Mirror Man

by McIntosh, Fiona

  ‘Good, then I’ll be on my way. Bye, Lauren—’

  ‘No, wait . . . wait! Okay . . .’ Lauren frowned. ‘Surely the police are looking into these deaths as suspicious.’

  ‘That’s not a question.’ Angela drained her glass.

  ‘All right. Are the police looking into the killings I mentioned as a collective series of murders rather than individual cases?’ Lauren blinked, surprised at just how targeted that sounded.

  Angela actually smirked. ‘Are you asking me if we’re investigating a serial killer?’

  Lauren didn’t realise until this moment that this was precisely her question. ‘Have I hit on anything, Ange? I will never divulge a source. I will never say anything to your sister. I will never phone you again if that’s your wish. I swear on the lives of my twin nephews that I will not bring any trouble to your door.’

  She watched Angela breathe out as she weighed up how much to reveal. ‘I’m not going to discuss police operations with you, Lauren. Here’s my farewell to you – and you’d better keep faith with what you’ve just promised.’

  Lauren nodded. ‘Deal.’

  ‘There’s a newly promoted Detective Super called Jack Hawksworth. He’s worth a look.’ Angela stood, slung her bag over her shoulder and eased out of the bench. ‘Thanks for the drink. Hope never to see or hear from you again, Lauren.’

  ‘Jack Hawksworth,’ Lauren repeated, frowning, pushing away the cut of Ange’s words, and then looked up to see her friend’s back as she shouldered a path away through the crowd of early evening drinkers.

  10

  ‘Jack, look who’s arrived,’ Kate said, as he picked up his messages from Joan.

  He turned and his face lit up. ‘Sarah! Thank you for coming home early.’

  She looked embarrassed by the fuss. He glanced at the familiar brown anorak she wore, and his gaze shifted to Kate, who winked from behind Sarah’s shoulder. He kept his features even. ‘You look well.’

  ‘You looked tanned, sir. Congratulations on your promotion.’

  He walked towards her, smiling. ‘I can’t tell you how pleased I am to see you and just how much we need your help. Can I get you a coffee?’

  ‘Er, I don’t drink coffee, sir.’

  She’d lost none of her awkwardness over the last year or two, he noted. He hoped Kate had warned the newcomers that Sarah possessed a curious manner; it could often be interpreted as Asperger’s but he didn’t believe she was anything more than simply shy. She lacked the usual raft of social skills but was mostly supremely focused on her work. If he was honest, he felt like hugging her, but he knew that would be greeted with fright.

  ‘Well, grab a cuppa of something if you feel like it and let’s have a quick briefing in my office.’

  She nodded. ‘I’m ready now.’

  Of course she is, he thought, even though she hadn’t yet shifted out of her anorak. ‘Right.’

  Sarah picked up a pen and pad, and followed him into his office, not bothering to ditch her outerwear, which made a familiar swishing sound. She sat down where he gestured and pushed her owl-like glasses further up her nose. ‘Thank you for asking for me to join this op.’

  Jack smiled reassuringly. ‘I wouldn’t dream of not asking you,’ he admitted, his words true. She found a crooked smile that conveyed how much those words meant to her. ‘Has Kate had a chance to give you an overview?’

  ‘I’ve read the files, sir. And Kate answered my immediate queries.’

  He anticipated that she would have read everything she could before pulling her backpack off her shoulders. ‘Good. And you know that we’ve put Constable Beck at your disposal?’

  ‘I work better alone.’

  ‘I know, Sarah, but she’s there if you feel overwhelmed.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  He held up a hand gently, then dropped it quickly, shrugging instead. ‘You may need an errand run, a file fetched, a phone call made . . . a cup of—’ He glanced at her. ‘What do you enjoy?’

  ‘Honey and lemon in hot water, sir,’ she said, slightly defensive.

  Jack relaxed his shoulders deliberately so she could note the gesture and his widening smile. ‘Perfect. All I’m saying is, she knows the system and is keen. I think she would be worthy of learning at your elbow and, as Detective Sergeant, it won’t hurt you to pass on some of that vast knowledge, encourage a newcomer. We need more people like you.’ Sarah blinked behind the large lenses of her glasses and Jack couldn’t tell if it was because she felt complimented – as he’d intended – or irritated that her territory might be invaded. ‘She won’t be breathing down your neck, of course, but I want you to know you have some back-up.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  He moved on, sensing her desire to do just that. ‘So, how do we make the best and swiftest use of HOLMES?’

  Sarah predictably looked relieved to be getting down to business. Her forehead creased as she became immediately focused. ‘As it stands, we have disparate cases that, on the surface, bear little relation to each other. The time difference across the four victims we know about is around eighteen months.’ She paused.

  He realised she was waiting for him. ‘Is that important?’

  She gave him a look that suggested it could be. ‘Perhaps not. However, if we are dealing with one perpetrator, then he or she has been busy at the business of killing.’

  ‘One every four months, approximately.’

  ‘That we know about, sir. These are the bodies we’ve found . . . the cases we’ve picked up on.’

  Kate had appeared at the doorway. ‘Do you mind if I join?’

  Jack gestured to another seat but Kate remained in the doorway. ‘Why hide some if the ones we know of were left in the open?’ she asked Sarah, to broaden the discussion.

  ‘I agree,’ Sarah replied. ‘And unless we find a hidden grave, it seems our killer doesn’t mind these bodies being discovered. But other bodies could be anywhere and not yet found, not yet reported, or reported but not yet connected. I think we need to also look at which crims might be inexplicably missing. I’ll need to get onto the MISPER Index – we simply can’t rule it out that more victims might be missing persons.’

  Jack nodded, frowning. ‘Unless their families have let police know they’re missing, we won’t know.’

  ‘Not officially, but if we do, I’ll find them. Perhaps someone else could speak with other divisions . . . find out the word on the street?’

  ‘We’re on it,’ Kate said.

  ‘That’s good. On the surface, certainly, it appears that the killer wants his victims noticed.’ Sarah looked up to the ceiling, frowning. ‘Or maybe the killer simply doesn’t care if they are.’

  ‘Then we need some help with this,’ Kate said. ‘We don’t have the time between now and our self-imposed deadline to ponder the mindset of this killer. Let’s get a professional opinion.’

  ‘A profiler?’ Jack frowned.

  ‘Why not? Or you could follow that other suggestion of mine,’ Kate offered, pointedly.

  Jack looked away; the thought of meeting with Anne felt daunting. ‘Sarah, anything else before Kate introduces you to the rest of the team?’ he asked.

  ‘Just that if he’s killed four, then I would hazard he’s killed others,’ she said.

  ‘Kate, let’s get a message out immediately on the PNN.’

  She looked at him with caution. ‘Our police national network isn’t necessarily as secure as we’d like to think. I thought we had to work under lock and key?’

  ‘I know, but I agree with Sarah that there may be others up and down the country. We’re not helping ourselves if we can’t warn our own to brief us on any suspicious deaths of people who have been convicted.’ He sighed. ‘Keep it vague. The Met does lots of statistical research all the time, so we could veil it beneath that sort of information gathering. Put my number as the contact.’

  Sarah looked at Kate. ‘Have we got Brownlow in London?’

  ‘No,’ Kate admitted. ‘He�
�s with the Hampshire coroner.’

  Jack frowned. ‘I think under these circumstances we can have him brought to London.’

  ‘Best idea, sir,’ Sarah admitted. ‘Then we have continuity.’

  ‘I’ll have his body brought down today. We’ll ask the Chief to make the request. Actually, hang on, I’ll do that now.’ Jack removed himself, returning less than a minute later. ‘It’s done. Kate, can you get down to the morgue today? Make sure Brownlow is in and given top priority.’

  ‘Consider it done.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  Sarah hesitated and Jack looked at her. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Sir, Kate mentioned that you believe we should go back to the original crimes.’ He nodded. ‘This has to be our starting point. Without them, we simply have the unconnected deaths, which don’t really point to a single perpetrator. In fact, it’s only the hairs on the back of our necks right now that are suggesting these are linked.’

  He grinned. She’d summarised their situation perfectly.

  Kate bit her lip. ‘We have nothing to go on, to be honest, but we’ll leave no stone unturned. We’ll find the link if there is one.’

  Sarah nodded. ‘We need the original crimes collated and then we can look into any potential commonalities with the deaths.’

  ‘All right, Sarah, you focus on hunting the original crimes and collating that information. How fast?’

  She looked at her watch. ‘Er, end of the day, sir.’

  ‘That’s excellent. Don’t let me hold you up.’

  ‘It’s, er . . . it’s lovely to be working with you and all the team again, sir,’ she said.

  Jack let the full warmth of his smile fall on her. ‘Sarah, it was pure relief when I heard you were cutting your holiday short. And I’m sorry you had to do that. How was Petra, by the way?’

  ‘Very pink,’ she admitted and found a rare smile. ‘Gob-smacking, sir.’

  ‘Jack?’

  He turned to see Joan pushing past Kate at the door. He nodded at his two colleagues and they swiftly departed.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt.’

  ‘Something up?’

  ‘Possibly. There’s a journalist who has rung three times looking for you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She won’t say.’

  ‘From where?’

  ‘My Day.’

  He frowned. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘One of those dreadful rags that you pick up at supermarkets.’

  He stared at her. ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘I’m afraid not. Her name is Lauren Starling.’

  ‘Why me?’

  ‘Jack, she’s caught your scent.’

  ‘The op?’ Dismay laced his query. ‘How can she know?’

  Joan shook her head once. ‘Not the op; I reckon she’s digging to see if there is one. But perhaps she’s somehow onto the murders.’

  ‘Bollocks!’

  ‘You’re forgiven for that.’ She smiled. ‘Swear tin behind my desk for the next one.’

  ‘Fuck!’ he added and immediately began jingling the coins in his pocket to dig out the penalty.

  ‘Well, that’s going to cost you a pound coin, Jack,’ she said, leading him to her desk. She shook the empty tin. ‘First one . . . lovely. We’ll have cakes every day for morning tea if you keep this up.’

  He dropped the pound coin through the slot and Joan nodded at the satisfying sound of its arrival. ‘You need to nip this in the bud.’

  ‘When did she call?’

  ‘This morning at eight-thirty and twice since. It’s now nearing half-ten and she’s decided to visit you.’ He drooped. ‘Afraid so. She’s also savvy; got in using a false ID for one of the major newspapers but came clean to me the moment Harry called up from Reception.’

  ‘He’s signed her in?’

  ‘No. Mercifully, he rang me first. I told her my name is Margaret, so hopefully she’ll never find me again. She’s spun him a tale of talking with the media department – even quoted a name. She quoted yours too. Are you sure you don’t know her . . . slept with her, perhaps?’ He gave her a look of unbridled exasperation and she squeezed his arm. ‘Lighten up, Jack. We’ve got a serial murderer to find. A smartypants journo for a two-bit magazine is really not that important. Get rid of her. She’s waiting downstairs.’

  He sighed in frustration. ‘Right. Joan, please call me in about fifteen minutes and make up something urgent that drags me away.’

  ‘Certainly. Are you coming back here?’

  ‘No, but I’ll only be about half an hour away.’

  ‘How mysterious. Although I suspect I can guess.’ She smiled kindly and in a way that made him wish once again that Joan was family. He would give a limb to spend weekends with her, enjoying the full force of her personality, which could shift from acerbic wit to warmth; it felt like remembering a good childhood with a special family member. This particular smile of hers wrapped around him like a reassuring blanket. Of course she knew exactly where he was headed.

  He grinned his goodbye to Joan. ‘Kate?’

  ‘Yep?’ his DI said.

  ‘Let’s see who might have been recently released and who is up for imminent release.’

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘Can you narrow that down a bit?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes.’ He held up a finger. ‘Who was sent down with a sentence that the public or the media felt was too lenient.’ He raised a second finger. ‘Who has been given an early release from prison in the last few years from that list of lenient sentences . . . and . . .’ He held up a third finger, his eyes narrowing. ‘Who is about to be released early in a surprise reduction of their sentence due to the government’s decision to cull numbers in our prisons.’

  ‘Right,’ she said, looking no less daunted.

  In the lift he closed his eyes to find his equanimity. How could a writer from a rag be onto them already? As the lift dinged to tell him he’d only made it to the fifth floor, his instincts, ever present, told him someone in the Met was chattering.

  He took out his Nokia again and dialled Joan once more, only to achieve further frustration because there was no service in the lift.

  Lauren didn’t feel welcome in the slightest, even though the person behind the reception desk had greeted her cheerfully and gestured towards a seat. She wasn’t asked to sign in, so there was obviously no chance of clearing security and being invited upstairs. Detective Superintendent Hawksworth was on his way down to see her. She hadn’t expected that, so it was a win of sorts. Leaning back against the couch, she tried to imagine who was descending towards her: he’d be overweight, probably balding, irritable. He’d talk down to her, use official language peppered with acronyms and do his utmost to speak around all the questions she wanted direct answers to.

  The lift gave its chime of arrival and she watched several people emerge. She wished her bloke was the tall, dark-haired fellow with the good-looking, greyish glance in her direction. He was likely selling photocopiers. He moved past her to the security desk while speaking on his mobile phone.

  She caught, ‘Hello, me again,’ and then he was out of earshot. Pity. She scanned the others and, oh yes, here he came. An older guy, breathing audibly, staring at her – at her breasts, actually. And then he too was gone. She watched him pass her by, limping slightly through the revolving doors.

  ‘Lauren?’ She was taken aback to see Photocopier Man staring down at her, his sharp gaze glinting like sunlight off a stormy sea. He didn’t look thrilled.

  ‘Er, yes,’ she said, struggling to get up out of the deep bucket seat and onto her heels. Damn!

  ‘Detective Superintendent Jack Hawksworth.’ He held out his hand and surprised her by smiling. He was even better-looking close up; even the lines on his face were attractive, and now she couldn’t tell – were his eyes green or dark grey? ‘Shall we?’

  She looked back at him, disarmed. No, this wasn’t right. Why did he have to look like this? Why was she wearing a deliberately distressed denim
miniskirt with opaque cropped leggings and her thick belt with all that metal? Okay for the magazine – sexy, even, to go for a drink after work – but now she wished with all of her heart, staring at his conservative clothes, that she could have looked a bit less raunchy. Nothing powerful about the way she looked today, with no make-up and two-day-old hair scraped back into a ponytail. It shouldn’t matter, her internal voice screamed . . . but, of course, it mattered very much to her. In her previous days as a reporter for London Talking, she would never step out of her flat unless appropriately attired, head to toe.

  His smile widened, and an eyebrow curved up in query. ‘I was heading out to grab a coffee. Do you want to walk and talk?’

  ‘All right,’ she said, distantly disappointed that he didn’t offer her a coffee.

  He gestured politely and let her walk first. ‘Lovely morning. Thanks for dragging me out.’

  ‘Did I?’ As she looked at him, the wind caught his neat hair and, because there was plenty of it, it shifted like a rich wave of nut brown and caught glints of the sun. A policeman? Really?

  ‘All very boring up there,’ he assured her. ‘And you work for My Day, is that right?’

  ‘Yes.’ It was the best she could do.

  ‘I must admit, I’ve never read it, but I think I’ve seen it around. It’s for women, right?’

  ‘Aren’t all magazines?’ she said, feeling slightly more in control, although his long strides meant she was stalking rather than walking and her heels were sounding a loud tattoo on the pavement.

  She watched him frown. ‘I disagree. I read Architectural Digest as well as Gourmet, for instance, and I doubt Playboy has ever been published with a woman in mind.’ He gave her a sideways grin.

  ‘Do you read Playboy?’

  Now he laughed. ‘No. I prefer Architectural Digest, to be honest.’

  He’d walked her to St James’s Park tube station and pointed to the park itself. ‘Over there’s a bench in the sunshine. Shall we?’

  ‘What about your coffee?’

  ‘I’ll grab it soon. Now, how I can help you? I’m a little confused as to why you wished to see me.’