turn into an open-ended book,’ he warned Donnelly. ‘If Corrigan can’t get it done they’ll find someone who can.’
‘If Corrigan can’t get it done quickly then no one can.’
‘That’s as may be,’ Featherstone told him, ‘but these aren’t detectives we’re dealing with – they’re politicians in police uniforms. Don’t expect them to be fair and understanding. They play a short game of media-friendly results. They’re not interested in long drawn-out investigations. Know what I’m saying?’
Donnelly nodded his head slowly. ‘Aye. I know what you’re saying.’
‘Then you’ll also know that I have Corrigan and your team’s best interests at heart. But if I’m to protect him from the likes of Addis, I need to know what’s going on before he does.’
‘And you’re telling me this why?’
‘Because I need someone I can trust keeping an eye on things for me,’ Featherstone explained. ‘Someone who’ll let me know if Sean’s struggling with the investigation, or anything else for that matter.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Come on, Dave. You know as well as I do that Corrigan sails bloody close to the wind sometimes. Maybe a little too close.’
‘So,’ Donnelly cut to it, ‘you want me to keep an eye on him. Let you know if anything’s going pear-shaped.’
‘Exactly,’ Featherstone told him. ‘So I can protect him. Protect the whole team. We’re detectives, Dave. We need to stick together.’
‘I understand,’ Donnelly answered, nodding sagely.
‘Good,’ Featherstone said with a smile. ‘Now finish your pint and let me get you another.’
Quickly and quietly he moved about the white room preparing everything for his next defendant. He wore his usual black overalls, with the ski-mask rolled up so it looked like a small woollen hat. His voice-altering device was lying on the table next to the various laptops and hardware. He felt safe and relaxed, until he thought he detected the sound of an approaching car engine coming towards the derelict building along the dirt road – the sound making him freeze on the spot, his head cocked slightly to one side as he strained to tell if it was getting closer or fading away. After a couple of seconds he knew beyond doubt – it was getting closer.
It had only ever happened once before, weeks ago when he was still preparing the room inside the building he’d found that seemed so perfect for his needs. On that occasion he’d watched from a window, peeking through a small circular gap in the dirt he’d hurriedly made as the car parked no more than thirty feet from the building, but for the entire time it was there no one got out. Instead he heard a man’s voice and a woman giggling. Young lovers with nowhere to go, or an unfaithful couple with the same problem. No threat to him. After an hour it had left. Was this the same couple returning after all these weeks, driven back to his domain by illicit lust?
As the sound of the car drew ever closer he turned off the generator, sending the room into darkness, before hurrying to the same window, peeling back the covering bin liner and staring out through the same hole in the greased smeared glass. His eyes zeroed in on the vehicle as it came into view, expecting the same car as before to roll to a stop and the giggling to begin, but his already pounding heart froze as the blue and yellow markings of a police car became clear. He instantly ducked away from the window and rolled his ski-mask down to better hide amongst the shadows, before slowly returning to the spyhole, the sight of the police car parking only feet from the entrance making him want to recoil, to run and hide. But he needed to see them. Needed to watch them.
He struggled to control his rapid breathing, glancing over his shoulder at the table laden with the most damning of evidence, before the sound of car doors slamming made him look back. There were two of them, both men, of about the same size and age, young and strong looking, acting casually and confident, looking all around and talking to each other, although he couldn’t make out what they were saying. Occasionally their radios would crackle into life, but again he couldn’t hear what was being said. Did they already know he was there? Had they been sent to take him down? No. There weren’t enough of them and they were both in uniform and acting too casually – not on edge enough. Maybe they were just searching for vandals or local drug users looking for some privacy. No, he decided. They might not know he was there, but they were looking for him, of that he was sure – checking possible buildings where he could be broadcasting from. He’d accepted that this particular white room could be discovered by the police before he’d completed his quest, but it hadn’t concerned him – he could simply move to another location and begin again. But he’d never expected to be unlucky enough to be present when the room was found. The spy camera he’d concealed in the old air vent would have alerted him to their presence, saving him from walking into a trap, but now he was cornered anyway – like a rat surrounded by feral cats which circled ever closer.
At least they hadn’t spotted the van. It was close by, but well hidden, even from helicopters searching from above. They were still heading towards him, making him once more look over his shoulder at the equipment laid out on the table, as damning as any dead body. A dozen unbelievable and irrational excuses he could give them flashed through his mind but he realized there was no way he could talk his way past them. He looked from the window again and saw they’d reached the building and were already peering through the ground-floor windows, working their way towards the main entrance he’d left unsecured. He cursed himself for having not brought a padlock to lock it from the inside with. Perhaps that would have been enough to deter police who came half-heartedly snooping around, but without it surely they would come inside.
He felt like a hunted animal, trapped in a rat-hole, a fox cornered in a riverbed, surrounded by a pack of dogs, and he hated it. Hated the feeling of fear – the feeling of not being in control – the feeling of weakness – all the things he’d felt on the day when his life changed forever. The day he’d sworn to make those who had made him suffer pay for what they’d done. Pay for his humiliation.
He looked down from the steep angle as one of the policemen tried the front door before speaking to the other one. ‘It’s open,’ he heard him say.
‘Probably being used by some homeless crack-head,’ his partner replied.
‘Still,’ the one by the door called back. ‘We’d better take a look around.’
‘Why not?’ the less enthusiastic one agreed.
He ducked under the window and moved deeper into the white room, carefully and quietly lifting the sawn-off shotgun from the table as he listened to the sounds coming from below – footsteps and voices echoing around the empty building that had long ago been used by the electricity board as a training centre before cut-backs caused its abandonment.
He looked at the shotgun in his hands as the footsteps moved to the staircase
and climbed towards him. What choice did he have? He’d ambush them as they entered the room – a shot for each of them. If he cleaned out the room and torched the building no one would ever know the murders were committed by The Jackdaw. But if it was even suggested they could have been, he would lose all public sympathy. People had to believe in The Jackdaw, or it would all be for nothing.
No. He would wait in the darkest corner of the room. If they entered he’d take them by surprise, strip them of their radios and other equipment before marching them into the woods where he’d secure them to a tree with their own handcuffs before clearing out the white room and setting it on fire. He’d contact the journalist and let him know where the police could be found. The Jackdaw’s battle was not with hard-working police officers who’d suffered as much as anyone during the banking crisis. His battle was with the rich and greedy. Within a few days he’d find a new building and The Jackdaw would return. He walked to the far corner of the room as if through a minefield, crouching down, back against the wall, gun pointing towards the door and then he waited. Waited for the unlocked door to open.
The footsteps on the stairs grew louder and louder, getting closer and closer – the occasional exchange of words becoming clearer and clearer until he could understand everything they were saying as they moved along the corridor kicking and pushing doors open, confirming to each other they were empty. Surely it would be the door he was pointing the shotgun at that was next to fly and bang open. He tightened his grip and braced himself, but the next sound he heard wasn’t the sound of the door smashing open, it was the sound of splintering wood, cursing and laughter coming from the corridor. His eyes were wide and wild, staring from the holes in the black ski-mask, trying to make sense of what he was listening to – more cursing, more laughter and then the footsteps again, only this time they were moving away from his door, heading back down the stairs and towards the exit until the voices were once more coming from outside.
He quickly scrambled to his feet and rushed to the same window, staring down in disbelief as the policemen walked back towards their car – one laughing and one limping – the mystery of what could have happened making his head hurt with bizarre possibilities as he watched them climb into their car and slowly drive away until they were eventually out of sight and the engine noise nothing but a memory.
