by Luke Delaney
‘Sorry,’ she apologized again. ‘Yes … I’m Mrs Goldsboro, but please, call me Sarah.’
‘Sarah it is,’ he replied. ‘Perhaps it’s best if I come inside?’
‘Yes,’ she answered without hesitation. ‘Sorry. Please come in.’ She opened the door fully and stepped aside, allowing him to enter. Sean quickly scanned his surroundings to get his bearings, paying little attention to the beautiful high ceilings and artwork that adorned them. He had too many questions dancing around inside his head to care about anything else but how he was going to ask them.
‘You have a beautiful house here,’ he managed to say, trying to sound like a normal person.
‘Thank you,’ Mrs Goldsboro answered. ‘We’ve thought about moving to the country, since Jeremy retired,’ she explained, ‘but we’d miss London too much, I think. Please, this way,’ she told him and headed towards the kitchen.
‘I know what you mean,’ he played along. ‘I imagine Mr Goldsboro misses work. Sometimes. Must have been a buzz, working in the City.’
‘He says not,’ she told him, ‘but I have my doubts. He locks himself away in his office for hours some days. Heaven knows what he does in there. Still playing with stocks and shares, I imagine.’
‘Still keeping his hand in?’ Sean asked as they entered the huge kitchen-cum-dining room.
‘It’s in his blood,’ she answered, ‘although lately he’s been selling a lot of our portfolio and buying up precious metals and diamonds – gold, silver, even palladium, if you please. Turned into quite the magpie. Please, take a seat.’
Sean recalled Addis’s attempt at a joke when he warned him that The Jackdaw’s crimes were affecting share prices in The City: If you have any shares, Inspector, now would be a good time to sell them and buy yourself some gold, or silver perhaps.
‘I hear a lot of people are getting out of stocks and shares in favour of something a little more solid,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘Gold’s always been seen a safe haven in troubled times. This lunatic’s not just hurting people physically – he’s hurting them financially too.’
‘It’s the physical hurt I’m interested in,’ Sean told her. ‘Like the physical harm he did to your husband.’
The reminder of what had happened to her husband seemed to freeze her for a second before she answered. ‘Yes. Yes I suppose you are.’
‘You all right?’ Sean asked as he sensed her fear.
‘I’ll be fine,’ she tried to assure him.
‘You probably shouldn’t be here on your own,’ he advised. ‘Not until we catch him or you feel less afraid.’
‘I’m not alone,’ she explained. ‘My housekeeper’s here – upstairs doing something or another.’
‘And Mr Goldsboro’s gone fishing?’ he checked.
‘His new hobby,’ she complained. ‘He’s only been doing it a year or so, but he appears hooked – no pun intended. His … ordeal doesn’t appear to have affected Jeremy too much, but that’s typical of him. Can’t let these things stop you, he always says, as if he had just been mugged or something.’
‘Probably best he gets on with his life,’ Sean told her. ‘So long as he’s not hiding any psychological effects his ordeal had on him.’
‘Psychological effects?’ she scoffed. ‘Jeremy? If that was this lunatic’s intention then he picked on the wrong man. You don’t get to the top of a company like King and Melbourn by being some sort of wallflower. You have to be a fighter.’
‘I’m sure you do,’ Sean agreed, remembering what Anna had told him about CEOs – that a significant proportion of them had psychopathic personality traits. Could this be the first ever case where the victims were the psychopaths and the assailant was normal?
‘So,’ she finally worked round to asking, taking a breath and preparing herself for the business of this unannounced visit, ‘what can I do for you?’
‘Like I said,’ Sean told her, ‘I was really hoping to speak with Mr Goldsboro, but as he’s not here I thought you might be able to help.’
‘With what – exactly?’ she asked.
Sean stalled, suddenly unsure of himself and everything he suspected about The Jackdaw. Was his theory about why he hadn’t removed Goldsboro’s hood really worth causing Mrs Goldsboro even more anguish and fear? Could his compassion overrule his need to know? He already knew the answer.
‘It’s just,’ he began, ‘I’m not so sure these attacks are random any more.’
‘Jeremy’s already told me that,’ she told him, looking and sounding confused. ‘He was picked because of what he used to do.’
‘That’s not what I mean,’ Sean shook his head. ‘I mean I think some, if not all, of the victims could be connected to each other somehow and that connection somehow links them to whoever abducted them. Something we’ve not found yet.’
‘Like what?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘Not yet. That’s why I’m asking questions. Perhaps he knew the other victims?’
‘If he did, then he would have already told you,’ she argued.
‘Maybe he just knew them in passing,’ Sean struggled, ‘and didn’t think it could be important.’
‘I’m sure he would have mentioned it,’ she insisted, ‘even if he did only know them in passing.’
‘Maybe in the past he’s mentioned their names? Paul Elkins – did he ever mention that name?’
‘No,’ she answered flatly.
‘Georgina Vaughan?’ he pushed.
‘No. Never.’
‘David Barrowgate?’
‘I’ve never heard those names before this awful business,’ she shook her head, ‘and Jeremy retired almost six years ago. I probably wouldn’t remember even if he had mentioned them, but since he retired he never talks about work – not his old colleagues, nothing. Typical Jeremy – says that’s all in the past – better to concentrate on the future.’
‘Then maybe at some point some of the victims worked for the same company?’ Sean persisted, desperate to find something tangible. ‘Paul Elkins worked for Fairfield’s Bank. Maybe your husband used to work for them?’
‘No, no,’ she dismissed the possibility. ‘Jeremy was with King and Melbourn for almost fifteen years. It was his life. He joined as a middle manager and worked his way up to the top.’
‘But before that,’ Sean kept at her, ‘who did he work for?’
‘Oh gosh,’ she shook her head. ‘This bank, that bank, I really can’t remember. You’d need to ask Jeremy these questions. I’m sure he could help you more than I can.’
Sean ignored her. ‘The other two victims – one worked at Glenhope Investments and the other at Chaucer and Vale Bank. Do those names mean anything to you?’
‘No.’ She raised her voice. ‘I’m really sorry, Inspector. I’d like to help, but I can’t. These names mean nothing to me. Nothing at all. I’m sorry. If you’d like to leave a note then I’d be happy to get Jeremy to look at them for you.’
Sean knew she was finished. She had nothing he could use – nothing to move his own theory forward. Maybe the route to the connection lay elsewhere? Perhaps the other victims had worked for King and Melbourn some time in the past? Or maybe he was wrong – driven to believe in something that didn’t really exist in a vain effort to make an unsolvable case solvable by looking for a connection that wasn’t there. But the hood bothered him – bothered him too much to ignore.
‘Inspector.’ Mrs Goldsboro’s voice brought him back. ‘Are you finished?’
‘Yes,’ he weakly answered. ‘I’m finished. Sorry to have bothered you.’
She seemed almost to take pity on him. ‘What will you do now?’ she asked, although he knew she just wanted him to leave.
‘Only thing I can do,’ he told her. ‘Go to King and Melbourn.’
‘Why?’
‘To ask them the same questions I’ve just asked you,’ he admitted, ‘and pray they can give me the answers I need to find the man who took your husband b
efore he acts out his final scene. I need to go,’ he told her. ‘Thanks for your time.’
He pulled the cut-down branches away from the white van, freeing it from its pace of hiding. He’d been sure to cover the roof especially thoroughly to conceal it from the police helicopters that circled above from time to time. He carefully scattered the branches randomly around the van’s hiding place so they wouldn’t draw any attention. Not that there were many passers-by in this part of the forest, except the occasional illicit couple. The police had come that one time, but their visit was now to be seen as a blessing — he was sure they’d reported the deserted building as having been searched with a negative result. Eventually he knew they’d realize their mistake and research the building, which was exactly what he needed them to do. After The Jackdaw had killed himself live on Your View the laptop he used would of course be left on – eventually leading the police straight to the white room.
Carefully he picked any loose leaves from the white van and brushed the dust away before opening the side door and retrieving a cardboard box containing a front and rear number plate he’d made himself, copied from another white Renault Trafic van he’d spotted driving through west London one day which, according to the sign on the side, belonged to an electrician. He used an electric screwdriver to attach them. Next he took another cardboard box containing stick-on letters and numbers he’d bought years before from a giant DIY store. He’d paid cash – The Jackdaw was nothing if not careful. He used the letters to spell the name of the electrician he’d seen plastered to the side of the van and even added the correct telephone number for complete authenticity. He took a few seconds to stand back and admire his work before climbing into the van’s cab and opening the glovebox from which he took an oversized pair of wraparound mirrored sunglasses and a plain, black baseball cap. He pulled the collar of his black boiler suit up over his chin and checked himself in the driver’s mirror. He doubted even his own wife would be able to recognize him. It would do fine until he had his next – his last – victim in sight. Then he would switch to the full face mask and voice-altering equipment that sat on the seat next to him covered with a copy of The World newspaper, bearing a headline that was all of his own making.
He reached for the ignition key, but suddenly paused, as if the significance of the moment had almost overwhelmed him. For years he’d waited for this – waited until the time was absolutely right – the time when he couldn’t be connected to the two men who’d stripped him of everything he loved most – everything he’d worked for. First Paul Elkins, and now the one he’d yearned for more than any of the others – the kingpin in his downfall. Georgina Vaughan and David Barrowgate had meant nothing to him in particular, although he knew who they were and where they worked and what they wanted out of life. But they made perfect victims for The Jackdaw, as did Jeremy Goldsboro – another wealthy banker, albeit retired, who deserved his punishment. He smiled at the simple cleverness of his deception.
Years he’d spent in the wilderness – years being the forgotten man. But he’d never forgotten his humiliation and pain and now the time had finally come for his revenge. His long-time tormentor would become the tormented before he was put to death in front of the watching thousands, or perhaps millions. One thing he already knew, one thing he’d long, long ago decided, nothing could save his final victim now – not the vote of the people’s jury and not DI Corrigan. Within the next few hours the game would be over and he would have won.
Sean stood outside the tower block in Bath Street, in the heart of the City of London, all thirty floors of which belonged to King and Melbourn Capital Associates, one of the City’s largest trading firms. He looked up from the entrance to the very top of the gleaming building that reflected all the other buildings around it as well as Sean’s own tiny image standing, shimmering, at the foot of this testament to power and wealth. It would take more than a banking crisis to topple these financial monoliths. They’d been built to survive the ages.
He walked to the giant building’s entrance and into the ground-floor atrium. A long, thin, brown wooden desk with enough seats for ten receptionists stretched across the middle of the expanse, but today was Saturday and only two of the seats were occupied. He walked to the youngest and friendliest-looking of the two and flashed his warrant card.
‘DI Sean Corrigan,’ he introduced himself. ‘Special Investigations Unit. I’m here to see Amanda Coppolaro.’
‘Is she expecting you?’ the receptionist asked.
‘I phoned ahead,’ Sean explained. ‘She said she’d see me.’
‘OK,’ the young receptionist replied, sounding a little unsure. ‘I’ll call her office and let her know you’re here.’
‘Fine,’ Sean agreed. ‘I’ll wait.’
‘You can take a seat,’ she told him looking up at the empty foyer. ‘Anywhere you like.’
‘Thanks,’ Sean told her without smiling and wandered off to pace the atrium and think about what he was going to ask Coppolaro, but his mobile ringing destroyed his preparations. It was Sally.
‘Christ, Sean.’ She used his Christian name, which told him she was probably alone, their relationship having grown more personal since both had nearly died at the hands of two different killers. ‘Where the hell have you been? Our man’s been up to his old tricks on Your View again. I take it you saw it?’
‘No,’ Sean admitted, his mouth suddenly so dry he could hardly speak as his stomach tightened with anxiety and frustration. ‘And the victim?’ he managed to ask.
‘No victim,’ Sally told him, making his body suddenly relax again as he looked to the heavens in thanks. ‘Just a lot of preaching and telling everyone to get ready for the finale. Sounds like he’s beginning to lose it too – shouting about justice and equality, like some civil rights leader from the sixties. I’m beginning to think he actually believes in what he’s saying.’ Sean’s eyes darted from side to side as he tried to process this new information. What was going on? He felt so close to the truth, so close to finding the thing – the one thing that connected the victims and therefore The Jackdaw to them. He just needed to keep asking questions, keep digging, even if he was digging blind, until that one small, precious thing opened the shutters and allowed the light to come flooding in and reveal everything.
‘There’s something else, too,’ Sally continued. ‘He’s said he’s going to kill himself, as soon as he’s finished with one last victim. He sounded like he meant it.’
‘One last victim and then martyr himself,’ Sean spoke his thoughts out loud. ‘Why would he do that?’
‘Says he knows that eventually he’ll be caught and doesn’t want to vilified by the rich and powerful making up lies about him,’ Sally explained. ‘Says he’d rather die and prove his commitment to the cause.’
‘His own cause,’ he replied, his mind already wandering from their conversation, trying to make sense of what he was being told. ‘OK, Sally. Thanks for letting me know.’ Why hadn’t he seen The Jackdaw’s self-destructive potential earlier? Now that he’d said he was going to take his own life it seemed so obvious that was what he always intended. Sean should have seen it coming and somehow used it against the man he was beginning to feel closer and closer to.
‘What do you want me to do?’ Sally asked.
‘Just wait for my call.’
‘Wait a minute,’ she stopped him. ‘Where are you? Everything’s going mad back here. Addis has been charging around trying to find you.’
‘What did you tell him?’
‘I didn’t,’ Sally explained. ‘I saw or should I say heard him coming and ducked out the office.’
‘Good,’ Sean told her. ‘Best keep a low profile for now.’
‘Fine,’ she replied, ‘but where are you?’
‘King and Melbourn, in the City,’ he admitted.
‘What are you doing there?’ Sally argued. ‘There’s nothing there for us.’
‘We didn’t go back far enough,’ Sean insisted. ‘We need to check
back to when Jeremy Goldsboro worked here.’
‘Yes,’ Sally sighed. ‘So you said – because he didn’t remove his hood?’
‘He was hiding something,’ Sean again tried to convince her. ‘His connection to Goldsboro is the key.’
‘OK,’ she played along, sounding concerned. ‘Just don’t. Just don’t …’ She couldn’t finish what she’d started to say.
‘Don’t what?’
‘Promise me if you find something you won’t go charging in on your own. You’ll wait until you have back-up.’
‘I won’t,’ he told her, trying to sound genuine. ‘I promise I won’t.’
‘Good,’ she replied, sounding relieved. ‘Call me when you decide what you’re going to do or if you find something.’ He heard the line go dead, slowly lowering the phone and slipping it back into his pocket, the questions racing in his head making him all but oblivious to his surroundings.
‘Inspector Corrigan.’ He thought he heard a distant voice. ‘Inspector Corrigan,’ the voice repeated until he realized it was the young receptionist calling his name. He half turned towards her, still in a semi-daydream.
‘Yes,’ he answered.
‘Mrs Coppolaro will see you now,’ she told him. ‘Take lift number five to the twenty-fifth. Mrs Coppolaro will meet you there.’ He followed her eyes to the lifts lined up next to each other like silver boxes.
‘Thank you,’ he replied. As soon as he pressed the call button, the doors to lift number five slid open with an electronic whoosh and invited him to step into the emptiness. He paused – the quietness of the huge building feeling somehow wrong and unnerving. He could sense the receptionists looking at him and glanced back from the corner of his eye before stepping inside the lift and pressing the button for the twenty-fifth floor. The doors closed with the same sound while the arrow on the display panel told him he was ascending, although the lift moved so smoothly he had no sensation of climbing at all. After only few seconds the arrow stopped flashing and the doors once more slid open. For a second he thought he’d been tricked and was about to step back out into the atrium, to the amusement of the waiting receptionist. He thought of the lifts back at the Yard, jolting and juddering at every stop – when and if they worked at all. But when he stepped out he was indeed on a new level of the building, facing another reception, only this one was unmanned and the office beyond apparently empty. He looked around for signs of life, but could find none in the dark corridors that seemed to run in every direction.
