The Jackdaw

by Luke Delaney

  Kate looked over her slim shoulder as she paused with a soapy dish in hand. ‘Feel free to arrange a night out with your friends any time you like. I’d love to finally meet some of them – properly.’ She went back to washing the dishes.

  ‘Not a great idea,’ Sean told her. ‘They’d just get pissed and talk job all night.’

  ‘Sounds great. I’ll look forward to it.’

  ‘Ha, ha,’ Sean mocked, getting to his feet and heading for the stairs.

  ‘Oi,’ Kate called after him. ‘A hand with the cleaning up would be nice.’

  ‘I’m knackered,’ he complained, ‘and I need to get back to the office super early tomorrow before anyone notices I’m not there.’

  ‘Fine,’ Kate relented. ‘Just remember – dinner – this week.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ he answered, but he’d already forgotten about it, too tired to care, his mind blissfully still. The case hadn’t got into him yet – hadn’t taken him over completely. He wondered whether it was because he too lacked empathy with the victim. If it had been a woman or a child killed in the same way but for different reasons he wouldn’t have felt as he did. He would have already been consumed by the overpowering urge to keep going until the killer had been caught – he doubted he would have even come home for the evening. Early days, he told himself as he climbed the stairs to bed. It’ll get to you soon enough.

  4

  Sean arrived at work the next morning early enough to be the first one in the office and was glad of it. He walked slowly across the main room, casting an eye over the tip that was supposed to be the nerve centre of their investigations. Discarded items of clothing hung on chairs and over computer screens, abandoned polystyrene cups of cold, stale coffee littered almost every work surface, while the wastepaper bins overflowed with crisp packets, chocolate wrappers and plastic sandwich boxes. The large brown paper confidential waste sacks that filled every corner fared no better. He shook his head in displeasure and retreated into the sanctuary of his own reasonably ordered and tidy office.

  He slumped in his chair and peeled the lid off the black coffee he’d picked up from a nearby café − the grey filth they sold in the canteen at the Yard was wholly undrinkable. Next he placed his own personal laptop next to the coffee and started it into life. Once it was ready he pulled up the video of Paul Elkins’s murder and began to watch and listen: the victim taped to the chair, confused and terrified while the killer periodically stalked in front of the cameras, not even his eyes visible as he spoke in that eerie electronic voice – preaching more than appealing.

  Sean pressed pause for a second, giving his mind time to absorb what he had seen so far, to analyse it, to pick up on some small thing they’d all missed. His eyes seemed to flicker as he studied the screen before pressing play again, only to pause it a few seconds later, the image of the killer staring out at him.

  ‘Confident bastard, aren’t you?’ he whispered. ‘Is that why you’re doing this, because it makes you feel confident – makes you feel good again? Gives you back the pride that they took away from you?’ He clicked on play and watched for a few more minutes, the killer’s organized and self-assured demeanour never changing as he explained the rules of the ‘trial’ to the watching ‘jury’.

  He paused again and stared at the dark figure standing straight and purposeful. ‘What are you like when you’re not being this thing? What are you like when you’re just yourself? Are you meek and mild – a broken man too defeated to even stand up for yourself, your wife, your children? Did they beat the fight out of you – took your business, your house, your job? But when you put the ski-mask on, when you hear yourself speaking in that unrecognizable voice, does it give you your self-esteem back? Does it make you feel powerful? And why kill him the way you did? It was slow and painful. Was it the only way you knew how, or did you want it to be like that? Did you want him to suffer – want to make him pay?’

  A knock on his open door shattered his concentration and he looked up to see Donnelly standing there with a small man in his thirties he didn’t recognize. Sean looked him up and down, taking note of his skinny arms and legs and little pot belly, spectacles balancing on the end of his nose, receding blond hair uncombed and un-styled.

  ‘Who the hell is this?’ he asked Donnelly, never looking away from the man who was now flushed red.

  ‘This,’ Donnelly explained, ‘is Detective Constable Bob Bishop.’

  ‘Where the hell did you find him? And more to the point, what are you doing with him?’ Bishop looked from Donnelly to Sean and back again, following the conversation anxiously.

  ‘I abducted him from the Cyber Crime Unit,’ Donnelly continued. ‘The DI there’s an old friend of mine. He said we could have him.’ Still neither of them bothered to address Bishop. Sean shook his head in mock disbelief. ‘What?’ Donnelly played along. ‘You said get an Internet expert.’

  ‘Is that what he is?’ Sean continued to stare at the very uncomfortable-looking Bishop. ‘Is that what you are – an Internet expert?’

  ‘I know my way around the Web as well as anyone from the Cyber Unit,’ Bishop stuttered in his Birmingham accent.

  ‘See,’ Donnelly jumped in. ‘Like I said – an expert.’

  ‘You know why you’re here?’ Sean asked.

  ‘Something about the Your View Killer. DS Donnelly told me.’

  ‘It’s all about the Your View Killer,’ Sean told him. Bishop visibly swallowed hard. ‘Can he be traced? Can we trace him to wherever he’s broadcasting from?’

  ‘Yes,’ Bishop answered, ‘but it’s not like on the telly – it can take a while. But why d’you need me? Can’t you use one of your own team?’

  ‘Sure,’ Sean teased him, ‘because my team’s full of Internet and computer experts. The Commissioner lets me keep them locked in a room for whenever I might need them – along with thousands of pounds’ worth of tracking equipment for the once in a blue moon when I might need that too. Bishop, this is the Metropolitan Police: you don’t get given anything until you absolutely need it and then you beg, steal and borrow it before handing it back to wherever it is you got it from. And right now I need you.’

  ‘Well then, I guess I’m all yours,’ Bishop gave in.

  ‘Good. Can we trace it even when it’s not on?’ Sean pressed ahead with his queries.

  ‘No,’ Bishop told him. ‘We can only trace him when he’s connected to the Internet. Every time he’s connected we inch a little closer to his location, but he has to be connected.’

  ‘What if he changes computers or changes the location of his broadcasts? Donnelly asked.

  ‘If we’ve already got a hook into his computer we can trace him even if he changes location – although we’d have to go back a few steps, which would slow us down. But even without a hard modem we can trace his wireless fingerprint via the—’

  ‘Stop. Stop,’ Sean interrupted. ‘Save the technical jargon for someone who gives a shit. Now try that again in English.’

  ‘Well, like I said, once we’re into his er … computer, we’ve pretty much got him, but it’ll take time, depending on how long he stays online each time. If he ditches the computer we’re buggered, unless he’s using er … something that sends the signal on that he also used with the original computer.’ Sean and Donnelly looked at each other. ‘It’s like at home, right,’ Bishop explained. ‘Most people have more than one device that can access the Internet, but they’re all getting that access through one modem, right, so even if they ditch the device, we’re still into the source. Get it?’

  ‘I get it enough,’ Sean told him. ‘Dave, get him a desk in the main office and put him to work.’

  ‘He can share with me and Sally. There’s enough room. He wouldn’t survive in that shark pool.’

  ‘Fine,’ Sean agreed.

  Bishop’s eyes darted around nervously. ‘Excuse me,’ he began. ‘I know my way around computers and stuff, but I’m not qualified to call myself an expert and you sound like you need a
n expert.’

  Sean looked him in the eyes. ‘Do you know anyone better than you who also happens to be employed by the Metropolitan Police?’

  ‘Er … well no, but—’

  ‘I didn’t think so,’ Sean cut him off again. ‘Listen, you can speak to whoever you need to speak to for technical advice, go and see whoever you want to see, spend whatever you have to spend – but I need you to trace the location of where this madman’s broadcasting from. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, but it’s just that I was right in the middle—’

  ‘You may be our best chance to catch a killer, and if you do, it won’t be forgotten,’ Sean encouraged him. ‘Are you my man?’

  Bishop finally straightened as a sparkle came to his eyes. ‘Yeah,’ he answered. ‘Yeah. I’m your man.’

  ‘Good,’ Sean told him as Donnelly led him away to the next-door office. Sean hadn’t finished shaking his head when he saw Anna enter the main office and start to approach him. He felt a pleasant vibration in his chest and his head became a little light. He pushed the feelings aside and quickly stood, pulling on his coat and gathering his belongings, stuffing them carelessly into his pockets.

  Anna entered without knocking. ‘Going somewhere?’

  ‘Yes,’ was all he said, aiming for the door where he’d have to pass close to her.

  ‘Mind if I ask where?’

  He sighed before answering. ‘If you must know, I’m meeting Dr Canning for the post-mortem.’

  ‘Can I tag along?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Sean realized he was being unnecessarily blunt and reminded himself it wasn’t her fault he felt the way he did about her. Being close to her made him feel uncomfortable, vulnerable; but he didn’t want to hurt her either.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he explained. ‘It’s just Dr Canning doesn’t like additional people coming to his post-mortems. He likes it to be just him and me. Post-mortem’s his call. He’s the pathologist.’

  ‘That’s OK,’ she told him. ‘I understand. I’d probably be the same.’

  ‘Look,’ Sean continued. ‘I’ll tell you all about it when I get back. I’d be interested in your opinion.’

  ‘I’d appreciate that,’ she told him as he slid past. ‘I’ll see you later then.’

  He walked quickly through the main office without looking back and was gone.

  Georgina Vaughan sat on the corner of her desk on the seventh floor of Glenhope Investments in the City of London. She kept a sharp eye out for her boss who often stalked the floor looking for employees who were engaging in social discourse rather than working. She shared her limited working space with two colleagues, Nick and Oscar, and when they weren’t being spied on there had only been one topic of conversation that morning – the Your View Killer.

  She peeked over the top of Nick’s screen. ‘So who do you think he’s going to do next?’ she asked in little more than a whisper.

  He checked they weren’t being watched before answering. ‘I don’t know. Could be anyone. Could be you.’

  She gave a short laugh. ‘Me? I don’t think so. You heard what he said – he’s only after the big fish.’

  ‘You’re a senior project manager and a rising star,’ Oscar joined in. ‘Maybe he’ll consider you to be a big fish?’

  Again she laughed. ‘I doubt it. Not yet anyway. I reckon he’ll only go for CEOs. Probably doesn’t even know what a project manager is. By the time I’m a CEO he’ll probably be dead of old age.’

  ‘You’re on the senior management fast-track scheme – what more do you want?’ Nick reminded her in his slightly effeminate voice that matched his petite build and whiskerless complexion.

  ‘I’m thirty-fucking-three, Nick. Does that sound like fast-track to you? This whole job’s beginning to feel like waiting for dead-man’s shoes.’

  ‘Then you’ll be happy to see him dispose of a few of them,’ Nick suggested.

  ‘Ha, ha,’ she mocked him.

  ‘The higher you climb the less positions there are,’ Oscar chipped in. ‘Besides, with this lunatic running around out there, who’d want to be a CEO of anything?’

  ‘I would,’ she almost snapped at him in her clipped accent, her long, wavy brown hair falling forwards. ‘I just need him to bump off another couple of hundred and I should be fine.’

  ‘I doubt there’ll be any more,’ Nick argued. ‘I heard he was killed by some Eastern European gang he’d been laundering money for. Apparently his rates were beginning to piss them off so …’ He spread his hands as if an explanation wasn’t necessary.

  ‘That’s bollocks,’ Georgina told him. ‘Eastern Europeans would have chopped him to pieces.’

  ‘An expert on these matters, are you?’ Oscar asked.

  ‘I’ve heard things,’ she told them, trying to sound mysterious.

  ‘More like seen things,’ Nick teased her, ‘on the telly.’ Both he and Oscar laughed at her.

  ‘Well one thing’s for certain,’ she silenced them, ‘none of us have anything to worry about, sitting here doing these shit jobs. Nothing to worry about at all.’

  Sean parked in the ambulance bay at Guy’s Hospital, leaving the police vehicle log on the dashboard to prevent his car being towed away. He strode off through a part of the grounds rarely seen by most hospital employees, let alone the public, and made his way to the mortuary where he found Dr Canning already examining the body. Canning looked up to see who had entered his domain.

  ‘Good morning, Inspector.’

  ‘Morning, Doctor,’ Sean replied, no feeling in his voice. ‘Here we are again then.’

  ‘Quite,’ Canning agreed. ‘I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve already cleaned the victim up. There’s plenty of photographic documentation as to the body’s state when it first came out of the river. I’ve already examined it for anything unpleasant the river left behind.’

  ‘D’you find anything?’

  ‘Not particularly. The usual organic life forms and other debris. I’ve taken samples and plenty of swabs for you. If there’s anything deeper in his throat, stomach or lungs I won’t find it until I open the poor fellow up later today.’

  Sean moved closer and scanned the body slowly from head to toe, the man’s face close to unrecognizable from the image in the photographs Sean had seen – his expression in death a tortured grimace, the vivid rope-burn ring around his neck a stark reminder of how he died. The rest of his body was relatively untouched except for some reddening around both his ankles and wrists – from where he’d been taped to the chair, Sean guessed. Other than that the river had left its mark, but nothing of note, the victim’s clothing having protected his dead body from too much exposure to other floating debris.

  ‘These other cuts and marks,’ Sean checked, ‘they caused by being in the river?’

  ‘Almost certainly,’ Canning assured him. ‘I had a quick look and found most of them to be post-mortem and none that would have contributed to his death even if he had been alive before being disposed of in the river.’

  ‘He was, wasn’t he?’ Sean interrupted.

  ‘Was what?’ Canning asked.

  ‘Disposed of. Like he was nothing. Something to be rid of. An annoyance.’

  ‘Not like the last unfortunate victim we saw together,’ Canning reminded him. ‘Quite the ritual of guilt.’

  ‘Best not to think of it too much,’ Sean told him, trying not to let the images of the small boy on Canning’s autopsy table invade his mind.

  ‘Trial on that one must be coming up soon. Had a letter from the CPS putting me on standby.’

  ‘We’re just waiting for our slot at the Bailey to be confirmed and then the trial begins,’ Sean informed him. ‘I’ll try to make sure they don’t keep you hanging around too long.’

  ‘Appreciated.’

  ‘Anyway.’ Sean pulled them back to the matter in hand. ‘Apart from the rather obvious cause of death, can you tell me anything else?’

  ‘Ah,’ Canning bega
n. ‘The cause of death is not as straightforward as you may think.’

  Sean’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t like surprises. ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Cause of death wasn’t hanging, it was strangulation.’

  He had Sean’s interest. ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘Technically hanging is when someone falls from a height with a ligature around their neck, causing both a broken neck and fatal restriction of the blood supply. Death is more often than not instantaneous. Strangulation is the compression of the carotid arteries or jugular veins, causing cerebral ischaemia – which is the brain dying as a result of the lack of oxygen – while at the same time there is a compression of the larynx or trachea, causing asphyxia. Strangulation is a much more unpleasant way to leave this mortal coil than hanging. I’m afraid your victim was hoisted to a slow and painful death as opposed to being dropped to a relatively quick and painless one.’

  ‘Then he wanted him to suffer?’ Sean asked himself more than Canning.

  ‘I couldn’t say, Inspector. We both know that’s your domain, not mine. But I saw the Your View footage. The killer looked and sounded pretty angry at the world to me. The sort of person who would want to make others suffer.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Sean answered.

  ‘Keeping your options open, Inspector?’ Sean just shrugged. ‘Well, unfortunately the killer took the rope from around his neck before disposing of the body, so we don’t have that to work with, but from the video I could just about tell what sort of knot he used.’

  ‘Go on,’ Sean encouraged, glad to be discussing simple, tangible, physical evidence.

  ‘I’m pretty sure it was a poacher’s knot – used primarily in sailing.’

  ‘Sailing.’ Sean took the bait. ‘What type of sailing?’

  ‘All types of sailing,’ Canning replied. ‘Royal Navy, Merchant Navy, a yacht owner. Maybe he had a small dinghy as a child or a rowboat or … the possibilities are endless.’

  ‘I can’t see this one on a yacht,’ Sean told him, squeezing his eyes shut and rubbing them with a pinched thumb and index finger. ‘Not a great look for a man of the people – sailing around on a yacht.’