Mirror Man

by McIntosh, Fiona

‘What about here? When can we be set up?’

  ‘Desks, phones, mobiles, computers . . . all that gear will start arriving in about an hour. Apparently, we have top priority. Seems your name opens doors, Jack.’

  He gave a snort. ‘Flattery, Joan.’ He waggled a finger at her.

  ‘I know. That grey at your temple is just splendid. You look strong again.’ He knew she was finally getting around to referring to his history, to how broken he’d looked the last time she worked with him. She gave him another caring smile that reached right beneath his defences, and a hug. ‘You doing all right?’

  ‘Better, Joan. Much better.’

  She didn’t hesitate now, and he admired her courage. ‘And have you seen her?’

  He knew she was referring to Anne McEvoy, the woman he’d fallen in love with only to discover that she was Britain’s modern-day female serial killer. ‘I try not to. It hurts us both, to be honest.’

  She nodded her understanding.

  ‘Her little girl is probably getting on for two by now,’ he added. ‘I suspect they’ll be taking Samantha away from her very soon, if they haven’t already. I know how much she loves her.’

  ‘Most mothers do, you know,’ Joan said gently. ‘And Anne McEvoy, despite her history, is probably a very good mum, given her own sad childhood.’

  ‘She’s also an incredible person, who is deeply damaged and . . .’ He didn’t finish. There was no point in justifying the notorious murderer. The fact that he’d fallen in love with her alter ego was irrelevant.

  ‘Where is she now?’

  ‘Still at Holloway.’ He pulled a face of embarrassment. ‘It’s where, on paper, she deserves to be but I hope she’ll get out of that hideous place and into a different facility. She’s got her whole lonely life ahead of her behind prison doors, so . . .’ He shrugged, knowing it was a pointless hope.

  Joan managed to convey pity without turning her expression sympathetic. Perhaps she, more than all the others, knew how fond of Anne he’d become in his ignorance, though once he’d learned her true intent, he’d pursued her with relentlessness until he found her. He could tell that Joan understood all of this. ‘I don’t see her, but I keep in touch with the governor; she’s very understanding. Tells me that Anne’s a model prisoner. She’s taken it upon herself to teach the youngsters better writing skills, among other activities, I gather. I had no idea she had a master’s and PhD in criminology. She told me when we met that she’d studied business and commerce at university.’

  ‘I suppose if she had told you, it would have been a striking talking point. Your two worlds would have been instantly closer in all the ways she would not have wanted you to appreciate.’

  ‘I suppose. In prison she’s managed to persuade a top psych to supervise her through her practical. She’s working with the inmates as an in-house clinical psychologist.’

  ‘Good grief.’

  It felt powerful to surprise Joan, and he grinned. ‘I know. She’s set up one-on-one sessions, group sessions and special community activities that she’s designed to help her patients.’

  ‘She might as well. There’s only a prison cell to look forward to.’

  ‘Exactly.’ He shrugged again.

  DI Kate Carter had been working at Special Branch for the last fifteen months. The career shift had been deliberate, to take back control of her life after having nearly died on her notorious previous case; bad dreams that the Beijing-born surgeon was removing and stealing her face still chased her around some nights. But after the breakdown of her romantic relationship – the one she’d so wanted to work, with a man she admired and respected, certainly laughed with – she’d felt adrift.

  It had ended in a dignified manner over a curry at their local; no shouting, no hand-wringing, no tears. A conversation had begun over a balti and ended with a foamy twist of sweet ice cream from a van doing a summer night run. As the driver had driven off, the familiar ‘Greensleeves’ had sounded its tinny tune into the night, taking their affections with it and haunting their frank discussion about calling it quits. Even now, seven months on, she could still shake her head in surprise at how maturely they’d arrived at the decision to part. DCI Geoff Benson had been good to her, but their important, time-demanding jobs had kept them apart too much.

  Alone again, she thought, as she scattered the instant coffee granules into a mug and reached to depress the bubbling urn’s handle to make another hideously ordinary cup of coffee. It would be her second today and it was only ten; had she really been here since seven? Much too eager!

  ‘Kate?’

  ‘Yeah, hi.’ She swung around to see one of her junior colleagues. ‘Won’t be a mo.’

  ‘Someone in reception for you.’

  ‘Who is it?’ She frowned. She had no appointments today.

  ‘No idea, sorry.’

  She sighed and poured the steaming black liquid down the sink. Didn’t need the caffeine anyway. Kate made her way across the seventeenth floor, threading her path around desks that were now occupied, with phones ringing and computers whirring. She preferred it here at Scotland Yard than her new base at London Heathrow, had even thought about quitting when they’d asked her to transfer there, but she hadn’t . . . Instead she’d obediently moved because even she could see that what she needed now was stability. Trips back to Scotland Yard were treats and she would be here for a couple of days. She was looking forward to them.

  She fielded the nods and wearied morning greetings from her Special Branch colleagues but nearly stopped in her tracks when she saw who her visitor was. She kept walking, though, trying not to show anything more than a bright smile. Inwardly, she was appalled at how he could still unnerve her normally tight composure.

  ‘Morning, K—, er, DI—’ The receptionist didn’t finish because Kate spoke over her.

  ‘Jack.’

  ‘Hello, Kate.’

  She hadn’t heard that voice in too long.

  He stepped forward and made it tough by kissing her cheek and then made it even worse by kissing the other. ‘You look fabulous as always.’

  She found a smile in spite of the way he managed to make her insides clench. ‘You look tanned.’

  ‘The mark of the Australian sunshine lingers . . . I also had a weekend recently on the French Riviera – Cap Ferrat.’ He paused and refocused on Kate. ‘Time for a coffee?’

  ‘Here?’ She gestured over her shoulder, surprised.

  Jack grimaced. ‘No, but I promise not to keep you long.’

  ‘I’ll grab my bag,’ she said, moving in a slight blur. She knew all her body language was suddenly awkward and far too brisk.

  ‘Enjoy your coffee,’ the receptionist said, beaming at Jack. Hot! she mouthed to Kate, who returned a look of deep exasperation.

  Kate would never walk this far for a coffee, but Jack insisted and now, seated at a small table by the window, he looked like a man who had just found nirvana.

  ‘Not bad,’ he sighed after his first sip.

  ‘I don’t get it.’ She smiled.

  ‘I know. You’re part of the heathen pack that would accept coffee that looks like a tequila sunrise, served in an Irish whiskey glass.’

  ‘So why are you visiting this heathen?’ she asked, liking how the mellow quality of his voice could put her at ease.

  ‘I need you.’

  She breathed out, enjoying his directness and also how it landed; it made her feel special on a morning when she couldn’t imagine anything more perfect being said to her by this man in particular. ‘Tell me, Jack.’ She pushed her hair behind her ears, smelling the Moroccan oil that she’d lightly run through to stop it frizzing.

  He did, quietly spilling everything he knew to date and giving her a sense of dread that was echoed in his expression. ‘The Brownlow death convinced me that the Super’s onto something.’

  ‘And we’ve got to keep a low profile?’

  He grinned gently. ‘So . . . you’re in?’

  ‘I can hardly say no when
you spoil a girl with expensive coffee.’

  ‘Let me woo you more properly, then. Dinner?’

  ‘Woo?’ She tried to make it light, teasing. It didn’t come out that way and she saw his spirited expression darken. Kate knew she needed to reverse, couldn’t have Jack worried that she still had feelings. ‘I don’t need wooing. I enjoy what I’ve been doing at Special Branch.’

  He nodded. ‘I know, but I need your experience and clarity.’

  ‘I suspect the Chief views you the same way,’ she said, enjoying the compliment from him but not allowing her pleasure to show too brightly.

  He sighed. ‘Yes. I was in the midst of a big European op, but Martin wouldn’t let me see it through. He needs all his best people on this.’

  ‘I trust him as you do, and none of this sounds good – not that I care much about the victims, but it means there’s another killer out there.’

  He drained his coffee and looked up expectantly. ‘So that’s a yes?’

  ‘To dinner? Anytime, no rush. To your new op?’ She knew this should be a no because it only meant heartache to be working alongside him, but she shrugged. ‘Definitely. I’ll have to clear my desk – it will probably take me today to hand over to DCI—’

  ‘Hand over to your team. But don’t worry about the DCI – I can fix that. It’s Jeffries, isn’t it?’

  She nodded with a questioning frown.

  ‘I’m Detective Superintendent as of yesterday, apparently.’

  ‘Wow, Jack. Congrats. You don’t look thrilled.’

  ‘I just don’t know if it’s what I want.’

  ‘Bloody hell. Of course you do. We need people like you in charge. Everyone wants to work for you . . . you’re a good manager of people and you get results. Jeffries is a lot of bluster and he doesn’t listen to what his team wants or needs.’

  He grinned. ‘Heathrow getting you down?’

  ‘I hate it.’

  ‘Well, from this moment you are now officially based here on the seventh floor. Joan’s waiting for you with a new coffee machine and a sense of carte blanche that we can have whatever we need. They don’t want this blowing up in the media.’

  She nodded. ‘All the old gang?’

  ‘You, me, Malek. Cam’s undercover. But Sarah’s rushing back from Jordan.’

  ‘Of course she is. Everyone else goes to the French Riviera but Sarah’s probably in her anorak right now stomping around Petra.’

  ‘Don’t be mean. I was sorry to hear about you and Geoff, by the way. I thought you two were a brilliant pairing because you were such opposites.’

  She grinned sadly. ‘You’re right about opposites. Geoff wanted a family.’

  ‘And you don’t?’

  ‘Well, it’s not that. Firstly, I think I’d be rubbish at motherhood, but more to the point, I was honest about my career aspirations. Geoff wanted family but didn’t plan on compromising his work to do so . . . and I was fearful that all the responsibility would have settled on my shoulders.’

  ‘To address the first, you doubt yourself too much. It’s like learning to drive, according to my sister – very scary but the only way is taking that wheel.’

  She nodded, appreciating the sentiment. ‘But one can stop driving. One can enjoy being driven by others or take public transport. Children . . . very frightening business.’

  He chuckled. ‘As for careers, I understand – Geoff’s senior and is only going to become more senior, because he’s a seriously good policeman.’

  ‘And I didn’t want to ruin his trajectory or dreams by being that harried wife who demanded he be home to read the bedtime story. I also worried that I might not be happy always being the person to tuck the children in. I remain genuinely suspicious that motherhood won’t be enough for me, but admitting that in the open is to welcome criticism. I want to be a good mum, if I do have children . . . and I don’t want to blame them for me not realising my potential and all that stuff women wrestle with today. I wasn’t sensing a similar compromise in Geoff.’

  ‘No rush,’ Jack said and she was grateful for his neutrality on this point.

  She revealed her pressing fear though, because if not to Jack, then who? She had no best girlfriends to unravel this sort of emotional knot with. What was wrong with her to not have a trustworthy pal? She smiled to herself though, realising she did have someone – him. ‘I’m thirty-two. Time is ticking.’

  ‘He loved you with every ounce,’ Jack said, and it struck Kate that he said this hesitantly, as though he knew he was taking a risk airing the notion. But he and Geoff were the best of friends. Poor Jack . . . bestie to both of them and probably why he had avoided these friends in recent times.

  ‘I do know that, I promise.’ She shook her head. ‘I really worried that I was going to hurt him.’

  ‘You did.’

  ‘It could have been worse if it was complicated by marriage, family, pets, property.’

  ‘And that’s wholly true. Maybe it’s all of that responsibility that makes you reluctant.’

  She looked at him in query.

  ‘Looking up and realising you’ve followed tradition and that the career isn’t everything that motivates you.’

  She didn’t know what to say to that, so she changed the subject. ‘So . . . Cap Ferrat, Jack? Know a few millionaires, do you?’

  ‘A few.’ He grinned.

  She knew he wasn’t going to give her more information, but she suspected a woman was involved somewhere. There always was with Jack.

  5

  The oncologist, Dr Monkhouse, looked back at Colin with a baleful expression. No doubt this was the default arrangement of his features when delivering bad news, Colin thought. ‘We did prepare for this,’ the clinician said, using his soothing voice.

  The man nodded. ‘Yes, we did,’ he agreed, sounding resigned as he watched Monkhouse switch off the lightbox that had lit the CT scan of his body under attack.

  ‘Bladder cancer is a tricky foe. You can’t test for it, you can’t take much precaution against it . . . other than the obvious of eating, living healthily and not smoking.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘It’s not choosy, although having said that, it does seem to prefer men.’

  He nodded. ‘So I gather.’

  ‘I know you’ve come to me for a second opinion, and I can’t help but wonder why you didn’t act upon the diagnosis when the early signs were detected?’

  He wanted to tell the oncologist to mind his own business; instead he smiled in a guarded way. ‘There was some emotional trauma in my life that prevented me from taking action when I first noticed the blood in my urine. The fact is, we can’t go backwards.’

  ‘No, that’s true. I mention it only because treatment can be effective in those early stages, especially with urothelial carcinoma. I presume this has all been explained?’

  ‘Thank you, yes. I have a full understanding of my ailment.’

  ‘Good.’ The doctor nodded, returning to his seat behind his desk where he sat in front of an impressive array of framed certificates.

  An old-fashioned clock ticked time away and his patient was sure his heartbeat had synchronised with the clock to remind him that his life’s end was likely in sight . . . that he might even count it in months – even weeks – rather than years. He would need to escalate his plans, take as many as he could before he too checked out. ‘And now?’ he asked. ‘I mean, is there a next step?’

  Monkhouse attempted a smile. It didn’t quite work. ‘There’s always a next step. You’ve had the urogram and retrograde pyelogram; next I’d like you to have an MRI together with a bone scan and a chest X-ray. I want to know exactly what we’re dealing with here.’

  ‘Gosh, and there I was thinking it was serious.’

  The oncologist’s gaze flashed up from his file.

  ‘Gallows humour.’ He shrugged.

  Monkhouse sucked his lips. ‘Oh well, sometimes that helps. I’m ordering all of this so we can get a proper fix on the stage you’
re at.’

  He nodded. ‘Whether it’s spread, you mean?’

  ‘I do. Ignorance is not bliss in my profession. Armed appropriately, we can use our weapons better,’ he said. ‘So let’s get all of that completed as a matter of urgency. The receptionist will make all the necessary appointments for you.’ He held up a finger to stop the patient leaving as he buzzed through. His nurse’s voice answered. ‘Er, yes, Beth, would you organise . . .’ Colin couldn’t be bothered to listen. Tuning out the raft of tests being ordered, he scanned the ordered room; he appreciated that it was hugged by warm timbers and leather-covered books.

  The doctor returned his gaze to the patient he had no idea was a serial murderer. ‘So, I’d like to see you in . . . let’s say four weeks, and we’ll formulate how we go forward with treatment?’ His patient nodded. ‘In the meantime, I would urge you to refrain from alcohol and any recreational drugs. You look strong for your age.’

  ‘I exercise daily, a brisk few miles, do weights twice a week and some yoga most mornings.’

  ‘Well, I wish more of my patients would keep up their end of the bargain. The seesaw is always unfairly weighted at the medical team that is supposed to perform miracles.’

  ‘I’m not anticipating a miracle, Doctor Monkhouse. I’m simply keen to know how long I have.’

  The oncologist gave a nod. ‘I’m sorry, that really wasn’t directed at you. I believe you’re in excellent shape to fight alongside the medics.’

  ‘Good. Thank you, Doctor. See you in a month, then.’

  Colin stepped out onto one of the most iconic streets of London and into a cool spring day, glad that he’d taken the precaution of an extra layer beneath his raincoat. It would surely rain today but he might get home before the cloudburst. Opulent Harley Street was synonymous with top medical care; even Florence Nightingale had opened up her practice in the late nineteenth century in one of the houses in this delicious sweep of Georgian terraces.

  All this private care was costing him a mint, but what did it matter in the greater scheme of his life? He had no one to leave it to, no family left to mourn him. So using it to prolong his ability to continue his important work felt worthy. Ensuring criminals paid their dues, while answering the need to empty prisons; his was a neat solution to a modern dilemma. Justice. If he could believe that Britain would rally for more justice in the system, then he would let go and let the cancer have him. There was no joy in life left anyway. Not even this sparkly spring day could make him smile within. He couldn’t remember the last time his mouth had lifted with genuine pleasure . . . he would have to dig back many years to a time when smiling had been as natural for him as breathing.