The Jackdaw

by Luke Delaney

  ‘Does a Jason Howard live here, Mr … sorry I didn’t catch your name?’ Carlisle took over.

  ‘My name is Peter O’Meagher and yes, Jason lives here – has done for a few years now. He’s not in trouble, is he?’

  ‘Is he in now?’ Carlisle asked as quietly as she could – the thought of calling for back-up going through her head before O’Meagher dispelled it.

  ‘No,’ he told her. ‘In fact, I haven’t seen him in a good few days. I don’t think any of us have – although he left me an envelope with enough cash in it to pay for several weeks’ rent before he left.’

  ‘So you’re not expecting him back?’ Zukov asked.

  ‘Until I hear otherwise I expect him to return. All of his things are still here.’

  ‘You checked his room?’ Carlisle probed.

  ‘Just once,’ O’Meagher explained. ‘A couple of days after he first left – just in case.’

  ‘Just in case what?’ Zukov pushed.

  ‘Not everybody who stays is happy, Detective,’ O’Meagher pointed out. ‘It’s happened before – sadly. I started thinking maybe the cash in the envelope was more his way of paying for the inconvenience rather than rent up-front.’

  ‘But it wasn’t?’ Carlisle checked.

  ‘Thankfully not,’ he half smiled.

  ‘Glad to hear it,’ Carlisle agreed and meant it. ‘Can we come in – can you show us his room?’

  O’Meagher looked uncomfortable. ‘Do you have a search warrant?’

  ‘No, but we could get one,’ Zukov warned him.

  Carlisle tried to a softer approach. ‘If we find something important I promise we’ll get a warrant before we seize anything. We don’t want to put you in a compromising position.’

  O’Meagher stood aside to let them in. ‘Fair enough,’ he agreed, closing the door behind him, ‘but I doubt you’ll find anything useful. Jason didn’t have much of a life, from what I could see. He had some sort of a job at a local warehouse and didn’t earn very much from what I could tell. Kept himself very much to himself.’

  ‘Did you ever talk to him at all?’ Carlisle asked.

  ‘A little – not that he said much,’ O’Meagher explained. ‘I believe he owned a small business before he lost it during the banking crisis – along with his wife and children. She’s left him and now he’s reduced to this.’ Zukov and Carlisle glanced at each other knowingly.

  ‘Did he ever say anything about getting his own back on the banks?’ Zukov asked as they climbed the threadbare carpet on the narrow staircase.

  ‘Not to me,’ O’Meagher answered, ‘but, like I said, we really didn’t speak at any length.’

  ‘I understand,’ Carlisle said as they reached a plain wooden door on the first-floor landing. ‘But about this money in the envelope – Jason handed that to you himself?’

  ‘No,’ O’Meagher told her. ‘It was just left for me. I found it in amongst the other post.’

  ‘So although he lives here, he posted it to you?’ Carlisle continued.

  ‘It hadn’t been through the post,’ O’Meagher explained. ‘It was just an envelope with my name on it – on the floor, in amongst the other mail.’

  ‘So it came through the letter box?’ Zukov joined in.

  ‘Possibly,’ O’Meagher considered it, ‘or it could have just got knocked off the sideboard and fell there. I’m afraid not all my tenants are as careful as they should be.’

  ‘I guess not.’ Carlisle ended the discussion, aware O’Meagher couldn’t pour any more light on how the letter came to be amongst the other mail. ‘Shall we?’ she encouraged him, nodding at the single key he was holding.

  ‘Sorry. Of course.’ He slid the key into the lock and turned it, pushing the door and allowing it to swing open, revealing the stillness inside. Carlisle could immediately sense no one had been inside the room for some days at least – it felt cold and abandoned. She stepped past O’Meagher and entered the room closely followed by Zukov, who let out a long whistle as he scanned the interior.

  ‘This was not what I was expecting,’ he admitted, shaking his head.

  Carlisle too was surprised, the squalor she was so used to finding replaced by an immaculate space. Even the window had been left slightly open to allow fresh air to circulate. The bed had been made with fresh sheets and blankets, books were stacked neatly on the limited shelving, personal possessions arranged tidily on the sideboards and the mantelpiece over the ancient electric fire. She walked to the cheap wardrobe and pulled the doors open. The few clothes that he had were clean, pressed and either hung or folded neatly.

  ‘Did you do this?’ she asked O’Meagher.

  ‘No,’ he insisted. ‘This is how Jason lived.’

  ‘Did he have a military background?’ Zukov asked.

  ‘I don’t think so, but I can’t be sure. Like I said – he never talked much.’

  Carlisle walked to the alcove that served as the kitchen and examined the small two-hob cooker where she found more of the same cleanliness and order. It was the same in cupboards – everything clean and neatly stacked – as if it had never been touched. Finally she opened the fridge, almost afraid what she might find – a severed hand or head perfectly pickled and left in a spotless but empty space, like a piece of modern art in an exhibit. But there was nothing – nothing but shining cleanliness.

  ‘Were you ever aware of him cooking in here?’ Carlisle asked.

  ‘Not really,’ O’Meagher answered. ‘He mainly chose to eat out at the local cafés. I guess cooking wasn’t his thing.’

  ‘No,’ Carlisle agreed. ‘I guess not. Did he ever have any visitors?’

  ‘No.’ O’Meagher sounded sure. ‘Never. He was a loner – a quiet loner.’

  ‘Ever come home the worse for wear and moan about the hand life had dealt him?’ Zukov pried.

  ‘No,’ O’Meagher shook his head, smiling. ‘I never ever smelt drink on him – morning or night. I have no idea how he spent his private time.’

  ‘Looks like a social life isn’t the only thing he was missing,’ Zukov added as he pulled open the last drawer to reveal nothing but neatly folded clothes.

  ‘Meaning?’ Carlisle enquired.

  ‘Meaning there’s no correspondence in the whole place,’ he told her. ‘Not a letter, not a bill, not a bank statement – nothing.’

  ‘There must be something,’ Carlisle argued. ‘Everybody has something.’

  ‘You won’t find any banking documents,’ O’Meagher explained. ‘After what happened Jason didn’t trust banks. As far as I know he dealt in cash only. He was paid in cash and that’s how he paid me.’

  ‘But he must have had a bank account to pay his bills,’ Carlisle pointed out.

  ‘He didn’t have any bills, as such,’ O’Meagher continued. ‘I pay for all the heating and water and so on and my tenants give me cash to cover what they use.’

  ‘What about a car?’ Carlisle probed. ‘Cars create paperwork.’

  ‘He didn’t have a car.’ O’Meagher dashed their hopes again. ‘I think most of the time he walked to work.’

  Carlisle and Zukov looked at each other before scanning the disturbingly ordered room. ‘A difficult man to find,’ Zukov declared. ‘Almost like he was planning to disappear.’

  ‘He’s made himself a ghost,’ Carlisle agreed. ‘How d’you find a ghost?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Zukov answered, ‘but I know we need to tell the guv’nor – see what he makes of all this. Not sure if he’s going to love it or hate it.’

  ‘Only one way to find out,’ Carlisle encouraged him.

  ‘Fair enough,’ Zukov agreed and slipped his mobile from his jacket pocket, ‘but no matter what he thinks – I reckon we’ve just found our prime suspect.’

  Jackson sat in a small café in Berwick Street, Soho, drinking his way through another espresso while he typed the next day’s headline story into his laptop and wondered how much of the piece should be about The Jackdaw and how much DI Corrigan. Corrigan, he
thought to himself. The killers came and went, but Corrigan – well, he was just the gift that just kept on giving. His fingers hesitated over the keyboard. Go all out on Corrigan now – make him an unwitting celebrity detective, or give him a little more time and wait for him to come of his own accord. Fuck – Corrigan was the story. He could just feel it.

  The pay-as-you-go mobile vibrated in his trouser pocket and made him jump and forget what he was about to write. He fumbled to free the phone, hurrying to answer it before the caller gave up. ‘Hello.’

  ‘Ah, Mr Jackson,’ the unmistakeable electronic voice replied. ‘Are you alone?’

  ‘No,’ Jackson answered, half hoping to hear the line go dead as the familiar fear quickly crept over him. ‘I’m in a café, but I can speak.’

  ‘I need to see you,’ the voice told him. ‘I have something I need you to see. Something I want you to witness.’

  Jackson’s mind spun with possibilities. Did The Jackdaw want him to witness the torture or even murder of another victim? Had his luck finally run out and it was his turn to be the victim? Should he tell the police – lead them to the sick bastard? What the fuck, he decided. He’d come this far. ‘When?’

  ‘Two hours from now,’ the voice instructed him. ‘Drive to the Queen Mary Reservoir, Ashford Road, Walton-on-Thames, and wait for my call. Goodbye, Mr Jackson.’ The line went dead before he could argue.

  ‘Bollocks,’ Jackson muttered to himself as he flipped the phone closed and slipped it back into his trouser pocket. ‘What now, you bastard? What the hell have you got in mind now?’

  11

  David Barrowgate paid the black cab driver in cash and then watched it drive off along Brunswick Gardens, Notting Hill Gate, as he began the short walk to the old mansion block that housed his state-of-the-art, all-mod-cons flat. The walk would have been even shorter if cars hadn’t been parked along both sides of the street and he hadn’t ended up with the only black cab driver in London who cared about blocking the road while his punter paid the fee. The suitably small tip reflected his displeasure. Still, the brief exposure to some fresh air would do him no harm after an afternoon spent wining and dining some of his firm’s most important clients – the sort that never touched a drop when back in their own countries, but never held back when in London. He couldn’t stand half the people he had to do business with – ignorant peasants from Eastern Europe and North Africa, who just happened to have stumbled across black gold or some other valuable commodity and now wanted to invest their excess cash in the London markets. But it was all worth it: he was only thirty-two, but he already had a flat to die for with no mortgage and a couple of million stashed in the BVIs, not to mention a position as a senior trader for the Chaucer and Vale Bank. Life was good.

  All good things came to those who waited for them or, as he liked to believe, all good things came to those who worked their arses off for them. Somehow he’d worked hard enough to overcome the oversized classes and poor teaching standards at his inner-city primary school and win himself a place at the nearest grammar school where he’d excelled at maths and even become the captain of the rugby side – his courage overcoming his physical slightness. After achieving straight As at A-level he’d waltzed into Cambridge University where he continued to star in mathematics. Before he’d even obtained his degree he’d been recruited by Antrobus Bank on a starting salary of a hundred grand … plus bonus of course. Now he was earning ten times that and why not – he was one of the best at what he did. With his mathematical skills he could predict the markets quicker than almost anyone and that meant he could make money – lots of money – and that made him a valuable commodity. Sure, he’d deliberately changed the way he spoke – dropping his slight Yorkshire accent for something that sounded as if he was a product of Harrow or Eton – and, sure, he never talked much about his upbringing, school or the fact his parents still lived in a small council house in Leeds, but it was all just part of the game. He was sure he wasn’t the only one whose life seemingly only began once he reached university – everything in the past neatly packed away in a large suitcase and pushed under the bed of history. Only thing was, he increasingly wanted to unpack the old case and become something of what he used to think he was, or at least could be.

  He was growing tired of the game the City played – sucking in the brightest and the best from the top universities and putting them to work for the world’s biggest banks with the sole purpose of making money. He was becoming increasingly confused the more he looked around at the larger world: carpenters made things from wood, for which they were rewarded with money. Doctors cured the sick, for which they were rewarded with money. Everybody did something for which they were rewarded with money and the satisfaction of what they produced or changed. But he made money, for which he was rewarded with money. He had no product – nothing to stand back and admire before it went to market. His product was also his reward and it was leaving him feeling increasingly unsatisfied. A few more years, he told himself, a few more years and he’d be out – free to do something more rewarding. First he’d travel the world, staying in backpacker hostels, hiding his wealth and past, with perhaps the occasional overnight stay at a five-star hotel. And then he’d decide what he was going to do with the rest of his life. The thought of returning to academia interested him most – becoming a professor of mathematics and dedicating the rest of his life to solving at least one of the world’s great unsolved mathematical problems. Time would tell, but for now he’d stay on the treadmill. No matter what the future held, he had no desire to be anything less than extremely comfortable.

  Even if he hadn’t been a little drunk and even if he hadn’t been daydreaming about what the latest deal would net for him personally, he probably wouldn’t have noticed the white Renault Trafic van parked in the residents-only bay outside the entrance to his building, bold blue letters on its side proclaiming the name of a plumbing company that didn’t in fact exist. He also probably wouldn’t have noticed the door of the van opening as he began to climb the short flight of steps to the front door or the man in black clothes and a black balaclava who moved quickly and silently across the pavement, closing the distance between them until there was no distance, until too late he sensed his presence and tried to turn. But a hard, dull blow to the back of his head made him crumple to his knees, dizziness and nausea sweeping over him as he felt hands slide under his armpits and begin to pull him away from the building. At only five foot eight and of slim build he was easily dragged down the steps and across the pavement. His head began to clear as he realized he was being bundled into a van or large car, but another blow, this time across his temple, all but knocked him unconscious as his ankles and wrists were strapped into restraints, his mouth taped over and a hood pulled over his head. He thought he heard a door sliding shut and an engine starting, but mainly there was just darkness and the sound of his own blood rushing around inside his head. Mainly there was just confusion and terror.

  Sean sat in his office trying to concentrate on the reports of yet more white vans being driven in a suspicious manner or having been parked in a suspicious area or way, but he was paying them little attention. He kept glancing at his mobile phone, waiting and praying it would deliver the message that Jackson was on the move and heading west – towards The Jackdaw. It rang while he was looking at it, making his heart miss a beat before he grabbed it up. The caller ID told him it was Zukov.

  ‘What’s happening?’ he asked without niceties.

  ‘I found Jason Howard’s last known address,’ Zukov told him. ‘A bedsit in Colindale. Very salubrious.’

  ‘Get on with it, Paulo,’ Sean hurried him.

  ‘Landlord let me in, but there’s no trace of Howard. Landlord and the neighbours say no one’s seen him for a week or so, not that anyone was looking.’

  ‘Have you searched it?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Zukov answered. ‘It’s as clean as the Pope’s knob. Neat, ordered, bed made, washing-up done, clothes folded in the wardrobe
, dry food in the cupboard, but the fridge is empty and cleaned. Looks like he’s gone on a little trip.’

  Sean chewed the loose skin around his thumbnail. Organized. Deliberate. Forward thinking. Just like The Jackdaw. ‘Any idea where he’s gone?’

  ‘No,’ Zukov admitted. ‘He left without telling anyone. Stuffed an envelope full of cash, left it for the landlord and took off, apparently leaving his worldly possessions behind – such as they are.’

  Sean’s eyes narrowed as he imagined Jason Howard making his final arrangements before slipping from the house and into the dark night – the birth of The Jackdaw?

  ‘We’d better find him, and quickly,’ Sean insisted.

  ‘Easier said than done,’ Zukov explained. ‘He has no bank accounts, credit cards, no utilities he has to pay for – not even a car. He’s completely off the grid. I can check his workplace, but I reckon I know what we’ll find. I’ll get the locals to check with his ex-wife too, but again, I won’t be holding my breath. Think he’s our man?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Sean answered without the enthusiasm Zukov expected.

  ‘Only maybe?’ Zukov checked. ‘He’s got to be perfect – hasn’t he? Why go to such lengths to make himself untraceable if he’s not up to something serious? We’ve checked out dozens of suspects with form for threatening bankers, but no one’s shaped up this well.’

  ‘Maybe he just doesn’t like the modern way of life,’ Sean found himself answering as he wondered why his heart wasn’t jumping into his mouth at the further damning evidence pointing towards Howard. Was it fatigue? Was it because it seemed too easy? Or was it because The Jackdaw always seemed to predict their next move – so how come he hadn’t predicted they’d find his bedsit? Or had he? Excitement always came to Sean when he sensed he was beginning to run down his quarry, but he didn’t feel it now. At best he sensed a trap.

  ‘Circulate him as wanted anyway,’ Sean told him. ‘Right now he’s the best we’ve got.’

  ‘Already done,’ Zukov informed him.

  ‘Good. Do whatever you have to do to find him.’