Mirror Man

by McIntosh, Fiona

  Anne’s injured gaze found his. ‘Why wouldn’t you mention her? I’m pleased you have. To risk a dreadful cliché, she’s the light of my life, Jack.’

  ‘Is she still . . .’ He shrugged, gesturing awkwardly by sweeping his hand towards the wall lined with books.

  She shook her head. ‘No. It’s been twenty-three days and . . .’ Anne glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘And six hours, thirteen minutes since my child was taken away.’

  It was his turn to swallow.

  ‘Don’t say anything,’ she said, saving him the torture of bolting together the right words of sympathy. ‘Nothing can stop the pain and it’s mine alone to deal with; I brought this on her, on myself. But you should know that she’s beautiful and bright, and I hope whoever is fortunate enough to consider her their daughter will love her as much as I do.’ Her eyes welled with tears.

  ‘You know, I was secretly glad when you dodged us,’ he said, shifting the topic. ‘I hoped you’d stay lost forever.’

  ‘Really?’ She smiled back sadly.

  He nodded. ‘I will admit my heart was crushed when I got the call to say you’d been found and were being sent back to Britain. I’m sorry it was me who—’

  ‘No, I understood. You had to finish your job. You were very cold that day though. You barely looked at me.’

  ‘I was only just holding myself together to have to escort you to prison, but perhaps you read about the case I was on?’

  She nodded. ‘Hideous.’

  He decided not to tell her about his relationship with Lily; hoped she didn’t know. ‘It was awful, Anne. Worse than working on your case, to be honest. I think if we walked in your shoes, we could all understand your motive. But that guy, Chan? It was arrogance and money that drove him. And his victims were all hand-chosen innocents, selected for their faces and murdered for them. He’s a monster. You never were.’ He tried to smile but couldn’t. ‘But now you’re a criminal psychologist?’

  ‘Unfortunately, it took the monster getting out to allow me to become myself.’ She shrugged. ‘Here I am, normal Anne. Almost surprised that I was capable of such brutality and terror. I was always a fully qualified clinical psychologist, Jack, I just didn’t tell you. My specialty was criminology. Now at least I’m putting that knowledge to good use.’

  ‘No wonder you were always one step ahead of us.’

  ‘I’ve never apologised . . . never had the opportunity.’

  He stared at her. They were at the precipice.

  ‘But I am sorry, you know. If I have one blinding regret through everything that’s happened, it’s using you.’

  He nodded.

  ‘And falling in love with you.’

  He blew out his breath audibly. ‘I hope they don’t record conversations here.’

  She smiled. ‘Not in this room, no.’

  Jack finally shook his head. ‘We have to both live with your regret.’

  ‘Yes. I have the heartache too of letting my child down. But when I took my revenge, I didn’t know the pain of parenthood existed in the world. It was getting pregnant that got me caught. Anyway, suffice to say, you two are the big pains in my heart.’ She tried to smile but looked more likely to cry.

  ‘Can I get you anything?’

  ‘No, I deserve this. And it’s good to cry sometimes. Better than screaming.’

  ‘I can’t believe the noise here.’

  Anne nodded. ‘It’s dreadful, a constant reminder of the pain of where we all are . . . the children, families, dreams we’ve all squandered.’ She tilted her head from side to side as if weighing something up. ‘However, the pain reminds me I’m alive and that I can repay my sins by helping others who have a chance at rebuilding their lives.’ She checked the clock again and a pause lengthened between them as she straightened in her chair, looking helplessly attractive in old Levis and a slouchy, soft grey crew-necked sweater. ‘Why are you here, Jack? It’s been so long it can’t be because you’re curious.’

  ‘No, I do have a reason.’ He paused. ‘If I’m honest, I’m utterly shocked to find myself sitting here in front of you.’

  She frowned. ‘What is it?’

  Anne McEvoy sat back and regarded Jack, seemingly stunned by all that he’d just told her about what sounded like a series of revenge murders.

  Her scrutiny weighed on him. Was this a mistake? Had Kate miscalculated? Had he simply used this as an excuse to see her again? Perhaps all three, but he had to admit it was thrilling to be looking upon the first and only woman to hold his heart. There had been plenty of women before Anne, and it had taken six months but he’d begun dating again after Lily’s death, needing company, knowing he also needed to rebuild a life.

  There had been some other dates of surface interest and Sylvie was his current attraction; she was always fun and especially easy to be with because all she wanted from him was laughter, sex and companionship. There was no threat of it turning serious, so that was empowering, and why he always returned her calls to action . . . the trip to Cap Ferrat being a fine example. She was currently talking about a mini break to Prague.

  ‘Am I your Hannibal Lecter?’ Anne sounded amused.

  ‘You can view yourself that way, if you like,’ he replied with a laugh.

  ‘Then you’re my Clarice Starling.’ She chuckled, reminding him of the conversation he’d had with the attractive, unfulfilled journalist.

  ‘I have no doubt I’m crossing some unspoken but obvious boundary in even asking, but we figured you might be able to give us some insight into the mind of this killer.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘DI Carter made the suggestion.’

  ‘Ah, Kate. She’s on this case too? Dangerous.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  She looked back at him as though he were a simpleton. ‘Because Kate is fond of you in a way that is unhelpful to everyone, especially herself.’

  ‘She’s fine.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘Will you help me?’ He made it a personal plea.

  ‘What’s involved, Clarice?’

  ‘No idea. Never done anything like this before and it’s off the record, Anne. I dare not even let the powers that be know. Nothing official.’

  ‘I feel I owe you.’

  ‘I didn’t say you owe me anything, nor would I.’

  ‘But you agree?’ she asked. He just stared back. ‘Am I allowed to look at anything?’

  ‘Files? Absolutely not.’

  ‘Photos? Pathology?’

  ‘No, sorry.’

  ‘So your explanation alone is supposed to assist me to help you unlock where you should hunt for this killer?’

  ‘It’s crazy, I agree.’

  Anne smiled and he tried not to let that all-too-familiar warmth reach far enough in to touch him. As it was, hearing the soft tones of her voice was hard on his emotions, which were crashing around within – guilt, desire, horror, sorrow . . . regret as much as pleasure just to look upon her, all colliding.

  ‘It’s not crazy, Jack. It’s unusual but it’s also irresistible for all the obvious reasons.’

  ‘So that’s a yes?’ He grinned with hope.

  ‘At least share the name of the operation. I’m sure you told me when we first met that operations always have odd names. Amuse me.’

  He figured it was safe. ‘Mirror.’

  ‘Operation Mirror?’ She laughed. ‘I like it.’

  ‘We’re not admitting to having an op underway, of course.’

  ‘No one will hear about any of this from me.’

  ‘I appreciate it.’

  ‘Where do we begin?’

  He checked his watch. ‘You’re on board?’

  ‘I do have a caveat.’

  ‘Of course you do. Don’t ask me to get you a reduced sentence, or days on the outside . . . or a file or shovel,’ he joked. ‘Before we discuss your caveat, do you have any initial thoughts?’

  ‘Well, from what you’ve told me, my gut feeling is that you are
dealing with a male.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Women killers tend to know their targets quite well; they have some sort of relationship with their victims that has an emotional link.’

  ‘Like you?’

  ‘Exactly. Men are far more capable of killing strangers. I’m not saying these victims are not known to the killer, but they are not connected in time, location or modus operandi, so there is more likelihood they don’t share a relationship with the killer, as such. Plus, what you’re up against is calculated killing over a stretch of time, and given that the most recent you mentioned . . .’

  ‘The lorry driver and the careless drunken teen driver,’ he offered with no names.

  ‘Yes . . . given their deaths are barely six weeks apart, he is escalating.’

  ‘My thought too. Why?’

  She shrugged. ‘Anything from his age or health, to him feeling the heat of the police, or the heat of the weather.’ At Jack’s frown, she smiled. ‘It’s easier to kill in winter – there are fewer people around, the cover of darkness from late afternoon, and just the sheer cold keeping people indoors.’

  ‘This killer is not feeling our radar yet. And I’m not buying the weather as the reason.’

  ‘Okay, age and health, then.’

  ‘Thoughts on that?’

  She shook her head. ‘Your killer has avoided capture by being smart. There’s a level of intelligence here, but there’s patience too, and from what you’ve said there’s no need to glorify the killing, no weird messages left.’ She frowned. ‘No sexual component?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘Okay, that’s interesting.’ Anne stood and took a few paces before turning back to him. ‘The deaths are swift, by all accounts, so it’s a job being done . . . it’s not a hobby, no pleasure apparently derived. I’m going out on a limb here, Jack, and would prefer to study some more information . . .’ She glanced questioningly at Jack, who just gazed back with an implacable expression.

  ‘All right. But this is my take based only on what you’ve told me. I think this is an older person rather than younger because of the maturity required to be absolutely in control.’

  He nodded. ‘Any other reason that you think it’s calculated?’

  She looked away from him as though running through all that he’d told her. ‘Well, I am sensing no heat in the killings.’

  He was surprised and must have shown it, because she continued.

  ‘Don’t get me wrong; there’s rage, for sure, but the various deaths are so disconnected that – on the surface, anyway – this feels like someone taking cold retribution, as opposed to someone like me, who took passionate and personal revenge.’ She glanced back at him helplessly. ‘Without more detail . . .’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘A male is likely because we rarely happen upon a female serial killer; often they’re accomplices – so don’t rule that out – or if they’re acting alone, they tend to be nurses who kill patients, or wives who kill a string of husbands. Most hunted serial killers are sociopathic or psychopathic men.’

  ‘Other than you?’

  ‘We’re not talking about me, Jack.’

  ‘Well, we are drawing on your experience as a serial murderer.’

  She sighed and he could see what it cost her each time she had to acknowledge this fact. ‘Mine was targeted vengeance for a single wrong. The average person on the street was safe from me. I had a specific list of people to pay for the savage murder of my dog and my repeated rape, as a helpless, innocent thirteen-year-old. It was opportunistic. When I was the perpetrator, though, no one innocent got hurt.’ Her voice shook slightly, and she pushed back a few strands of golden hair that had flown loose from her ponytail. She cleared her throat and took control again. ‘Perhaps you could term it as having a psychotic episode, but if I’d not been found, I swear I would be living quietly on a Greek island in near enough to perfect happiness, and no one would think I was anything but a blonde Brit chasing the sun. And I would have lived and died peacefully as that person, raising my child, never upsetting another soul, because my rage was spent. Unless your team finds some extraordinary link that ties these criminals together into one original crime, then my initial assessment is that this is a man, on a mission, whose rage is prevalent and has no intention of dissipating.’

  ‘The mission?’

  She laughed and shrugged. ‘Oh, Jack, it could be so many things. He could believe they’re all demons from the Underworld. He could have a grudge against these people, although my suspicion is that these aren’t the only deaths you may end up attributing to him.’

  ‘We’ve reached a similar conclusion.’

  Anne shook her head, searching for more ideas. ‘My instinct says he’s not killing criminals for kicks. If he was getting his rocks off, then the deaths might be more elaborate . . . Oh, any trophies taken?’

  ‘None to our knowledge.’

  ‘So he really isn’t aroused by these deaths. This feels personal to him, nonetheless. A vendetta, or a path of . . . I have to say it . . .’ Jack looked at her expectantly and with an expression that gave permission. ‘Vigilance,’ she said.

  He dropped his shoulders. ‘We were trying to avoid the vigilante label.’

  ‘It feels like a fit though.’

  ‘But we can’t find connections. Vigilantes must have a raison d’être, something that makes all the killings meaningful, right?’

  ‘And so will Mirror Man, I promise you. There is a connection, Jack. Find it, or you’ll never find him.’

  ‘Mirror Man. I like it.’ He grinned. ‘So . . . your caveat?’

  She looked hesitant.

  ‘Try me,’ he encouraged her.

  ‘Samantha.’

  His gaze darkened.

  ‘Look, I know I can’t see her, and I spent the time I had with her promising myself I wouldn’t interrupt her new life with her adopted mother.’

  ‘That’s quite a promise.’

  ‘And one I intend to keep, because I’m trapped here and nothing I do or say will change that. She really doesn’t need the burden of obligation to visit a mother in prison with no chance of release. I hope she never looks for me or even knows about me. But that doesn’t take away how much I love her or need her in my thoughts.’

  ‘So how do I fit into this?’

  ‘Find out where she’s gone.’

  ‘Anne—’

  ‘Hear me out. Discover her whereabouts, but you don’t have to tell me, and I give you my word I will never ask. I know I owe you, Jack; I know you all but let me go that day when you were chasing me in Brighton, so this is part of that debt. I will never make you feel awkward, but I want you to have the knowledge of where she is and I want to know that you will somehow stay in touch with her life on my behalf.’

  He blinked, hurting for her. ‘That’s no small responsibility.’

  ‘We loved each other, Jack. Samantha could so easily have been a daughter we were now doting over together. I’m not trying to make you responsible for another man’s child, but we’re connected in ways that are hard to verbalise. So keep an eye on her for me. Just knowing you know how she is, where she is, is enough.’

  He looked trapped. ‘I’ll try, Anne. That’s all I can offer.’

  Anne smiled. ‘And that’s enough for me. Thank you.’ She glanced at the door. ‘Your minder’s ready.’

  He motioned that he was coming. ‘I’ll see you again soon.’

  ‘I’ll be here.’ She smiled. ‘Bring chocolate!’

  Jack left Holloway feeling like a moth easing out of its cocoon, desperate for escape from the prison, but mindful of who he was leaving behind and the effect she still had on him. Now he’d agreed to what felt like an impossible task of finding out information about her daughter. On the plus side, Anne’s agile mind had already started to range on Operation Mirror’s behalf, and so much of what she had said, even as casual comment, rang true in his mind. There were no definites in this cat-and-mouse game but already
he was beginning to see their prey as a man on a mission, as she’d described. It helped to have her objective clarity. Nevertheless, Mirror Man would remain purely reflective until they found something . . . one tiny link that could convince him there was a single person on a killing spree.

  His phone rang while he was in the taxi on the way back to Scotland Yard. ‘Hi, Kate.’

  ‘We’ve got a shoe size for our killer. Size forty-three . . . that’s nine and a half in old money. If I said Saloman to you, would you know who or what that is?’

  ‘No. If I said Mies van der Rohe to you, would you?’

  She laughed. ‘Idiot. Saloman is a brand of outdoor shoe.’

  ‘Excellent, I shall bring that up in dinner conversation soon. Mies van der Rohe is the architect who coined the phrase “less is more” and introduced the world to what we now call minimalism. I take it our killer was wearing these Sultan shoes?’

  ‘Salomans,’ she corrected, amused. ‘Yes. X-Pro Trail.’

  ‘So we need to check for that with all the other forensics from all the other crime scenes.’

  ‘Already got the team on it. Where are you?’

  ‘On the way back.’

  ‘From where?’

  ‘I’ll tell you later. Anything else?’

  ‘Sarah is working like a crazed terrier. I think she might have a sniff of something.’

  ‘Already?’

  ‘She won’t say, but she still hasn’t taken her anorak off.’

  He grinned as he clicked off.

  12

  As Jack was sitting in a taxi thinking about Anne McEvoy, Davey Robbins was scrolling mindlessly through the songs on his iPod, wishing he’d never met Amy the barmaid, whom he blamed for ruining his life. Conveniently, he chose not to think about his own criminal lifestyle that had led him there. As far as Davey was concerned – and as he’d whinged to his court-appointed solicitor – that was all on Don. And the rape was instigated and forced upon him by Don too. He knew it was a lie but he needed to get out of a harsh sentence. Let Don take the rap – he was old. Turning on his partner was the only way, according to Davey’s counsel, and then using every excuse, from him being a slow learner to having been raised with a shocking childhood of crime and lack of care. It was all lies but, frankly, it was easy to spin them – from the outside his life did look tragic, but he had never complained. He was good at burglaries. It was Amy and her flaunty tits that had brought them down.