Mirror Man

by McIntosh, Fiona

  She pottered around his kitchen, noting how tidy the drawers were and wishing hers were similar. If he ever walked around her kitchen and snooped like this, he might form a new opinion of her. Don’t worry, Kate, it’s not going to happen. Kate glanced over at Jack tapping away at the keyboard while he made his reservation. She took the opportunity to open the wine she’d brought and pour them each a fresh glass. It was an excellent Chilean merlot that she knew he’d enjoy.

  ‘Here,’ she said, placing the glass at his side, feeling the warmth of his body next to hers as she leaned over.

  ‘Oh, thanks.’

  She nodded, smiling, then moved away for fear of doing something extremely silly, calming her crazy intentions by swallowing a slug of the merlot. It was as good as she’d hoped and as she turned, she heard him make a sound of satisfaction.

  ‘Delicious.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’ She sat again and realised something was nagging.

  Jack turned. ‘Done. I’m leaving on the six-fifteen to York.’

  ‘Oof, that’s early.’

  ‘It is but it means I can be there around nine and come back same day.’ He stood. ‘So, mousse?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ she said with genuine eagerness, staring out at the flickering view of lights on the long stretch of water from the central ponds. Jack came over with two champagne coupes of mousse and she greedily accepted the dessert. ‘Cream as well?’ she noted.

  ‘Needs it, trust me,’ he said.

  He was right; it was the richest, chewiest mousse she’d eaten in a lifetime. ‘Jack, this is so good,’ she said, hardly swallowing before she shovelled in the next mouthful. She deliberately smiled at him knowing there was chocolate covering her teeth. He stopped eating and stared before exploding into laughter, exactly as she’d hoped.

  ‘Sarah should see that! I’m sure she believes you haven’t a playful bone in your body.’

  ‘I’ll call you a liar if you ever mention this,’ she threatened, swallowing quickly. ‘Jack?’

  ‘Mmm?’ He sounded suspicious, as though she were going to ask him a difficult question, like shall we spend the night together?

  Whether that thought had even subconsciously crossed her mind was irrelevant. That was not what was on it right now. ‘If you were a clever murderer who managed to kill people almost under the noses of others, leaving no subtle forensic clues, why would you be so stupid as to leave behind a nice, firm impression of your footprint?’

  He gusted a chuckle. ‘It’s a good question.’

  ‘Odd, don’t you think?’

  ‘Not alarm-bells odd.’

  She shrugged. ‘No hair, no fibres, no trophies, no fingerprints, no blood or bodily fluids, no giveaway bits and bobs that most crims don’t even think to check for . . . but a lovely bold set of footprints.’

  ‘It’s clumsy, but he probably knows it’s such a broad clue that it’s all but generic. Imagine us having to hunt down who, in the whole of England, wears Sultan trail shoes and could be a serial killer.’

  ‘Saloman. How about deliberately clumsy?’

  He turned to her, scraping the final morsel from the pudding. ‘A false sultana trail?’

  She laughed and tried to keep him on point. ‘We have nothing else but this at two sites now. I think we might scrutinise that footprint for weight, tread and all those other clever things they can measure . . . just in case.’

  ‘All right. No stone unturned, we promised.’

  ‘Who usually picked up Robbins? I mean, how did he persuade Robbins to go with him?’

  ‘The boys up north say he posed as a relief minder, having incapacitated the usual guy who escorted Robbins to and from his work. No doubt it will all be neatly pieced together before my arrival tomorrow as to how Mirror Man trapped him. Let’s leave it to the locals.’

  ‘Mirror Man?’ She sounded impressed.

  Jack smiled. ‘How I think of him now.’

  ‘The hands? Why go to that trouble and risk the mess, the extra time? We’ve been busy establishing that he’s not a torturer but we also have Smythe killed by burning.’

  ‘If it’s the same killer who killed Smythe.’

  ‘Sounds right, though. It must be symbolic.’

  He nodded, chewed, swallowed, taking his time. ‘In Saudi Arabia you lose a hand if you are convicted of repeated theft.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Hear me out.’ Her shrug told him she’d give him all the time in the world. ‘Davey Robbins was known for thieving in and around London. He was a petty burglar, but the Clarke family case was him moving into a much darker situation. The murder I accept he may not have planned, but the rape was probably at his instigation. They ransacked the Clarke household of phones, cash, jewellery.’

  ‘So you’re thinking this killer decided on some gruesome medieval punishment for Davey Robbins?’

  He nodded, unsure. ‘It’s a notion.’

  ‘And removing his dick has resonance, right, to the original crime?’ Jack tried to avoid her gaze. ‘Don’t deny it.’ They were standing too close. ‘The vigilante tag gets weightier. Chopping off the weapon of a rapist says only one thing.’

  He sighed. ‘Yes. Seems to be what we’re staring at. I can hardly believe we’re in this deep again with another serial killer.’

  To her he looked suddenly forlorn, just busting to have his hair ruffled and arms thrown around him. ‘Right, listen. I’m going,’ she said, her only defence.

  ‘I haven’t made you a coffee yet.’

  ‘And if you had, I’d be hating you by two in the morning when I couldn’t sleep. No, you have to get up with the birds and I suspect it will be a big day tomorrow for both of us. Let me head off with sincere thanks for a delicious meal. Really, Jack, you’re such a show-off,’ she said, clasping his wrist briefly.

  ‘Well, we must do it again,’ he said, and Kate wondered if that was genuine or the sort of thing people said with no intention of doing it again. Gosh, she was paranoid! ‘Let me get your coat. And also let me call a taxi.’

  ‘What? No need. The tube station is right there,’ she said.

  ‘I know where it is, but you are not taking the Underground home . . . not tonight. This is on me.’ He picked up his phone. ‘Same address in Stoke Newington?’

  She nodded, impressed he remembered. ‘Thanks.’

  He organised the taxi as he helped her on with her coat. ‘There, done. I’m sorry this was so brief, Kate. I didn’t want it to be a working dinner, but it turned out that way.’

  ‘It’s fine. What else were we going to talk about? We’d have been a couple of sad sacks sharing failed relationships over our wine and risotto and mousse – all delicious, by the way.’

  He pecked her cheek. ‘We will do this again properly.’

  ‘Good,’ she agreed, not knowing what properly meant.

  His phone pinged. ‘Taxi’s here. Downstairs, turn left, first right and go into the small lane.’ He paused. ‘Thanks for coming. It was nice to cook for someone.’

  Awkward! Don’t do anything stupid, she pleaded inwardly. ‘Call me from Yorkshire.’ She risked a familiar but wholly friendly kiss to his cheek and smelled his cologne. It was Chanel Homme Sport . . . a favourite that she could instantly recognise.

  And then she fled.

  14

  Jack had clambered into his paper forensic suit; he always carried a spare, and although the North Yorkshire scene-of-crime team were deferring to him – even offering a suit before he dug his out of the backpack – he could sense their collective grimace that the south was here to bully the north. He stood in front of the caravan, in a field that had had a sizeable portion cordoned off by the scene-of-crime team and police constables. His shoes were covered in plastic, and he was pleased to see that the North Yorkshire team had followed all the right protocols, even halting him at the top field gate to hand him the booties and gloves.

  A Detective Inspector Lonsdale had greeted him briefly on arrival and had given him a file he wa
s yet to study.

  ‘I thought you’d come from Northallerton HQ,’ Jack remarked, purely to make conversation.

  ‘York CID is closer, sir,’ came the curt reply with a handshake that felt just as unwelcoming.

  Jack wasn’t surprised. Apart from the north–south rivalry that still permeated all facets of life, no police team took kindly to the big boys walking in and using their Scotland Yard status to take over a crime scene. DI Lonsdale now returned to where Jack stood. ‘You’re sure this is your guy?’ His accent sounded as though he was from Bradford.

  ‘As sure as I can be,’ he said as cheerfully as he could muster, snapping on the gloves.

  The detective grinned without mirth. ‘Which means nothing concrete, right – all instinct?’

  Time to push back. ‘Listen,’ Jack began, making sure just enough appeal was in his tone. ‘You were briefed on the confidential message sent out through the PNN to all heads of CID, right?’

  DI Lonsdale nodded.

  ‘It’s not my wish to take over anything. I realise this is your turf, and your people have done a great job – I mean that. But I do need the body sent to London today.’

  ‘Is this part of an op?’

  ‘I’ve been asked by the Acting Chief to gather—’

  ‘Yeah, so I hear, Detective Superintendent Hawskworth – I mean, I hear that it’s coming from the top. But that’s not what I asked . . . sir.’

  Jack’s gaze narrowed. He really didn’t want to make any enemies up here, even though he was far more senior. ‘DI Lonsdale, this is the fourth newly released prisoner who has turned up dead. Davey Robbins is not a local, he’s a London lad who’s ended up in a halfway home having got off lightly for a violent burglary that resulted in the death of one victim and the rape of another. I’m just trying to work out if there are connections between him and the others. Beyond that, I’m comfy – as I’m sure you are – that another lowlife is off our streets.’ He shrugged. ‘Anything you and your people can do to help me tick off that we’ve done our due diligence is appreciated.’

  Lonsdale held Jack’s gaze steadily for longer than was comfortable. ‘Then may I respectfully request, sir, that everything in connection with this murder is copied to my guys in York?’

  ‘Agreed,’ Jack said with a firm nod. ‘I’ll ensure you get a full copy of the pathology report in the same way that you’ll be providing me with all the forensic evidence. How’s Mr Chingford, the usual escort – you said he was mugged?’

  ‘He’s doing fine; it’s all in there,’ he said, nodding at the file Jack held. ‘How else can we help?’

  ‘You can get rid of that local reporter hanging around. How did this get out?’

  ‘Hard to keep something like this quiet, sir. The workers saw the ambulance and uniformed cars arriving. There were sirens, lights, the full works, set off by the guy’s phone call, which suggested Davey Robbins could be saved. There are always ambulance chasers around. Someone’s tipped off the local TV and newspaper. He’s from The York Gazette, as I understand it.’

  ‘Must have got a very early tip-off.’

  ‘Blind luck. He and his girlfriend were staying over at a guesthouse not far from here.’

  ‘I see,’ Jack said, unable to hide the disappointment. ‘Well, it hit the national news late last night.’

  DI Lonsdale shrugged. ‘I don’t know how to help that, sir.’

  ‘You can’t. Can you run me through everything we know?’

  A constable arrived with two takeaway coffees. ‘Sure,’ Lonsdale said, gesturing for Jack to grab one. ‘Thanks, Al,’ he said to the young uniformed officer. Jack hesitated only for a heartbeat; a bridge had just been built, so to risk smashing it down over a nasty coffee was unwise. ‘Just what I needed, thank you.’

  ‘Cheers,’ Jack said, lifting his coffee to Lonsdale as Al wandered away. ‘Have you used dogs?’

  ‘Yep. We wanted to establish where he was brought from because there’s insufficient blood for him to have died here. At this stage, we have him getting out in that small wooded area over there.’ He tipped his head. ‘The dog has tacked a point from where you can see that marker.’

  ‘Tyre tracks, footprints, drag tracks?’

  ‘All captured.’

  ‘Dragging Robbins, that would need strength,’ Jack said. It wasn’t really a question but not a statement of fact either . . . more his thoughts out loud to be explored later.

  DI Lonsdale moved his head in a manner to suggest it wasn’t necessarily so. ‘The victim is small and wiry. Killer wouldn’t need a lot of muscle. Although that would depend on whether he was drugged, but still, he’d be a dead weight.’

  ‘Have we got anything on the killer at all?’

  ‘He’s apparently invisible because he’s left no trace,’ his colleague said, sounding baffled. ‘Apart from some footprints.’

  Jack would come back to that. ‘The call to Emergency. No use?’

  ‘He changed his voice using some cunning method.’

  ‘I’d like to listen to that, all the same.’

  ‘Of course. We’ll send that today.’

  ‘Car rentals in the region?’

  ‘We’re looking into it, but I suspect he drove up to Yorkshire from another county. We’re going through CCTV of the main train station, too.’

  Jack nodded. ‘That’s great, well done. Tedious work.’

  ‘And lengthy. And of course,’ DI Lonsdale said, sounding resigned, ‘he could have got off at a different station, caught a bus, hitched a ride or picked up a car he’d already had in place.’

  ‘All true.’ Jack frowned, even though he’d considered all of these factors on the journey up. ‘All right, what do we know?’

  DI Lonsdale pointed. ‘We know this caravan was rented by a Polish guy, Kacper Bartek. He’s clean, as far as we can tell, gets a good report from the local farmer as a reliable guy, hard worker, honest and helps with organising the others.’

  ‘Why this caravan?’

  ‘Bartek tells us he moved out nearly three weeks ago and moved in with his girlfriend where most of the other seasonal accommodation is.’ DI Lonsdale pointed in the other direction. ‘Over that rise.’

  ‘Why would he live here if all the other seasonal workers live over there?’

  ‘Bartek’s a musician; says he likes the silence to compose and play his music.’

  ‘What sort of music?’

  ‘Er . . . guitar, I think, but we can check if you think that’s important.’ Jack didn’t, but he nodded anyway. ‘Either way, sir, he seems reliable. The farmer said this caravan would have been let in the next week or so. In fact, he’s already had an enquiry, was planning to see the guy at the weekend. So he’d had it all cleaned out and ready.’

  ‘Convenient,’ Jack muttered.

  Lonsdale shrugged. ‘Sometimes we have to accept coincidence. It was empty for more than a fortnight.’

  Jack waited but as Lonsdale didn’t say any more, he continued, returning the DI to their only witness. He wasn’t about to be fobbed off with a dry report in a folder. ‘Tell me more about . . .’ He glanced into the file for the man’s name. ‘Alan Chingford. He’s important, given he survived a killer’s touch.’

  Lonsdale shrugged. ‘I don’t think he was important to the murderer. Chingford is the formal escort who took care of Davey Robbins since he arrived in Yorkshire. He’s forty-six, been doing this work for fifteen years; ex-prison guard. Mr Chingford has not missed a journey to or from work for Robbins since he was appointed as his escort.’

  ‘Until now. Is he really okay?’

  Lonsdale nodded. ‘Yes. Took a blow to his head, but no serious concussion, luckily. The killer clearly wasn’t trying to hurt him so much as distract him. He hit him with a three-quarter-full plastic lemonade bottle. We think his head snapping back is what made him momentarily unconscious – just long enough for the killer to restrain and gag him.’

  Jack gave a wry smile. ‘Sounds like an experienced killer.’
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  ‘Yeah, my point.’ Lonsdale grinned and Jack sensed the tension easing. ‘He just wanted to stun him a bit, I reckon. It gave him a chance to pull a black bag over Chingford’s head and tell him he was holding a knife. He threatened to hurt Chingford’s wife, who was indoors, if he didn’t do as he said, but he promised he was not going to enter the family home if Chingford cooperated. He was tied up, handed over his car keys and fully expected the car to be stolen. It wasn’t, but the keys were tossed in the garden beds and two tyres let down. To me that simply suggests the killer was fully expecting us to be called and on his tail.’

  Jack nodded.

  ‘And then he left Mr Chingford still tied and gagged in the garage; his wife found him nearly forty-five minutes later when she expected him home. Apparently she was on the phone for that whole time and couldn’t see the driveway from the kitchen where she was chatting to her sister.’

  ‘So she didn’t know he hadn’t left.’ Jack nodded. ‘Can he remember anything about his assailant?’

  ‘He assures us he didn’t see him. But he’s probably worth talking to because he’s an experienced prison guard – he’s got that sixth sense.’

  Jack nodded. ‘I’ll do that. Thanks.’

  ‘So,’ Lonsdale continued, ‘my take is that the killer posed as a relief escort, picked up Robbins, made some excuse to come up here to the caravan and it all unfolded badly for the kid, not that anyone’s going to feel particularly sorry for a convicted rapist.’

  It echoed Jack’s thoughts. He sipped his horrible coffee because Lonsdale was drinking from his cup, reminding him to do the same and not appear ungrateful. ‘All right, so, how do we believe Robbins was convinced to come up to the caravan?’

  ‘He was likely heavily sedated. The blood near the tree suggests he wasn’t already dead by then. I’ll let our pathologist confirm what we already suspect, but he has estimated that by the time the emergency team arrived, Robbins had been dead for approximately two hours, so he was likely overpowered soon after pick-up, which was scheduled for five thirty-five each afternoon. The call came through to Emergency at . . .’ He double-checked his notes. ‘At seven forty-three yesterday evening.’