Kate took over again. ‘So . . . why would Peggy, with every reason to live, kill herself in this way? If you’re going to overdose, presumably you’d inject into a vein in your arm; you wouldn’t stick yourself in the neck, would you?’ All of those watching shook their heads or murmured. She opened her palms. ‘And certainly not in a public parkland.’ The others agreed. ‘If someone from the criminal underworld wanted Peggy dead, they’d have so many other less public, less weird ways to finish her. Whoever did this wasn’t a professional because professionals minimise all risk. This guy – if it is a guy,’ she said, not meaning to glance Jack’s way but doing so anyway and feeling herself blush at the memory of Anne McEvoy, ‘simply wanted her dead, it seems. It could also be more than one person. Anyway, she was stuck with the needle and left under the tree with no further interference. Whoever did this is pretty slick, because there’s little trace of their presence.’
‘Winter?’ Mal asked.
‘Yes,’ Jack said. ‘Around nightfall. No one in their right mind is strolling through Finsbury Park on a wintry Tuesday night at dinnertime.’ He shrugged. ‘But maybe we can find another reason . . . another connection.’
‘You’ll read in your files that she was propped up against a tree off the main pathways in a lightly wooded area,’ Kate added.
‘And no sign of sexual abuse?’ PC Ali Johnson asked, as if Kate’s earlier explanation was not enough.
‘No, as I said, no additional interference,’ Kate admitted, without any vexation in her tone. ‘That in itself is an oddity too. If this was an angry punter, some other sort of criminal who was offended by Peggy, then presumably they’d have used her criminal activities symbolically in her death. But she was tidily murdered.’
The group let out a collective sigh as Kate stepped across to point out the third death.
‘Finally, we have Alan Toomey.’ At the murmurs, Kate nodded. ‘Yes, most of you will have heard about it in the news but let’s go through it. Alan Toomey, forty-two, went down for killing a pregnant woman who was just four weeks away from delivering her child. Jennifer Shaw was riding in a bicycle lane towards the nursery school to pick up her daughter. Toomey was speeding and took out Ms Shaw as he misjudged a slip road outside a Morrisons supermarket. She was declared brain dead, her baby was delivered by caesarean section, and now her two daughters are being raised by her husband and their two grieving families.’ Kate couldn’t entirely hide the disgust in her tone.
‘Toomey served just nine months – the length that her pregnancy should have been – because he had excellent legal representation and he presented very sympathetically at his trial, showing extreme contrition. His wife and four children, including a baby in arms, attended court daily and that certainly helped him. After serving his short sentence, he moved with his family to Norfolk but was found dead by the side of a country road. He used to take the family dog for a walk along a particular route every night after dark, and it was the dog arriving home without its owner that sounded the alert. He’d been run down and driven over a couple of times.’ She watched people look down in shock, but she sensed a quiet sense of justice floating around them all. ‘No witnesses have come forward despite numerous call-outs.’
‘Kate, may I?’ She nodded at Jack, who continued. ‘Again, you might be tempted to think he got what he deserved, but please remember that Alan Toomey was convicted of involuntary manslaughter. At the trial, witnesses testified that the victim had swerved outside of the cycle lane. I’m not saying she was culpable, but there were some mitigating reasons for how it all unfolded. The speeding was actually misleading; he was driving six miles above the limit but he was on an incline coming off the motorway; his blood showed no toxicity for any form of drugs or alcohol. Importantly, and what we’re about, is that the person who snuffed out Alan Toomey is potentially guilty of first-degree murder. And as police, we must treat each death with the same care, no matter the victim’s history.’ He nodded to reinforce this cautionary note, and Kate suspected Jack had also sensed the moral dilemma that some in the room were wrestling with. ‘One more that we received news about yesterday, and this will no doubt be in the media by tomorrow – do you all recall Rupert Brownlow?’
There was joint agreement and a sense of shock that he was on this killer’s hitlist.
‘Well, he could be our latest victim if we have a single perpetrator. He was murdered two nights ago in Portsmouth. We’re waiting for the forensics and the post-mortem to tell us whether he was dead before or after he was dragged by the neck from a rope attached to a car. I’m sorry, I didn’t have details of this to pin up. We only heard about it yesterday, but Joan is getting the files for each of you on this most recent slaughter.’
It was Mal who aired what Kate suspected everyone was thinking. ‘A vigilante?’
She gave a small shrug. ‘It’s not for us to judge, though I think we’d all agree that’s how it looks. These deaths are scattered . . . London, now Portsmouth, Norfolk and Eastbourne. The acting chief wants to know if we can link them. That’s our job, first and foremost: to find evidence that supports there being a single perpetrator committing these murders. Any questions?’
Silence met her gaze.
Jack gave a nod. ‘Thanks, Kate. That’s a lot to take in, I know. I suggest all of you take time this morning to read the files fully and absorb them. This afternoon, you start hitting your contacts, working your networks, following every clue, compiling every ounce of knowledge. We’ll break the workload into individual murders to follow and then compare notes. I want every detail you can hunt down pertaining to each of these deaths by Wednesday, and then we’ll work out our next step. Hit the caffeine, everyone, and today, morning tea is on me, because I don’t like anyone working on an empty stomach.’ Sounds of approval accompanied Joan’s arrival with a platter of muffins.
‘Don’t get used to this, boys and girls,’ she said, smiling.
8
Kate took Malek aside as the group broke up. ‘Can you set up who works on which case?’ He nodded. ‘Spread the skills, keeping in mind that Sarah’s back any minute and will need at least one slave.’
‘Righto,’ Mal agreed. ‘I can organise that. Um, I was thinking about putting the word out through our snitches. I’m out of touch with the word on the ground though.’
She nodded. ‘Yes, that’s smart. Any intel we can gather from anywhere, even from the crims themselves, is vital. We’ll run that by Hawk, as he’ll need to get us access via the handlers. I’ll mention it but you can follow up.’
He gave a finger salute. ‘I might also have a word with my contacts in the Turkish community, see if they know anything about this Ekrem Çelik fellow who hired the escort. If the chief wants us to hunt down every avenue . . .’
‘That’s a great thought, Mal. Good stuff,’ Kate said. ‘Go for it, we don’t have long. I’m going to speak with my contacts at Special Branch too. I don’t care where tip-offs come from. Take a couple of days, but any leads, let me or Hawk know.’
Mal departed to his desk and Kate went looking for Jack. She found him scowling at a charcoal-coloured foil pyramid in the kitchen area. She laughed. ‘Are you offended by it?’
‘Deeply,’ he admitted.
‘They do look pretty, though,’ she replied.
‘Fancy the real thing?’
She didn’t hesitate and liked the upbeat feeling that overtook her when they both settled back into the black cab’s leather seats.
‘To Soho, please. Berwick Street,’ Jack said to the driver.
‘Just before the markets okay, guv?’ the driver said, looking at them in his rear-view mirror. ‘There’s some roadworks.’
‘Anywhere around there is fine,’ Jack said and winked at Kate. ‘You okay to walk a minute or so?’ he said, glancing at the heels on her boots.
‘I can run in these.’
They sat in an easy silence while the taxi began to slow tediously in the bottleneck of traffic. ‘And how about you these day
s, Jack? Anyone special in your life?’
He grinned at this. ‘No. I’m seeing someone but for both of us it’s simply . . .’
‘Convenient?’
He laughed. ‘I was going to say simply companionship. Neither of us wants anything more from the other than the good times we enjoy in the moment when we’re together.’
‘Good grief. What kind of amazing woman is that?’
‘A busy one,’ he said, and something in his tone told her he would not be enlightening her further.
‘And Anne McEvoy?’
He seemed to know this was coming as he didn’t strike her as unduly awkward at the mention of his former lover.
His phone pinged in his pocket. He reached for it and read the message, returning his phone to his pocket. ‘Anne is surprisingly in control of her incarceration.’ He told her about Anne’s work as a psychologist within the prison. ‘She’s very good too, I gather. Keeps her busy and engaged for the long road ahead.’
‘Over ’ere okay, mate?’
‘This is great, thanks,’ Jack said. He paid the cabbie and gave a good tip, Kate noticed, as she bundled out into the cold morning.
She shivered. ‘I hope you’re not planning to walk me far, Jack?’
‘Just over there.’ He pointed. ‘Welcome to Flat White,’ he said, pointing to the shop’s name above its large window. Kate had to look closely at the sign, created as though from an old typewriter, thin and white in the simplest of Courier fonts against an all-black shopfront. She’d miss it if she was hurrying past. ‘One of the best coffee spots in London,’ Jack assured her.
She noted a long bar running the length of one wall and tiny tables up against a bench seat that ran along the facing wall and around the corner. Jack pointed to that corner. ‘My favourite nook,’ he grinned. ‘Go get comfy.’
‘I’ll have . . .’ she began.
‘Allow me,’ he said. And she shrugged her acceptance that he knew his coffee. He returned with two thickish Italian-style cups in a Mediterranean blue; he didn’t sit in the chair opposite, but next to her on the bench. She could feel his warmth through her thin sweater. She focused on the elegantly wrought pattern of a tiny heart picked out in steamed milk against the rich caramel colour of the coffee’s crema. ‘No froth?’ she said to tease him.
He gave her a look of disdain and she enjoyed the mirth his horror instantly provoked in her. ‘Taste it,’ he urged.
‘Gosh, you’re so intense, Jack.’ He waited, impatient. Kate sipped and blinked. She sipped again and raised her gaze to him.
He gave a smug nod. ‘You now understand the secret to the universe. This café was opened by an Aussie who was troubled, presumably, by what we have been claiming for years to be Italian-style coffee.’
She laughed again. ‘All right. This is delicious, I’ll grant you.’
He smiled. ‘Everyone happy back at base?’
‘Excited, I think.’
‘You were good this morning, Kate.’
She hoped she wasn’t blushing because a compliment from Jack meant so much more than one from most others. ‘Thanks. Listen, Jack, just for the record, I don’t think we’re dealing with any of London’s known criminals here. Nothing gang-related, I mean.’
He nodded. ‘My instincts say the same.’
‘Good. I thought I might be out on a limb.’
Jack sipped his coffee, savouring it. ‘The deaths are too contrived, too messy, too dangerous for me to believe these are hits by any of the known criminal groups, but they are also too bizarre to all be random crimes by a variety of individuals.’
‘Don’t believe in coincidence, Jack?’
He slid her a wry gaze. ‘Martin hammered into me years ago that the suggestion of coincidence is ninety-nine per cent wrong. And every time the thought bubbles, it should drive us to look harder.’
Kate waited a beat. ‘So . . . can we treat this as a serial killer?’
‘Between us, yes, that’s my position. I wish I could stop myself thinking it. I really do not want to be heading up another serial killer op.’
‘And yet here you are,’ she said, sounding resigned. ‘A vigilante, do you think?’
He looked troubled at that. ‘I really don’t want to believe we have one of those on the loose. The media will make it a circus and the public will subsequently panic. I can’t think why one would exist for the deaths of known criminals.’
‘One death, maybe, as payback. But none of these seem related. How is one person offended by all these people? The crimes are inconsistent in victim, method, setting . . . there’s no pattern and few forensics.’
‘No pattern we can discern immediately,’ he pondered aloud. ‘But if we’re right, we’ll find the pattern and the connection. Sarah’s the key to that. The message in the taxi was from her – she’s planning to be in tomorrow morning.’
‘Great. I do hope she brings her anorak as well.’
‘Now, now, Kate.’
She smiled. ‘We’ll need to brief her carefully. The more strategic her search, the faster and better the information.’
He sighed. ‘I really just want her to input bizarre deaths in Britain’s criminal underworld and give us some answers.’
She smiled, finishing her coffee. ‘Yes, wouldn’t that be simple? We’ll need help getting permission to contact handlers of police informers – the problem is it will be across all divisions, presumably.’
‘Let’s start with Vice. I’ll make the call and the team can take it from there.’
She nodded. ‘Mal is going to talk to the Turkish community to find out more about the fellow who used Peggy’s services. Can’t hurt.’
‘I agree. I think starting as broadly as we dare is wise. What about you?’
‘I’m going to put the word out through Special Branch, but I thought I’d talk to the various police stations that were involved in each of the crimes. There are the files, but then there are all those aspects that perhaps get overlooked and never reach the files.’
‘Wet memories . . . powerful. Yep, that’s good, Kate.’
‘Jack, don’t jump down my throat, but how often do you see Anne McEvoy?’ He looked at her with a sense of exasperation and she apologised, holding up a hand. ‘No, wait, hear me out. It’s about our op.’
‘What has Anne got to do with this?’ His gaze narrowed and she felt she’d left the safety of friendship and was now on a tightrope. Anne always was and probably always would be his tender underbelly.
‘Look, it’s a wild idea but why not ask her . . . get her perspective?’
‘On what?’
She remained patient. ‘I doubt you ever had the chance to meet Anne the killer; you were spending time with the lovely woman walking around as Sophie from your apartment block. Why don’t you go meet the prisoner serving all those life sentences and ask her about her planning for those kills?’ He looked horrified but Kate pressed on. ‘Jack, how often do we get the sort of opportunity you might have to get into a serial killer’s mind? I’m not suggesting you’re trying to find out what makes her tick, but more about the logistics and the practical side of planning a kill. We can guess at it, or we can speak with a profiler, but blimey, Jack, she’s done it enough times to enlighten us on . . .’ — she shrugged — ‘on just the nerves alone. How do you go through with it when the moment comes? You’ve just applauded the idea of wet memories, experience. Well, anything we do is based on dry fact. Even a profiler can only brief us based on information lifted from recorded detail. We have a chance to leap into those wet memories with McEvoy.’ She risked squeezing his arm, not sure if it was to reassure him or simply to touch him under the guise of making a persuasive argument. ‘The murders suggest a serial killer. This person is not an opportunist. If we agree that these are not random deaths, then the intention comes with planning. Remember, the McEvoy crimes ranged over southern England and we took a while to connect them to one killer. You’ve just told me all about McEvoy’s work as a criminal psychologist
. Surely she’d have some insight . . . She could be an amazing yin and yang kind of counsel – offering up both sides, you know?’ She frowned. ‘Am I being stupid?’
He frowned back, perplexed. ‘I don’t know if it’s stupid or inspired. I don’t really want to see her, but it does bear thinking on.’
‘Then think on it.’
He sighed. ‘Let’s head back. But I owe you dinner.’
‘You bought me a great coffee. Consider us square,’ she offered.
‘No, no, I mean it. How about Friday night? Are you busy?’
She hadn’t been on a date since she’d farewelled Geoff, but she reminded herself that this was not a romantic date. ‘Probably cleaning the fridge or something. Actually, that’s a lie – I never clean it. Sorting out my underwear drawer, then.’ She immediately wished she hadn’t said that; damn, he made her say stupid things.
He smiled. ‘Friday evening it is, then, Operation Mirror permitting. Seven okay?’
‘It’s fine. Where?’
‘My place,’ he said.
‘You’re cooking?’
‘You get to taste my chicken risotto. And if you can hold off getting cranky with me between now and then, I’ll make a dessert.’
‘Cranky?’
‘I know I vex you.’ He grinned.
‘All men vex me, it’s not personal,’ she said in a droll tone. She let him help her back into her coat. ‘I don’t know where you live, by the way.’
‘I’ll text you. Come on, Mother will be getting impatient with us. And I’ve just thought of something.’
Mirror Man Page 8