The plans were never elaborate but he’d learned with experience not to be too locked in. He’d discovered that flexibility was the key: being able to respond to the situation that rarely followed a script, no matter how carefully one might plot.
The silly bugger had handed him an unexpected gift by wandering along the seafront late that evening, with no idea that he was being followed. And here on the shingle beach – a fair trot from the popular Southsea pier – made for a perfectly distant and lonely killing ground. The houses were all set back from the beach behind the tennis courts, model village and golf club. The former inmate had made it as easy as he could by being alone on an otherwise deserted beach, on a particularly windy evening in spring when the nights were still dark and cold. Confidence is the key, he’d told himself so many times. Act like you’re meant to be there and it might mean any observer’s gaze slips over quickly.
He approached the youngster, crunching over the shingle to announce himself before he arrived. ‘Hello there. Are you all right? Forgive me for interrupting, but you looked a bit lonely and I couldn’t walk past without checking that you’re okay.’
‘Yeah, I’m fine. Just want to be alone.’
‘Right . . . right. Aren’t you cold?’
Brownlow gave a low half-laugh. ‘I am actually, but I just wanted some peace and quiet.’
‘And it’s not my intention to spoil that, but out here you’re a bit exposed, lad. Can’t have you catching your death, can we?’ He chortled at that jest, which was purely for his own benefit.
Brownlow looked up and shrugged. ‘Your fish and chips will get cold.’
Good – he’d noticed, and the wind was blowing in the right direction to make sure he did. ‘Well, you couldn’t have picked a lonelier spot.’
Brownlow nodded absently.
‘Here, fancy a nip?’ He offered a flask. The liquor was laced with something that would help Rupert sleep.
‘No, thanks. I’ve sworn off the booze.’
‘Really? Awfully young to be making that promise.’
Brownlow gave a soft snort. ‘Yeah, well, if you knew why I wasn’t drinking, you’d understand.’
He’d risked sitting down, not too close to scare him off, but close enough to be friendly. He’d try again with the liquor if the moment presented itself, but he had a backup. ‘Is that so? Well, I’m a good listener. My name’s Peter,’ he lied.
‘Rupert. I’m one of the most hated in people in Britain.’
‘Why would you say that?’ He kept his voice light, amused, as though what his companion was saying was impossible.
‘Well, you clearly don’t recognise me?’
‘Night is falling, young man, and I haven’t even looked you square in the face yet.’
Rupert turned to look directly at him. ‘Recognise me yet?’
He had shaken his head, pleased that Rupert didn’t recognise him either – but then why would he, out of context? Plus, he’d taken the precaution of the hat, the glasses. ‘No, but should I? You just look like a sad youngster who’s lost his way. What’s up?’
‘Who are you?’
‘I told you, Peter . . . Peter Jones. I answer phones for Lifeline, do my bit with Meals on Wheels and the like . . . I’m a community-minded person, and anyone sitting alone on a cold, windy beach as night draws in catches my attention. Here – the fish and chips are fresh and way too much for one. Want some?’
The lad shrugged. Who could resist the smell of fish and chips? Not Rupert, apparently.
‘That is a lot of food,’ Brownlow said as the paper was opened and the powerful smell of vinegar and salt hit them both.
‘I know. My eyes are always bigger than my belly,’ he said amiably. ‘And the odd thing is, the moment I bought it, I got indigestion. Here, you hold the food. I need to take a pill.’ He’d eased out a small bottle into which he’d put some harmless tiny sweets. ‘Eat up, Rupert.’
‘C’mon, they’re yours, man,’ Brownlow said, trying to pass it back.
‘No, really, I feel a bit ill. I’ll just have a nip of medicinal whiskey here to wash down my tablets,’ he said, pretending to swallow a swig but barely letting any of it touch his lips. He gave a sighing sound. ‘I should feel brighter in a minute or two. You have it.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Yes. Maybe it will cheer you up and I can go home knowing I did my bit for the community this evening. Here, I bought a bottle of Coke too. It’s yours.’ He twisted the cap open.
‘Really?’
‘Check for yourself, untouched.’ That was another thumping lie. The soft drink was fizzing with Rohypnol.
He watched Brownlow eat the food, carefully ensuring he ate all the fish that had been doused with Rohypnol-laden vinegar too. Now it was just a matter of waiting for the drug to take effect. He watched with fascinated glee as Rupert drank the Coke as well. Double whammy. Wouldn’t be long now. The whiskey would have to be thrown away – a pity to waste it, but it too contained Rohypnol. He had backups for backups. That was his tidy, thoughtful way.
He’d need to kill some time before he killed Brownlow.
‘Tell me why you’re hated, Rupert.’
‘I made a mistake behind the wheel. The mistake cost lives and I’ve done my time for it but I’m not sure how to come back from the years I’ve spent in prison.’
‘Good grief. How long were you there?’
‘Nearly four years.’
Six months per death, he thought with disgust.
‘I was let out before my sentence was complete,’ Rupert explained, ‘and I just want to get on now, but I’m down here because my family thinks the newspaper and TV reporters won’t leave us alone. We have to let my early release die down a bit, wait for some other catastrophe to happen to distract people.’ He’d begun to slur.
‘Well, I’m not going to judge you,’ he said, enjoying his lies. ‘But you must give yourself some adjustment time, Rupert. Can’t be easy.’
‘I just feel as though everyone’s watching.’
Not for much longer, his stalker thought as he watched Rupert politely hold a hand to his mouth before taking a long draught of air; well, prison hadn’t removed his manners.
‘Wow, that food is hitting.’
‘You okay?’
‘Yes, I feel suddenly tired.’
‘Come on, lad. Let’s get you off this beach. Did you drive here?’
‘Yeah. My aunt’s car.’
‘Up on your feet.’ He helped to hoist him upright. ‘Here, give me that. We don’t want you in trouble for littering the beach now that you’re out of prison.’
Rupert actually laughed as the man who intended to kill him took the remains of the fish and chips. He would need to dispose of that away from here.
‘I can’t in all good conscience let you get behind the wheel, lad.’
‘I think I’m going to be sick.’
‘No, you’re not. You’ll be all right. Listen, let me drive you home. It’s the least I can do.’
‘I can cab it.’
‘There aren’t any, son. This isn’t London. Most of them hang around the station, and on a night like tonight there won’t be many, and they won’t pick up someone like you who’s swaying. You look drunk.’
‘What’s wrong with me?’ he asked. ‘I feel like I’m just going to fall asleep right here and now.’
‘Come on, my car’s just here. I’ll get you delivered safely – it can be my community service for today,’ he said, enjoying another private play on words. ‘I hope you can remember your aunt’s address?’
Careful to keep his head lowered against the CCTV cameras that looked out across the seafront, he pulled up his coat collar, the cap hiding most of his face, and helped Rupert into the car, out of the CCTV camera’s shot . . . not that the car would be found in time to connect him.
Rupert mumbled the address in Southsea, but Colin was no longer listening. Now it was time for payback. He would do what the justice system had been
unable to do for the families of those victims who had died senselessly because of Rupert Brownlow’s behaviour. If he was honest, he didn’t believe the 22-year-old was a threat any more, but did that matter to the families? The most generous of them might nod, but deep down they’d hate him – because they all remembered his smirk, his expensive legal counsel, the leniency of Judge Leland, and now the horror of knowing Brownlow was back out to pick up the threads of his privileged existence. No, the only way to make everyone feel better was to rid them of Brownlow. Rupert was fading fast and he had to stop the car a bit sooner than planned, but he’d already checked this street as a potential killing ground. Clarendon Road was a quiet stretch in a particularly subdued street that had no CCTV until it hit a particular kink and then bent around towards a roundabout which would be watched over by cameras.
He parked at the end, got Rupert out – who was fully confused and compliant by now – and toppled him into the boot, quickly gagging him. He’d probably choke on his own vomit before he could kill him, but the man didn’t mind – so long as Rupert was dead within the next few minutes, the job would be done. The rope was already prepared, and he slipped the noose around the victim’s neck without him even realising.
He closed the boot and checked the street. There was no one about on this frigid night and the rain was beginning too, so that would ensure people stayed under cover. Excellent. It was actually a half-decent shower. Lights were on behind drawn curtains but there was no twitch of those curtains, as far as he could tell.
This was the moment. He’d need to be quick. Opening the boot again, it took all his strength to urge and then haul Rupert out of its cradle. The youngster was already lost to most of his senses but he hoped there might be just enough consciousness left in him to feel the friction and killing power of the tarmac. He allowed Rupert to slump to the road. The other end of the rope was tied quickly to the bumper as he’d rehearsed tirelessly.
‘Bye, Rupert,’ he said casually, before he got into the car and drove, trying not to let the tyres squeal on the newly slicked road. It wouldn’t take speed – the bump and grind of bitumen against the skull, and fragile bones breaking as the noose tightened and tightened around the neck of someone deeply drugged and fully gagged meant death was certain.
As the man who called himself Peter reached the kink in the road, he climbed quickly from the idling car, sawed at the rope with a sharp hacksaw, then carefully but swiftly headed back down the street, avoiding what might be blood and without so much as looking back at the huddle of the corpse that had been Rupert Brownlow. Turning into a side street that again had no CCTV, he found a spot to leave the car to be picked up another time.
It was as though he and that darker person parted company once the killing was done and he became himself again to walk off into the night, taking every back road towards the railway station. A soft smile creased his expression while a sense of satisfaction took over but with no pleasure attached as he made his way back to London. A good night’s work on behalf of the victims of Britain’s crime and the legal system that didn’t punish the perpetrators.
The receptionist was calling his name. He hadn’t read a word of the magazine he had open on his lap. He blinked back to the present. ‘Lost to the fairies,’ he admitted with his best smile, and she returned it.
‘Doctor’s ready. You can go through,’ she said, beaming.
4
Joan Field lifted an immaculately shaped eyebrow, covering everything from a welcome to ‘how do we find ourselves here?’
‘Mother,’ Jack said, using the affectionate nickname he reserved for the implacable Joan, who would now field calls, people and dramas for the forthcoming op. He kissed her cheek. She had lost none of her matriarchal glamour – if he could term it that way. She had to be well into her sixties and he noticed she was no longer colouring her hair but allowing the grey to silver through what had originally been a true blonde. She was not especially tall, but she kept herself lean and wore simple column-like dresses that lengthened her appearance. She was of the breed that liked to carry beautiful handbags to match impeccable shoes. How she kept them unscuffed and polished through a single day in London was a marvel, but these were simply aspects to admire in an all-round splendid person who he knew every major operation would benefit from having on its team. There was no finer gatekeeper than Joan.
‘Wicked boy. You haven’t visited in so long,’ she replied in the tone of a lightly vexed parent. She risked squeezing his hand in a way that asked so much more than her next question. ‘You look very fit and tanned. Some might say unfairly so.’
‘Cap Ferrat,’ he answered, deflecting the compliments.
‘How dashing . . . a yacht, I hope?’
He grinned. ‘I have a friend who moves in those circles.’
‘Yes, so I hear.’
He cut her a look of mock despair.
‘How are you getting along, Jack?’
‘I felt pretty good this morning, Joan.’ He knew what she was really asking but he’d got by this last year by being vague. He had no plan to change tack.
‘But I’m guessing Martin’s news didn’t thrill?’
She was the only person in all of Scotland Yard, Jack was sure, who addressed everyone by their first names.
‘It didn’t.’
‘But someone has to do it. Congratulations, by the way,’ she said, beaming.
‘For what?’ He looked back at her, puzzled.
‘Your promotion.’
‘News travels fast. When did you hear?’
‘The day before yesterday. You?’
‘Today,’ he said, looking pained.
Joan smiled indulgently. ‘I’m glad Martin leaned on you. I hear there’s a fourth death.’
‘Joan, how do you know these things before anyone else?’
She tapped her nose as if to say she couldn’t possibly reveal her source. ‘I’ve taken some liberties.’
‘Tell me.’ He wandered over to the window and gazed towards Big Ben. From the European Desk he could see the famous clock and most of the landmarks of the city, but down here on the seventh floor, it was only other tower blocks that stared back at him. ‘Well, at least no one will be distracted by the view,’ he remarked.
‘Now, now,’ Joan admonished him. ‘Look, we even have a newfangled coffee machine. No other operation has one.’
Jack gave an unintelligible grumble.
‘No, look, Jack. Pretty little capsules.’ She held up a tiny purple pyramid. ‘Now everyone can be a barista.’
‘You’re joking.’ Jack leaned in to stare at the capsule.
‘I know you’re a coffee snob and I told Martin we had to pander to your weakness.’
He plucked the coffee pyramid from her palm and sniffed, then shook it. ‘Joan, I think you should run MI5 for your ability to gather information. Are you sure this works?’
‘George Clooney thinks so.’
‘What’s this one?’
‘Purple, for royalty – that’s you, Jack, in police terms. Only the best. A combination of Central and South American arabicas offering roasted cocoa notes, I’m assured.’
‘Wow.’ He laughed.
‘Care to try?’
‘Only if you go first,’ he said, with feigned trepidation.
‘Back in a tick.’
He couldn’t complain about their digs. Martin had been generous to accommodate them in enviable surrounds, spacious enough for a proper incident room and an office and partitions. For such a small, under-the-radar operation, it was obvious that it had serious intent. He heard curious mechanical sounds and gurgling from the back and within moments Joan returned, carrying a pair of steaming brews.
It was hot, he’d grant her that. Jack sipped. He wanted to hate it with all of his heart. ‘Actually . . .’
‘I know.’ She grinned. ‘It’s not half bad, Jack. It will do.’
He nodded. He allowed himself to luxuriate in his second sip as he considered the next steps
, although Joan was ahead of him on that path.
‘Cam Brodie is going under cover up in Scotland so I’ve let him be, but Malek Khan is on his way,’ she explained, ticking off notes on her pad. ‘They were contacted yesterday.’
Yesterday. He gave an expression that said I give up. ‘Sarah?’
‘DS Jones is returning early from her holidays but is still a week away. Wild horses wouldn’t keep her from this one. Besides, who else can manipulate the database as well as she?’
‘No one.’
She briefed him on some constables. Then only one name hung between them. Jack knew he would have to say it.
‘What about Kate?’
‘I haven’t reached out to her yet,’ Joan said with caution. ‘I thought it should be your call. Do you see her?’
He gave a casual shrug that he knew Joan would see through immediately. ‘On paper we should run into each other frequently as we’re both headquartered on the sixteenth floor. But I’ve been away in Australia, as you know, and then when I returned to head up the European Desk, she’d already been sent over to her new base at Heathrow. Anyway, she’s doing a very good job over at Special Branch.’
‘So I hear.’
‘Maybe we shouldn’t disturb that.’
Joan nodded. ‘Maybe. Although Kate will surely feel affronted not to be asked.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘My big nose tells me so, especially if the old gang is back with you.’
‘All right. I’ll contact her.’
‘Good. But do it this afternoon – she’s in this building for a meeting, and then you won’t have to traipse over to Heathrow.’ At his open mouth, she gave him a smug look.
Mirror Man Page 4