Mirror Man

by McIntosh, Fiona

  ‘I’ve drunk many a good Aussie riesling, and that’s the region that produces the finest . . . especially Taylor’s.’ He shrugged at her surprise. ‘My sister lives in Australia.’

  ‘You’ve been?’

  He nodded. ‘And to this winery.’

  ‘Get out!’ Lauren looked wildly impressed as they sipped again. ‘So, Jack, why the visit? Don’t get me wrong, I’m flattered, truly. But there must be a reason – I doubt it’s my irresistible personality that’s dragged you across London tonight.’

  He swirled the wine in his glass. ‘I have a proposal.’ He levelled his gaze to meet hers.

  ‘Yes, I will marry you,’ she said, injecting great amusement into her tone, but it missed the mark; he could sense she was slightly edgy. Perhaps it had been a mistake to deliver his message personally. ‘Sorry,’ she said, realising the jest wasn’t quite as hilarious as it might have sounded in her mind. ‘I’m a bit nervous,’ she admitted.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘A senior Scotland Yard detective in my home? And potentially a shot at the story I’ve been cradling for so long?’

  His eyes crinkled as he smiled slightly. ‘No, that’s not it. I don’t know you well, Lauren, but I’m guessing a detective in your house who might be opening up a door on that story you want is just the sort of thing that lights you up – it would make you more keen. My instincts say it wouldn’t make you twitchy.’ He paused but knew it was time to leave. ‘Anyway, that’s none of my bus—’

  ‘It’s you,’ she cut across.

  ‘Me?’

  She smiled sadly. ‘Oh, come on, Jack. Don’t be obtuse.’

  He looked back at her slightly vacantly. ‘I don’t mean to make you feel awkward.’

  ‘But still I do. Let’s be honest, you are not what most would expect from a police detective.’

  ‘Oh? How should I look?’

  ‘Crumpled, crusty, shiny suit, overweight, unintentional beard stubble . . . egg on your tie, prefer beer to wine . . . bad jokes, bad breath.’

  ‘You watch too much television.’ He grinned.

  ‘I hardly watch any. But in all truth, I’d rather you looked more like one of those old fellas on New Tricks than . . . well, than you.’

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, as if to say, this is what you’re stuck with.

  They both grinned into an awkward silence.

  ‘Don’t be. My mother has always said I lack a filter sometimes. I’m probably making you feel uncomfortable. Sorry. Tell me your proposition.’

  He explained his plan, relieved to be moving on.

  ‘An exclusive?’ she said, her tone suggesting she hardly dared believe it.

  He nodded.

  ‘My editor will black out at—’

  ‘Wait, you haven’t heard it all,’ he warned, setting his glass down on the rickety table nearby. ‘We’d control the information and its flow.’

  ‘But no one else gets it,’ she qualified.

  ‘Only you, and direct from our press office. I will introduce you to our bureau head.’

  ‘Jack, I—’

  ‘There’s more.’

  She put her glass down by his, her brow knitting. ‘I’m guessing this is where you make it really difficult for me.’

  ‘Lauren, I want to try and make sure this emerges in the right way with the right media. It’s a highly sensitive situation that undoubtedly polarises people and, handled the wrong way, it could create a circus. I want to avoid that. My Day is the circus ringmaster and certainly not the right outlet . . . but you know that.’

  She shrugged with grudging acceptance. ‘How, then?’

  ‘We’re going to talk to the right people to elevate you into one of the other publications in your group, and you would prepare this as an exclusive investigative feature for their weekend magazine, something like that.’ He stopped talking then because she was staring at him with obvious shock, her lips slightly parted as though she wanted to speak but couldn’t.

  Finally she found her voice. ‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’

  ‘Deadly,’ he confirmed. ‘It’s not my intention to tell you how to live your life, but there is absolutely no way you’re getting this story if you don’t agree to leave My Day and allow me to help you reshuffle your working life a bit.’

  ‘Is this normal?’

  He shook his head. ‘The opposite. That’s why my boss took blood pressure pills in front of me today.’

  ‘Your idea?’

  He gave a crooked smile with a shrug.

  She watched him for longer than felt comfortable before she spoke again. ‘I think you’re killing two birds with one stone.’

  He looked at her, immediately defensive. ‘Look, Lauren, I don’t want to—’

  ‘No, don’t get me wrong. I know by helping me in this way you’ll fix the situation of having My Day report what I’ve stumbled onto, but I don’t believe you’d bother with me if I hadn’t told you my life’s story. I feel a bit guilty now . . . I’ve put you in a difficult situation.’

  ‘Journos don’t normally care about that.’

  ‘Yes, but you do care, which is a surprise.’

  ‘I just think you deserve better. You might be able to fast-track back to where you want to be – should be. I know you’ll impress them; they’re not going to send you back to My Day after this. If opening a few doors helps your career, then I’m all for it, especially if you cooperate with us on this very tricky operation.’

  ‘So it is an operation,’ she qualified.

  He nodded. ‘We can’t risk blowing the very little we have on our side if you go off reporting what you have.’

  ‘A vigilante serial killer?’

  He hesitated only for a heartbeat. ‘Serial murderer, yes; I am reserving judgement on the vigilante bit.’

  ‘Bloody fucking hell. I knew it!’

  ‘That would cost you a pound coin in our office.’

  She laughed. ‘No swearing?’

  ‘Not in front of our receptionist, no.’

  ‘How much does she collect?’

  ‘Enough to take us all out at the end of it,’ he said, grinning. He stood; knew he should go. He’d achieved what he’d set out to do and felt certain that with a night to sleep on it, Lauren would see the sense of what he was proposing. ‘I must go, Lauren. Thanks for sharing your quota of very good wine.’

  She stood, reaching to squeeze his arm. ‘I’ll do it,’ she said. ‘I’m grateful, even if I don’t sound it.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. I’m convinced that most people find you hard to say no to.’

  ‘My boss says no to me all the time.’

  ‘And still you defy him.’

  ‘He shouldn’t promote me to this position if he doesn’t want me taking matters into my hands.’

  ‘Am I a matter in your hands, Jack?’

  She was standing too close now. Damn! Kate was right. How did women instinctively know these things? How could she know before he did?

  ‘I don’t think . . .’ he began, but it was already too late. They were both helplessly leaning in, him bending as though an invisible hand was pressing on his shoulders. Before he could stop himself, their lips had gently met. The kiss never deepened but it didn’t end quickly either. They released each other with care and in concert, neither wishing to break the spell for the other.

  Lauren let out a small sigh. ‘It’s been a long time since I’ve felt affection, or even wanted it, from a man.’

  They were still close enough to kiss again.

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘From a man?’ she asked, making him smile.

  ‘I didn’t mean for this to happen.’

  ‘I’m afraid to say I did . . . from the moment I saw you standing in the street.’

  ‘Your mother is right about the filter.’

  She gurgled a laugh. ‘I blame you!’

  He grinned, searching out another slow, gentle kiss during which they could taste the elegantly citrussy scents on
each other’s breath from the glorious riesling.

  ‘Will you stay?’ she asked, sounding hesitant.

  ‘That’s a very enticing offer but I have a very early start, driving down to the coast.’

  ‘Which coast?’

  He smiled. ‘Not yet. But you will hear it all, I promise, when the time is right. In the meantime, I want you to give Mike a call.’ He pulled out a card and gave it to her. ‘He’ll start the ball rolling, and you need not fear your editor at My Day. She’ll be fine.’

  ‘I think she will be; she’s baffled as to why I’m there anyway, and she’s a corporate animal – she’ll want what’s best for the group.’

  ‘Well, this move of yours is definitely best for everyone.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, and conveyed it with enough emotion that he felt the unexpected kiss, while wholly unprofessional, was important to both of them. It gave them both a sense of trust. Besides, he thought as he disentangled himself from Lauren, only now realising his arms were entwined with hers behind his back, they were simply two people in search of affection.

  ‘You’re welcome. I’d rather have you on my side.’

  ‘Oh, would you . . .? How about on top?’

  He shook a finger at her.

  She smiled. ‘When can we meet again?’

  ‘Later this week?’

  Lauren’s face showed delight, and he sensed she’d imagined he might have been blowing her off with the early morning excuse. He could forgive her that, given she’d been hurt so badly in the past. He needed to show his sincerity. ‘Can I text you?’

  ‘Sure, sounds good. I’ll call Mike as you ask.’

  ‘He’s expecting you, so don’t feel bashful.’

  Lauren nodded. ‘Well, off you go. I’ll sit here and finish my wine on my own.’

  He grinned. ‘I promise more wine and not from your puny stocks.’ He leaned in and gave her a brief, soft peck. ‘See you soon.’ He moved for the door.

  ‘Jack?’

  He turned back.

  ‘Thank you for giving me back my faith in men.’

  Oh, Jack, he thought as he walked towards Paddington Station, where he was sure it would be easier to find a taxi or, at worst, jump onto the Tube. Is your heart ready?

  It wasn’t yet seven. But he had a long night of reading ahead.

  In the small lounge of his Enfield terrace home, the man who was dying slowly took stock of his situation. Davey Robbins had been found, as intended, but the investigators were moving quicker than he’d imagined. He’d anticipated a little more confusion; perhaps they’d discovered more corpses of criminals from a couple of years back? He kept no physical record of his murders, no trophies, nothing connected with his killing spree that could be traced back to him. He knew too much about the policing system to make such elementary errors.

  Although he fully expected to be caught – he was not troubled by this – he had no intention of going on trial or seeing out his limited days from a prison cell. Hopefully the disease would catch him first so he could die in his home, a free man and at peace that he’d rid the world of those who preyed on the vulnerable with no regard for the damage they did. Davey Robbins should have done more time. He should have suffered similar fears to those poor Amy had . . . Davey needed to pay a debt to her and to society.

  He had meant to write to her – would do so now. He moved to the drawer beneath the bookcase in his sitting room and found some plain white A4 paper and a common-style biro with blue ink. At school he’d been forced to write with his right hand even though he’d naturally been a left-hander. He still could write left-handed – not well, but well enough to be legible. If the police ever viewed this letter, he would waste more of their time trying to match the words, the slant of his handwriting, its loops and quirks, the postcode he’d send it from. It would be wholly different to his own.

  He began.

  Hello Amy

  You don’t know me, although I do know you and the terrible experience you and your family has suffered through. I personally feel nothing but horror and deep sympathy. The sentences regularly handed down to perpetrators of similar crimes are insufferably lenient.

  You may have read in the newspaper, or heard on the news, that Davey Robbins was found dead recently. That’s a polite way of putting that Davey was killed . . . murdered, in fact. I didn’t feel an ounce of pleasure in ending his life, only relief on your behalf.

  Let the nightmares go, Amy. Both of the men who changed the course of your life are now gone. And your dear grandmother’s death and the terrible sin against you have been paid for in blood, which is only right. Victims’ families left behind after manslaughter or murder, or any sort of violence against those they love, never feel the sentence suits the crime, and the truth is it rarely does. Judges are confined by the letter of the law, which is why I have stepped in to see you enjoy true justice.

  Please don’t show this letter to anyone, but if you have to, don’t feel guilty. I have no fear of being caught before my own life catches up with me.

  More importantly, Amy, begin to live a life that your grandmother would want for you and one that will bring laughter and happiness again. You deserve it. You were on a wonderful path. Find it again . . . go to university and fulfil those dreams you had.

  Sincerely, a friend.

  He would post that tomorrow and do some digging into Detective Superintendent Jack Hawksworth, who he’d now discovered was spearheading the investigation into the two most recent murders. Links would be made, of that he had little doubt, but he was not frightened by how much the police learned or how they connected the dots . . . it was about time. How long he could hang on to his health and how many more of these cruel bastards he could rid Britain of because the justice system couldn’t.

  To that end, tonight was going to be dedicated to the final stages of planning the death of another one of the bastard tribe – a Geoffrey Paxton, who he’d just learned was about to be released from prison far too early. He smiled to himself; Paxton was presently living in quiet ignorance that his debt to society was going to be paid in full in a few days.

  20

  In the carriage Kate yawned. ‘I bought us a toastie each.’

  Jack shrugged, as if to say what are you waiting for? ‘Get them out, then. Our coffee’s getting cold.’

  ‘Good. I wasn’t sure if you even took breakfast.’

  ‘Always.’

  ‘Really? What’s your poison, then?’

  ‘I like an egg in the morning.’

  She laughed, enjoying the notion of spending the day together, even though it was all work and no play. ‘How proper. How on earth do you find time?’

  ‘I make time. I’ve always been an early riser. Love a boiled egg and soldiers. Who doesn’t?’

  They’d make a horrible couple, then. ‘You disgust me with your civility,’ she said, yawning again and poking around in her backpack. ‘Well, this isn’t exactly healthy, but it’s healthier than stopping at a greasy spoon in Hastings. At least this way you get wholegrain bread.’

  ‘A toastie with healthy bread?’ He sounded appalled.

  ‘Followed by . . . ta-da!’ She pushed back a buttery paper bag from which the unmistakable belly-grinding temptation of melted cheese wafted towards him, but in her hands was a bag of Revels. ‘Dessert.’

  He smiled. ‘Dessert for breakfast. That’s not proper. I don’t like the orange ones, let me say.’

  ‘Neither do I, so I’ll fight you for the peanuts and toffees. The orange ones are just plain nasty, aren’t they?’ she said conversationally, but she could tell Jack’s mind was already reaching away from the banter towards the business at hand.

  ‘Yes, they make about as much sense as we’re making of this case,’ he said, suddenly gloomy.

  ‘Jack, give us a chance. I think we’re making some headway.’

  ‘Do you? I’ve got nothing to give the chief.’

  She knew she shouldn’t but even so, she took this as persona
l criticism. She worked hard, didn’t deserve this. ‘What about your friend the journo?’

  ‘Nothing to give her but a smile right now.’

  ‘I looked her up. I reckon she’d settle for your smile.’

  ‘You know nothing about her.’

  ‘How much do you know?’

  He shrugged. ‘That I trust her to be solid.’

  ‘And you base this on what?’

  He stared back at her. ‘Don’t start.’

  She gave a look of bafflement. ‘What? I’m a detective – I’m naturally suspicious.’

  ‘I’ll handle Lauren. You don’t have to turn your attention her way.’

  He sounded defensive and, having looked Lauren Starling up, Kate could see that the journalist had everything going for her. They needed to get off this topic.

  ‘Jack, I want you to know I hate going backwards,’ she remarked.

  It brought the twitch of a smile she desperately needed from him. ‘I’ll swap,’ he offered.

  ‘Chivalrous, thank you.’

  ‘Least I can do in repayment for this toastie.’

  ‘Eat up,’ she encouraged him, but privately she sighed and inwardly she knew something had happened between this Starling woman and Jack. He was too protective . . . but then Jack always was towards women; it was his Achilles heel.

  ‘I am not going to view some Norman ruin, by the way; we’re not squeezing in a quick side trip for a history lecture,’ Kate warned as they clambered into the taxi and gave the driver the address in St Leonard’s.

  Jack gave her a look of soft despair. ‘Not interested in the Battle of 1066? Or the home of William the Conqueror?’ He gave a tsking sound. ‘Your history teacher would be disappointed.’

  ‘She hated me anyway . . . and the feeling was mutual. Awful woman who smelled of medicated lozenges.’

  He laughed. ‘Shipwreck Museum, then?’ Now her expression showed only disgust. ‘That’s the old town up there,’ he said, pointing.

  ‘Jack, please.’

  ‘Let me educate you, Kate,’ he tried in mock pleading. ‘You never know when you might need to come back here.’