The Jackdaw

by Luke Delaney

  Sean glanced up before looking back at the screen. ‘What?’

  ‘Your computer, sir. I’m afraid it’s disturbing the other customers.’

  Sean slid his warrant card from his pocket and showed it to the manager without looking from the screen. ‘This is important police business,’ he told him. ‘Now go away.’

  ‘You all right?’ Sally asked.

  ‘Just civilians,’ he dismissed everyone around him, making them look even more uncomfortable, especially Kate, who the manager had turned to out of desperation, not that Sean noticed. ‘Wait,’ Sean told her. ‘What’s he saying now?’

  ‘It’s time for you the people, the jury, to vote. Remember, the balance of your vote dictates the harshness of the criminal’s punishment. Be strong, brothers and sisters, for if we’re not willing to get blood on our hands then we will never change this corrupt system and we will always be under the heel of our oppressors. And let me warn the police – especially you, Detective Inspector Corrigan – if you try to tamper with the online vote I will know and the thief’s punishment will be the most severe. The most severe. Time to vote.’

  Sean could hear the victim’s awful mumblings as the preacher’s words struck new terror into him – terror that would have been even greater if he’d been able to see the garden pruners that the masked man pulled from his trouser pocket and held up for the watching audience to see.

  ‘Jesus, Sean,’ Sally told him. ‘He’s talking to you.’

  ‘I heard,’ Sean replied.

  ‘Did he just say your name?’ Kate asked, moving closer to better see the screen.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ he tried to reassure her.

  ‘But he said your name,’ Kate repeated. ‘That means he knows who you are. What else does he know about you, Sean? Where we live? Where I work? Where the kids go to school?’

  ‘He would have seen my name in a paper or something,’ he said, Jackson’s face flashing in his mind. ‘He’s just trying to mess with me – playing mind games.’

  ‘Mind games?’ Kate asked, increasingly upset. ‘He could have followed you, Sean. He could have followed you home.’

  ‘They don’t do that,’ he promised.

  ‘Maybe this one did?’

  He stopped for a second, thinking about the research this one did on each of his victims – watching them. Following them.

  ‘You should go home,’ he told her. ‘Make sure everything’s all right. Phone the babysitter and let her know I’m sending someone over to check the house.’

  Kate grabbed his face and made him look her in the eyes. ‘Tell me, Sean,’ she demanded. ‘Do I need to be scared here? Should I be afraid?’

  ‘No,’ he tried to convince her. ‘It’s only a precaution because he’s mentioned my name. I just want you to know you’re safe.’

  She let go of him, tears leaking from the sides of her eyes. ‘Damn you, Sean,’ she said, ‘and damn your bloody job.’ She grabbed her bag and stormed out of the restaurant without speaking to anyone else.

  Sean blew out his cheeks then returned to the screen. ‘Sally,’ he spoke into the phone.

  ‘Yes, boss?’

  ‘Get someone round to my house as fast as, can you?’

  ‘Already done,’ she assured him. ‘You seen the votes?’

  He looked down at the thumbs up and down icons. Almost two hundred thousand people had voted, with the jury seemingly split down the middle. ‘He’s not interested in the votes,’ he told Sally. ‘He’s going to kill or maim him no matter what the votes say.’

  ‘The people have voted,’ the electronic voice spoke from inside the screen, ‘and it is clear a great many of you understand this man’s crimes and that he must be punished.’ The man tied to the chair kicked and bucked – his mumblings all the more disturbing for their lack of comprehensibility. The man in the ski-mask was now holding the pruners closer to the camera so that everyone other than the victim could see them. ‘His life will be spared, but every time he looks down at his hands as they count the money he stole from us he will be reminded of his crimes.’

  Mark Hudson licked his lips involuntarily when he saw the man in the ski-mask on Your View show the camera the pruners. He imagined the horrendous injuries the instrument could cause – even death.

  He heard his mum calling up the stairs. ‘Mark. Come and have your tea before it gets cold.’

  ‘Not now, Mum. I’m busy,’ he screamed back from his bedroom before muttering, ‘Stupid bitch’, his full attention immediately back with the image of the dark figure holding the pruners. ‘Yeah. Cut his fucking fingers off. Cut his fucking fingers off and make the fucker eat them,’ he encouraged with a thin smile, his face now as close to the screen as it could be without losing focus, the sound of the victim’s anguished mumblings making the hairs on his skin stand up with excited anticipation. This was even better than throwing cats off the tower block’s balconies or stabbing stray dogs. The only thing better than watching it would be doing it himself.

  The dark figure turned to his victim and grabbed one of his hands, demanding he unclench his fist, beating on the back of his hand when he did not, threatening him with death unless he did as he was told. When the victim finally relented and uncurled his fingers his torturer grabbed his hand and folded all his fingers away – all except for the little one. Hudson’s eyes widened as the masked man placed the finger between the blades of the pruners and began to slowly squeeze them together, the victim’s skin and flesh surrendering too easily as the blood flowed over the metal shears, the screams of agony through the tape across the victim’s mouth drowning out the sound of the bone being cracked and split. It was everything Hudson had been dreaming about seeing ever since the humiliation and torture of the previous victim had filled his empty life.

  ‘Yes,’ he hissed to himself as the severed finger dropped into the masked man’s waiting palm.

  The muffled screaming gradually subsided, dying into sobs of pain, the man’s ordeal apparently over … for now. The torturer approached the camera until his head and shoulders alone appeared on the screen, holding up a severed finger for the world to see.

  ‘A small price to pay for the crimes he has committed against the people of this country and beyond. I do this to show that I too can be merciful – can show restraint. I do this to prove to you all that I, we, are better than they can ever be. I also understand the people’s need to call me something – to have a name they can rally around. From this moment forward you should call me … The Jackdaw.’

  Hudson stared wide-eyed, silently mouthing the same words over and over without realizing: The Jackdaw. The Jackdaw. The Jackdaw.

  Phil Taylor watched as the dark figure held up the severed figure and spoke to the watching thousands about mercy and restraint, but for the first time he was beginning to feel very uncomfortable even just watching the man who now called himself The Jackdaw. There was something about the victim’s muffled screams that cut through to him and made him feel sick. If someone tied him down and cut his finger off with pruners, he knew he’d scream just like the man in the chair.

  His wife suddenly popped her head around the door of his small, crowded office. ‘You all right, love?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he told her too quickly. ‘I’m fine.’

  Gabriel Westbrook watched the man in the chair, slumped and quiet now, seemingly close to unconsciousness – the missing finger clearly visible as a small amount of blood dripped to the floor. Although the injury seemed relatively minor in comparison to the previous broadcasts, the coldness of the act, the brutal determination of the masked man to cut through the bone and sinew of another person’s finger while they writhed and struggled, left him feeling chilled and displaced, nauseous and a little dizzy as he imagined himself taped to the chair while the dark figure cut through his finger with nothing more than a set of garden pruners.

  ‘You bloody animal,’ he accused the figure. ‘You’re just a bloody animal.’

  Father Alex Jones sat
in the dark of his office inside St Thomas More Church, a small circle of light from his desk lamp and the hue of his computer screen the only illumination. He prayed thanks to God that the latest victim’s life had been spared and for his safe return to his family and loved ones and he prayed for the soul of the man who’d coldly mutilated another man in the name of some misguided cause. And finally he prayed that the police would find the man whose hate had turned him to evil, before he could take another soul.

  Sean watched till the very last second when the Your View footage went dead, leaving a frozen picture of the victim slumped in his chair.

  ‘Did you see everything?’ Sally’s voice snapped him back.

  ‘Yeah,’ he answered. ‘I saw it.’ There was a slight pause before she spoke again, both taking a moment to think about what they’d just witnessed. ‘At least he’s still alive,’ Sean finally spoke.

  ‘For now,’ Sally warned him, ‘but we have a probable confirmation on the victim. Apparently his wife’s called and told us Jeremy Goldsboro went for a walk in Holland Park earlier this evening and hasn’t been seen since – until he appeared on Your View.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Dribs and drabs,’ she told him. ‘He used to work in the City, but retired a few years ago. It’s pretty confusing here at the moment.’

  ‘OK.’ Sean understood. ‘I’ll get back to the office as fast as I can.’ He hung up and began to gather his things, his mind whirling with the events of the last few minutes, oblivious to everyone else in the hushed restaurant until he looked up and saw the faces of Kate’s friends staring at him. He looked at them one by one, their eyes slipping to the side as his own seemed to challenge them, until he returned to gathering his belongings, more urgently now, eager to be away from people who would never be like him, and back amongst his own kind. He pushed his chair back and stood, tucking the laptop under his armpit and taking one last look at the faces around the table.

  ‘Enjoy your dinner,’ he told them and headed for the exit where the same man who’d greeted him now handed his coat back. Sean grabbed it while already heading out the door.

  At his desk in the offices of The World newspaper, Jackson worked frantically, while other members of his team did the same – relentlessly ringing phones mixing with the sounds of their urgent voices and rapid typing as they tried to change the entire first six pages of tomorrow’s newspaper to cover the story that had just broken – The Jackdaw had taken another victim.

  Jackson had watched the whole broadcast – the white room and the chair the victim had been taped to all too familiar to him now, but the excitement at having his interview with The Jackdaw running right alongside the story of the new victim’s ordeal chased away any feelings of fear he might have had. As far as he was concerned this was journalism at its best – something that could compete even with the twenty-four-hour news channels. He had the interview and would be sure the readers fully understood the risk he had taken in meeting such an obviously dangerous man. Although he had to be careful not to go over the top and alienate the killer – after all, he still hoped for further exclusive interviews.

  He checked the pay-as-you-go mobile that lay next to his keyboard, almost willing it to ring or even receive a text message, but it remained dormant. ‘Come on,’ he ordered it. ‘Ring, God damn you.’ After a few seconds he gave up on it and returned to watching another re-run of the latest torture and mutilation, making a note of every detail for tomorrow’s story.

  He’d almost forgotten about the phone until suddenly its ringing and vibrating made him visibly jump on his desk stool. ‘Fuck,’ he swore involuntarily and loudly before recovering and snatching the phone up. ‘Hello.’ There was a pause before anyone answered, the only sound that of breathing, magnified and distorted. Jackson held his nerve and waited.

  ‘I assume you saw my latest … offering?’ the voice asked.

  ‘I did,’ Jackson answered, keeping his voice low so as not to attract attention. The Jackdaw was for him and him alone.

  ‘There’s a lot of noise where you are. You are not alone?’

  ‘No,’ Jackson admitted. ‘I’m at work. But no one knows I’m speaking with you.’ There was another few seconds of silence.

  ‘Tell me – what did you think of what you saw?’

  ‘In what way?’ Jackson asked, stalling, unsure of what the Jackdaw wanted him to say. More silence.

  ‘Do you understand why I spared his life?’

  ‘Because,’ Jackson struggled, ‘you’re merciful?’

  ‘Merciful,’ the voice laughed mechanically. ‘You make me sound like a god. No, Mr Jackson. I spared him because I could see it’s what the people wanted. I act only on behalf of the people.’

  ‘I understand,’ Jackson lied.

  ‘You understand, but you don’t believe,’ the voice told him. ‘Do you think that my act of mercy was simply to hide some murderous insanity? Do you think I do this solely to satisfy a need to kill and torture my fellow men?’

  ‘No,’ Jackson tried to convince him. ‘I just need … want to understand more. If we met again you could help me understand. Phones aren’t safe for long conversations.’ He waited, unable to breathe, until the answer finally came.

  ‘Very well,’ the voice conceded. ‘I’ll call you in a day or so. Goodbye, Mr Jackson.’ He hung up before Jackson could say any more. Jackson sat with the phone still pressed against his ear until a colleague slapped him on the back and made him drop it in fright.

  ‘Bit jumpy tonight, Geoff?’ his colleague asked. Jackson turned to face him, the colour drained from his face. ‘Christ. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he replied. ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ the other journalist caught on. ‘That was him, wasn’t it – on the phone, just now. It was the bloody Jackdaw, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Jackson answered.

  ‘You meeting him again?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Jackson said again.

  ‘You are, aren’t you? Jesus, Geoff. That’s bloody risky.’

  ‘Yeah, well,’ Jackson shrugged, ‘I’ve already rolled the dice on that one.’

  ‘Why not just interview him on the phone?’ his colleague asked. ‘Who cares if the police are eavesdropping? Might even be a good idea to have them close by.’

  ‘You joking?’ Jackson asked, a look of disbelief on his face. ‘On the bloody phone? Make sure the Old Bill are close by? The public want to know I sat opposite a stone-cold killer – they want to know I could have been taped to that chair any second and had my throat cut. They need to be able to taste the fear – feel the danger. They want a show, not a fucking telephone conversation. And that’s exactly what I’m going to give them. The Jackdaw and The Showman. What could possibly go wrong?’

  ‘He could kill you,’ the journalist reminded him coldly.

  ‘He could, but I don’t think he will.’

  ‘Don’t think he will! Bloody hell, Geoff, it’s one hell of a risk to take just for a story – no matter how big it is. I know you’ll make a nice few quid out of the book and TV stuff, but is it really worth it?’

  Jackson leaned back in his reclining office chair, flipped his feet up onto his desk and wrapped his hands around the back of his head. ‘It’s not about the money,’ he explained. ‘It’s about the story and the prestige, my old friend. Always about the prestige.’

  Sean’s arrival back in the office went barely noticed, such was the buzz of detectives collating information and getting on with their assigned tasks. The entire team seemed to be there. Clearly everyone had seen the latest Your View video and were desperate to move the investigation forward as fast as possible. He moved quietly across the room gathering Donnelly, Sally and Anna with taps on shoulders and nods of his head as he went, leading them to his office where he threw his coat over a hook on the back of the door, slumped in his chair and rubbed his face with the palms of his hands before looking up at the others.

&n
bsp; ‘All right,’ he asked them. ‘What do we know for sure?’

  ‘First things first,’ Sally told him. ‘Are Kate and the kids safe?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he assured her. ‘Local CID are round there now checking it out. They phoned me when I was on my way here to let me know. Thanks for arranging it, by the way.’

  ‘No problem,’ Sally replied.

  ‘Wouldn’t you rather be at home?’ Anna asked. ‘Just to be sure?’

  ‘He’s not coming after my family,’ he told her, ‘or me. That’s fantasy. That’s films and TV shows. Kate knows that.’

  ‘He mentioned your name in the video,’ Anna reminded him unnecessarily.

  ‘So he read my name in a newspaper and spouted it out during one of his rants,’ Sean suggested. ‘Big deal. He’s not coming after me or my family and the best way I can stop Kate from worrying is to catch him sooner rather than later. And to do that I need to be here, not sitting at home. So, like I said, what do we know for sure?’

  ‘Victim’s definitely this guy Jeremy Goldsboro,’ Sally told him. ‘We’ve had literally dozens of calls from people saying they know him or knew him, so we have no reason to think otherwise, and we know he’s a retired banker – left his job as one of the vice presidents of …’ she checked her notebook, ‘King and Melbourn Capital Associates, one of the City’s big boys, apparently. He went for his evening walk in Holland Park, close to where he lives, and wasn’t seen again until he was seen on Your View.’

  ‘Wasn’t his wife worried,’ Sean jumped in, ‘when he didn’t return home?’

  ‘Apparently it’s not uncommon for him to go for very long walks,’ Sally explained, ‘so she wasn’t unduly worried.’

  ‘Poor bastard,’ Donnelly added. ‘He must have heard about the other victims and been thinking, thank Christ I got out of the City before this lunatic hit the scene. Next thing he knows he is the next victim.’

  ‘Has he been found yet?’ Sean asked.

  ‘No,’ Sally told him.

  ‘Well, if our killer sticks to his usual method it won’t be long before he turns up wandering around some park or common somewhere. Has the park Goldsboro was taken from been secured?’