Mirror Man

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Mirror Man Page 26

by McIntosh, Fiona


  Now the driver shook his head. ‘Not liking the sound of this, sir. I don’t want to get involved in anything—’

  ‘You wouldn’t be. He hurt my daughter . . . left her standing at the altar.’

  ‘Ah, sad. Going to beat him up or something?’

  ‘No.’ The killer chuckled. ‘Do I look the type?’

  ‘You don’t actually, sir. With respect, you look more like a librarian.’

  ‘Ha . . . close. No, I just want to follow him.’

  ‘Ah, you see, I’m still not sure I feel comfy doing that.’

  ‘Not for any other purpose than to know where he lives these days.’ He squinted at the driver’s name on his identification tag. ‘You see, Paul, he took all of my daughter’s savings as well the money that we’d given her for her wedding, and he used it for himself.’

  ‘Bit of a bastard, then.’

  ‘You could put it that way.’ They both looked over at Jack, who had just flagged another black taxi. ‘I think he used our money towards a new flat and his bit on the side, if you get my drift?’ He smiled sadly. ‘Do you have daughters, Paul?’

  ‘Two of them. And whoever wants to marry them has to get past me first.’

  ‘There you are. I’m just a regular father and I just want to prove to my daughter that she picked a no-good rogue so she can get over him. Two years on and she’s still at home, broken-hearted, unable to get on with her life.’ His lie was spectacular even to his ears.

  ‘All right, sir. I’ll take you to his street but that’s all . . . as soon as I see his taxi indicating to pull in, you get out wherever we are. You can do the rest of your spy stuff on foot.’

  ‘Fair enough. Thanks.’ He sat back and watched the black cab in front as they followed, two cars behind.

  ‘I think he’s headed for Paddington Station,’ the cabbie observed.

  Right enough, the killer found himself alighting and paying for his taxi before following the detective through the station complex. Why here? Evening was closing in; surely Hawksworth wasn’t about to take a train somewhere? His hopes fell – this would be a waste of time if the detective was making a journey, but his hopes rose as he realised Hawksworth was avoiding the platforms, walking swiftly on those long legs. The killer had to break into a slight trot to keep among the river of people that seemed to be flowing towards the platforms against the direction he was heading in. Luckily Hawksworth was tall and he could keep him mostly in view, but there was a danger of losing him to these crowds so he risked a running catch-up. The detective was angling for a particular exit, it seemed, pausing to grab a couple of bunches of bright daffodils. And then he was moving again, through the bustle of the Paddington neighbourhood and into the quieter outskirts of Bayswater.

  He held back, stepping into the courtyard of a mews to watch as the policeman skipped up some stairs at a residence and pressed an entry buzzer. The killer waited, saw his prey say something into the speaker and grin before pushing in through the door. He sighed; the policeman was likely visiting a woman. Had to be. That could be handy.

  Pulling his beanie down further and hunching deeper into his parka, he walked casually down the street, mobile phone to his ear again as though engaged in a conversation. He forced himself to keep a normal walking speed – a person hurrying would attract attention. As he drew level with the terraced house that Hawksworth had entered, he moved up its stairs to study the five names on the various buzzers: Didcott, Farmer, Joffe, Starling and Rose. He surprised himself by smiling as he calculated the risk. He looked down the street: it really wasn’t that far to the corner, and once he’d made it round there, he could get lost in the shops or any of the buildings, plus there were mews, taxis, if he could get one, and, if he really legged it, he could make a dash for Paddington and get lost there.

  The risk was worth it. He pressed the buzzer for Didcott. Waited. Tried again. No response. Well, presumably that person was not in and so Hawskworth was with one of the other four. He pressed Farmer.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Er, yes, sorry to disturb you, I’m looking for a Mr Jack Hawskworth, please?’

  ‘No one of that name here, sorry.’ The connection was cut.

  He tried Joffe.

  ‘Hi. Tracey?’ Joffe was expecting someone.

  ‘Er, no. Forgive me, I’m actually looking for a Mr Hawsksworth, please?’

  ‘Wrong flat – sorry, mate.’ Again, the connection went dead on him.

  ‘And so, Jack, you are with a Starling or a Rose. What feminine surnames. Which of them might you be wooing with those daffodils, I wonder?’

  The odds of being caught had increased and, as he contemplated this, he heard laughter. There was no one in the street, and at the second burst of laughter he risked tiptoeing back onto the pavement and looking up. The voices were coming from the roof, it seemed. He listened carefully and was convinced he could hear a man’s voice that was not unlike Hawksworth’s. Okay, it was too dangerous to risk those overwhelming odds and press one of the two remaining buzzers. If Hawksworth was a guest, suddenly alarmed by someone asking for him, then he would remain on the roof and have that bird’s-eye view to watch his pursuer rush away.

  Instead, the killer stored away the names Starling and Rose. He would find her and, if need be, he could potentially use her; it always paid to do one’s homework.

  With the sound of their laughter echoing, he pulled up the hood of the parka again and walked away, again with no urgency, back towards Paddington to catch the tube to his Underground station. He’d have the next day after work and the whole of Saturday to get organised, and then he would arrive under cover of dark to where Paxton was ticking off his final days of incarceration. But his freedom, scheduled for Monday morning, would be fleeting . . . cut short when Justice would find him.

  Jack hoped their laughter hadn’t disturbed anyone. He glanced down onto the street and saw there were not many people about. The one fellow in the grey parka walking in the direction of Paddington hadn’t even looked up. Perhaps he couldn’t hear with his hood up like that.

  ‘I didn’t think I’d see you so soon,’ Lauren admitted, leaning into him.

  Anne had said much the same earlier. ‘Well, I didn’t want you to think I was a kiss-and-run guy.’

  ‘I don’t think that. And I haven’t had flowers that I haven’t bought for myself for such a long time that . . .’ She didn’t finish.

  ‘They’re just a bunch of daffodils – cheerful in anyone’s life.’

  ‘But it’s sweet. Thank you.’ She reached up and stole another kiss. ‘Jack, you don’t have to be my knight in shining armour, all right? You’ve already done enough. Mike’s being brilliant, too. That’s all progressing faster than I’d imagined.’

  He nodded. ‘The chivalry is a helpless reaction to all sorts of things, but particularly connected with work and the crap all police deal with on a daily basis. But you’re a strong and independent woman, I get it. And if we’re on this topic, I need to be honest with you and say that I’m not in a position to be looking for a serious relationship . . . not emotionally, not professionally, not physically. I hope you’ll forgive me for being candid.’

  She shook her head with a sort of shrug.

  ‘I need some time living alone, finding my way back to fun.’ He hesitated and then figured if he was being this open, he might as well continue. ‘Lauren, there’s a woman I see casually from time to time. She lives abroad. And she sees lots of other people,’ he said.

  She frowned, but said nothing.

  ‘The thing is, I’m not long out of something . . . an affair, I suppose.’

  She stepped back to lean against the balustrade. ‘Married?’

  ‘No, no. But she was in a long engagement towards an arranged marriage that she feared. She was a modern woman, in a modern city, being coerced in very traditional ways. Culturally we would never have been allowed to turn it into anything more than a secret longing.’

  Lauren gave a tsking sound of amu
sed admonishment. ‘Complicated. What happened? Tell me you were a guest at the wedding, stealing looks of yearning at each other.’

  ‘No. She died before she could marry or I could save her from the man who killed her.’ It was out before he could stop sharing the pain. He didn’t enjoy the shock that marched across Lauren’s face, collapsing her smile, hooding her eyes as she opened her mouth in horror. She began to stammer an apology. ‘I could have handled that better,’ he admitted. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Fuck! Jack!’

  ‘It was the last big public case I worked on. It makes me reluctant to get involved with anyone while I work on something so intense, especially anyone I meet through work.’ He gave a sad smile. ‘It will change in time, but at the present, I’m concerned that someone I care about might become a target because of my work.’ Anne’s warning thrashed about in his mind.

  ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Say that you can enjoy this for what it is and not get in too deep. If you do, I’ll almost certainly let you down. And you don’t need two losers in a row.’

  She gazed at him sadly as she touched his face affectionately. ‘You’re no loser, Jack. But if it helps, I’m in no headspace to get in too deep either. But I am enjoying this . . . whatever it is. It’s walking me back into the sunshine, you could say.’

  ‘Good.’ He hugged her. ‘So, dinner tomorrow, perhaps? For now I must run.’

  ‘So soon,’ she said, sighing.

  ‘Just wanted to bring you some flowers, let you know that you’re a special person and you deserve more than you’ve had.’

  ‘Would you like to know just how special and clever your non-girlfriend friend is?’

  ‘Go on, impress me.’

  ‘North London Crown Court.’ He grinned. He’d known she’d catch up. ‘It gets better though, right?’

  ‘Does it?’

  She nodded. ‘Judge Moira Leland is the connection. I nearly blacked out when I discovered that.’

  ‘And you think working for My Day can fulfil you?’

  ‘No, working for My Day has been paying the rent, but without it I wouldn’t be getting my shot at the big stage, so in a way I’m grateful for the shit job.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘I should add . . . and thanks to you.’

  Jack gave a little bow of acceptance.

  ‘But I’m thinking I haven’t told you anything you haven’t discovered already?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘All right. I’ll try to surprise you next time.’

  ‘You do that.’ He kissed her softly, briefly. ‘I have to go.’

  ‘Call me,’ she said. ‘And Jack?’

  He turned.

  ‘If I was of a mind to fall for someone . . . I’m sorry to tell you that it would be you.’

  ‘Stay strong and single, Lauren. I’m not your guy, but I’m enjoying it too.’

  ‘It’s called friendship.’

  He nodded with a smile.

  ‘With a little extra,’ she added, beginning to unbutton her blouse.

  He fled and, as he began down the stairs, his laughter was genuine. It felt good. As he was flagging a taxi, his phone rang.

  ‘It’s Constable Johnson, sir.’

  ‘Bit late for you, Ali.’

  ‘I was waiting to get hold of the information re that holdall, sir.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I tried tracking it through the Spurs website but no luck; it’s not on the site. So I contacted the police liaison at Spurs.’

  Jack wanted to congratulate her on such broad thinking, but she sounded enthusiastic and he didn’t wish to interrupt.

  ‘. . . so now I’m in touch with the manager of the shop. She has explained that this particular bag was a special edition from a few years back, which only season ticket holders had access to. I’m hoping to get a list of ticket holders who purchased the bag by tomorrow.’

  ‘Very good, Ali. I’m impressed.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. Goodnight.’

  That one will go far, he thought, as he slipped the phone back into his pocket.

  Brian Jarvis had only recently arrived home when his doorbell rang. He frowned, walking back towards the front door, anticipating members from the Jehovah’s Witnesses, perhaps. He was already formulating his response.

  He opened the door to see DS Sarah Jones, shrugging with slight embarrassment. ‘Mr Jarvis, I’m so sorry to disturb you.’

  ‘Good grief, DS Jones. Is everything all right?’

  ‘Um, you look like you’re going out. Am I—?’

  He laughed. ‘No, come in, come in. I’ve just arrived home, actually. Haven’t had a chance to get my coat off.’

  ‘Oh, is it dreaded supermarket time?’ She smiled, stepping inside the doorway and pulling off the hood of her anorak.

  ‘No, after I saw you, I called in to see a friend.’

  ‘Oh, right. Me too, I’m off to see a friend not far from here so I hope you don’t mind me interrupting your evening. I’ll just be a few minutes.’

  He showed her into his sitting room. ‘Are you cold?’

  ‘I’m fine, thank you.’

  ‘Well, I was about to put the kettle on, so I hope you’ll join me.’

  She looked unsure.

  ‘It’s no trouble,’ he encouraged her.

  ‘All right, thank you.’

  ‘Make yourself at home. I’ll be back in a jiffy.’ He was as good as his word, only leaving her briefly while he filled the kettle and flicked its switch. ‘Is English Breakfast all right for you?’ he called, then looked at his watch in the kitchen. ‘At nearing seven in the evening?’

  He heard her laugh from the other room. ‘It’s perfect,’ she said. ‘I like this tiny enclave of Conical Corner, and what a lovely house this is, Mr Jarvis.’

  ‘Thank you. It is, isn’t it?’ he said, arriving back. ‘I cycle to work most days, you know. It’s such an easy location and there are parks all around. There goes the kettle.’ He pointed back to the kitchen. ‘I’ll just get our tea things together.’

  ‘Thank you. May I look at your paintings? I’ve just started an art course.’

  ‘Be my guest,’ he said, and returned a few minutes later balancing a small tray with the tea things. He found Sarah peering closely at one of the hangings.

  ‘What do you think?’ he asked, setting down the tray on a coffee table between them.

  ‘Well, my art teacher has just got us working on a still life. I had never imagined how hard it would be to draw and paint an empty ceramic jug, a glass and an apple! But this is lovely. The perspective is perfect and the way the artist has captured the glass of the goblet is amazing. I’m really struggling with how the light moves around glass.’

  ‘That’s pastel, of course.’

  She nodded. ‘Yes, love all that smudging.’

  ‘My wife did that.’

  Sarah looked back at him with wide eyes. ‘My gosh, I’d be so proud if I did that. No wonder you’ve hung it for her.’

  ‘Milk and sugar?’

  ‘Both, please.’

  He obliged as Sarah took a seat opposite him. ‘Yes, I’m very happy living here,’ he said, returning them to the previous conversation. ‘Although there’s a school complex down the road with vast sports fields, there’s also a small river behind here, with a couple of lovely old pubs that overlook it. Summer with the ducks on the water and woodland around – it’s very pretty. I’ve lived here since we were married.’

  ‘And Mrs Jarvis is . . .?’

  ‘Oh, my apologies . . . She died.’

  Sarah looked mortified. ‘Oh. I didn’t . . . I’m sorry . . . foot in mouth. I always do this!’

  He smiled genially, handed her a china mug of tea. ‘It was fifteen years ago. No, it’s fine, Sarah. I’ve become used to living alone. I’m quite good at it now. Anyway, tell me how I can help you?’

  ‘Thank you.’ She dug into a small satchel and withdrew a file that had two A4-sized mugshots in them. ‘
I’m just wondering if you might recognise either of these men, Mr Jarvis?’

  He took the photos, digging in a pocket to pull out his glasses case. He studied the photos, taking his time. Finally he sighed. ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t say that I do. Should I know them?’

  ‘Both convicted out of the North London Crown Court.’

  He frowned. ‘Which judges presiding?’

  ‘Kenwood and Pascoe.’

  Jarvis put the photos down, then sipped his tea and shrugged. ‘I don’t recognise them. But tell me how I can help with regard to these men?’

  ‘Well, those two are coming up for early release and I just wondered if you knew of them. If anyone was watching them during their court cases, or if you noticed anyone from the public gallery who seemed particularly agitated by these cases.’

  ‘I can only really shed useful light on court seven – my regular courtroom – for the most part. I do relief from time to time, you know, filling in for others and, of course, we’re all plugged into the big cases, which is why I can talk to you about the Robbins fellow or Rupert Brownlow, but general cases . . .’ He looked confused. ‘I really don’t know how to be of any useful assistance.’

  ‘I do understand, and I’ve sent these mugshots to all the clerks of the courts at North London Crown Court, but you have an excellent memory and I thought I’d just ask you first as you’ve been so helpful. I’ll be checking in with the other clerks tomorrow and I really didn’t wish to bother you again then. You’ve been generous with your time, so if you see me or any of our people around the courts tomorrow, I promise we won’t be hunting you down.’ She gave a smile, which he returned.

  ‘Er, well . . . Look, I did say I want to help and you’re to ask me anything, so I’m glad you did, but I’m sorry – I can’t offer up anything on these two fellows. Perhaps they were before my time.’

  ‘Fourteen years, you said?’

  He nodded.

  ‘This man was convicted thirteen years ago, but this one, about eleven.’

  He shook his head. ‘Perhaps I wasn’t as old and jaded as I am now. Back then, when I was new, it was all about just trying to do a good job.’ He gave a twist of the mouth in regret. ‘I’m more experienced now, I suppose; I watch everyone in my courtroom. I did write down some thoughts on that other man we discussed. I’ll email those to you tonight. Is that okay?’

 

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