by Luke Delaney
He wanted to turn off his computer, but somehow couldn’t.
‘I didn’t do anything.’
‘You are part of the organization that made our government steal the people’s money so you could survive – money that you were supposed to give back to the people, but didn’t. Instead you invested it in property, African gold mines, Australian mineral mines, the vast profits of which you shared amongst yourselves like pigs at the trough while decent, hard-working people lost their jobs, their houses and their life savings. And yet you say you’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ Westbrook shouted at his screen. ‘Someone needs to stop you – someone needs to shut you up, before you start a bloody civil war.’
‘You should watch this,’ Phil Taylor called out to his wife Cathy. ‘This man’s talking a lot of sense.’
‘I don’t want to listen to that lunatic,’ she called back to her husband who sat in the small office-cum-storage room.
‘Don’t you want to know what those bastards did with the money they stole from us?’
‘Stole from us?’ she questioned, continuing their inter-room conversation from the kitchen. ‘I was under the impression bad debtors put the business under. That and you overstretching.’
‘Yeah, well, if the banks had just lent me a bit more we would have been all right.’
‘Sure about that, are you?’ she doubted him.
‘Whatever,’ he mumbled quietly to himself, eager to get back to the hooded man on the screen.
‘Nothing wrong indeed.’
‘I swear. I haven’t.’
Taylor watched as the man walked behind the woman and rested his hands on her shoulders, making her squirm and twist as she tried to see what he was going to do.
‘I’m going to ask you a question now and I want you to answer it honestly. If you lie I will know and your punishment will be severe. Do you understand?’
‘No. No I don’t understand. I just want to go home.’
‘Answer the question honestly and perhaps you will.’
‘OK. OK, I’ll answer the question as honestly as I can.’
The man took a deep breath, the voice distorter making it sound like a rush of wind.
‘Have you received any bonuses since the banking crisis? A simple question.’
‘OK – yes, yes I have, but it’s not what you think.’
The man straightened and took another deep breath, as if he’d unearthed a great truth.
‘How much? How much each year?’
‘I can’t remember, exactly.’
‘Try. How much?’
‘About … about forty thousand pounds.’
‘Forty thousand pounds.’
‘But it was in shares. I couldn’t even spend them. They were just … just paper.’
‘And your salary, how much do you get paid each year?’
‘I told you – I’m not rich. I’m just a project manager.’
‘How much and don’t lie to me.’
She slumped in the chair.
‘About ninety thousand pounds.’
‘Ninety thousand pounds and forty thousand bonus, while others can barely feed their families. Shame on you. Shame on you.’
‘D’you hear that?’ Taylor called out. ‘Hundred and thirty grand a year for being a bloody project manager.’ His wife didn’t answer. ‘Greedy bitch,’ he whispered. ‘Bet you weren’t thinking about people like me when you were celebrating your fat City bonus. No – of course you weren’t. None of you were.’
Father Alex Jones had received the text message he’d been dreading informing him that the Your View Killer was back live on the Internet. He sat at the altar of his empty church in Dulwich and logged onto Your View on his old iPad and soon found the images he feared, but looked for anyway – the hooded man with the deeply unsettling distorted voice standing next to a terrified-looking young woman. He’d prayed as the man had preached, pleading with God to touch the man’s heart with mercy while begging for the woman’s safety, but so far neither prayer seemed to have been answered.
‘The people have heard enough. It’s time for them to judge. Time for them to decide whether they find you guilty or not guilty.’ The man’s face grew larger on the screen. ‘I know what they’re thinking – that they can stop me talking to the people. Think they can stop the people having their justice by shutting down this website. But if they do her fate will be more terrible than they can possibly imagine. The people will not be silenced. I will not be silenced.’
Father Jones dropped to his knees in front of the altar, pressed his hands together, closed his eyes and began to pray. ‘Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy Kingdom come …’
‘Get me someone from Your View on the line,’ Sean told anyone who was listening. ‘The more senior the better.’
‘D’you think they might be trying to pull the plug?’ Donnelly asked.
‘We can’t take the chance they are,’ Sean warned him.
‘I’m on it,’ Donnelly told him and grabbed the nearest phone as the others continued to watch the pictures coming from the small screen.
‘The people are beginning to vote. Soon we’ll know if this whore of wealth has been found guilty by you, the people. I have nothing else to say while we wait for the judgement.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ Sally exclaimed. ‘What must she be thinking – tied to that chair by this psychopath, waiting for a bunch of voyeurs to pass judgement?’
‘She’ll be thinking a lot of things,’ Sean told her. ‘None of them good. But wasting time worrying about that’s not going to bring us any closer to finding him, and stopping him. How you doing, Bob?’
‘Getting closer and closer. The longer he stays online the closer I’ll get.’
‘How close are you now?’ Sean asked impatiently.
‘He’s definitely transmitting from the southeast,’ Bishop told him. ‘If he keeps this up it’s only a matter of time before we have him.’
‘The southeast?’ Sean didn’t hide his disappointment. ‘Can’t you do better than that?’
‘Yes, but it’ll take time,’ Bishop explained. ‘We’re not just trying to track a mobile phone signal. This is far more complicated. But we’re linked into the Internet Crime Unit’s tracking software. We’ll get him soon enough.’
‘So long as he doesn’t ditch the computer he’s using, or move to another location,’ Sean reminded him. Bishop just shrugged, concentrating on the computer in front of him. Donnelly grabbed Sean’s attention, holding the corded phone out as far as he could for Sean to take.
‘Nick Poole on the phone, boss. CEO of Your View.’
Sean stepped towards him and took the phone. ‘DI Corrigan speaking. I assume you’re watching this.’
‘I am,’ Poole answered.
‘I’m just calling to make sure you have no intention of pulling the plug.’
‘Listen,’ Poole told him nervously, ‘I know I gave Assistant Commissioner Addis assurances that we wouldn’t take this whole terrible business offline, but this is getting too much. We can’t be dictated to by this lunatic. I don’t want to be a part of this any more.’
‘You heard what he said,’ Sean snapped down the phone. ‘You pull the plug – you seal her fate. Let it play out.’
‘And I can tell people you made us keep the site live?’ Poole asked. ‘We can tell the media it was the police’s idea?’
‘If you want to use my name to cover your arse then use it. Just don’t shut this down.’
There was a slight pause before Poole spoke again. ‘OK, but it’s your call. Your responsibility,’ Poole insisted.
‘Fine,’ Sean told him with barely disguised contempt and hung up.
‘Problem?’ Donnelly asked.
‘Not now,’ Sean answered and moved to better see the screen, the hooded man still standing silently next to his victim. ‘You any closer?’ he asked Bishop.
‘A little, but not much,’ he answered.
; ‘Quiet a second,’ Sally interrupted. ‘I think he’s about to say something.’ The group watched as the man moved out of camera shot.
‘Look at the voting count,’ Sally told them. ‘People are voting not guilty.’
‘Looks fifty–fifty to me,’ Donnelly disagreed.
‘Yeah, but with the first victim it was an overwhelming majority finding him guilty,’ Sally explained. ‘This is a split jury – so what does he do now?’
‘I think we’re about to find out,’ Sean silenced them as the hooded man came back into view.
‘The people have voted. It appears you cannot decide whether her guilt is clear. I am disappointed. Too many of you have allowed yourselves to be seduced by her femininity and false tears. But it’s not your fault. The rich and powerful have used their media empires and influence to brainwash many of you over decades and decades – pumping you full of the news they want you to hear as well as mind-destroying soap operas and reality shows to ensure your misplaced sentimentality.
‘However, your decision is your decision …’
‘He’s gonna let her go,’ Sally said, sounding desperate for it to be true.
‘but I cannot ignore the thousands who have seen through her disguise and recognized her guilt.’
‘No. No. I haven’t done anything. They see that.’
‘Brothers and sisters – this is no time for mercy. This is a war: a war we must win or forever be trodden under the foot of oppression, growing weaker and weaker as they grow ever more powerful and wealthy. We must be strong, must be prepared to act against our gentle nature and strike back when we are wronged.’
They watched as he again disappeared from camera shot before quickly returning and moving behind his victim, holding a set of hair clippers up for the cameras to see.
‘My God,’ Sally said through clenched teeth, ‘what’s he going to do to her?’ No one answered as they held their collective breath.
‘She has humiliated us – the people. Laughing at us as she climbs the corporate ladder to unimaginable riches – fucking us at every turn, her vanity her shield. Now let her feel the bitter sting of humiliation.’
The clippers buzzed as he grabbed her by her long ponytail and scythed it off in one motion, allowing her head to fall forward as it came away. Sean closed his eyes for a second at the sound of her sobbing, saddened by her humiliation but relieved she was suffering no worse. His relief turned rapidly to extreme anxiety as the hooded man grabbed what remained of her hair and yanked her head backwards, exposing her throat.
‘Shit,’ he muttered involuntarily, imagining the clippers being replaced with a razor-sharp knife sliding across her taut skin. Instead the man gripped her in a headlock and began to saw great chunks of hair from her scalp, leaving multiple cuts and grazes. Finally he stood aside, leaving the victim bowed in her chair, looking down at her own hair gathered at her feet.
‘Bastard,’ Sally said loudly, her eyes glassy and reddening. No one disagreed.
‘Humiliation enough? Perhaps. But hair will grow and her vanity will return.’
Once again he stepped out of view. ‘Christ, not more,’ Sally pleaded as the man returned holding a relatively small knife. He stood facing the victim, the knife disappearing from view, shielded by his own body as her pleas screamed from the computer’s tinny speakers.
‘Please, no. Please don’t kill me. Please.’
The screaming seemed to last for an age as his elbows and shoulders jerked side to side and up and down, until at last he stepped aside so the world could see Georgina Vaughan slumped in the chair, dead or unconscious, her running top and sports bra split up the middle revealing her small breasts. In the centre of her chest blood seeped from the eight-inch-tall dollar sign he’d carved into her skin. The camera focused in on the wound before pulling back to show a wider shot. The man faced the camera, breathing hard after his exertions, struggling to regain his breath.
‘Is she dead?’ Sally asked, her voice still shaking.
‘No,’ Sean answered without conviction. ‘I think she’s just passed out.’
‘Best thing for her,’ Donnelly added. ‘Fuck. That was hard to watch.’
‘We’ll be watching more if we don’t find him,’ Sean soberly reminded them.
‘Her pain and suffering were necessary. She will live, but this is war. If the rich and powerful fail to heed this warning, next time I will not be so merciful.’
Sean and the others were in a state of shock at what they’d witnessed as the man put a hood back over the victim’s head and walked from sight. A second later the link went dead.
‘He’s gone,’ Bishop broke their silence. ‘The link’s been cut.’
‘D’you get any closer?’ Sean asked.
‘A bit. He’s in the Metropolitan area or very close to it,’ Bishop explained. ‘Which means we have to find his signal in amongst millions of others. Best bet is he’s broadcasting from a rural area somewhere just outside London.’
‘Could he know we’re trying to trace him?’ Sean asked.
‘I would assume he’d assume we would be.’
‘That’s not what I meant,’ Sean explained. ‘I mean, could he somehow see how close we’re getting to him? Could he measure that somehow?’
Bishop sucked air in through his teeth like a mechanic presenting a large quote. ‘Well, he’d have to have some state-of-the-art software – very difficult-to-get-hold-of stuff – and then he’d have to know how to use it. It’s possible, but unlikely. We mainly use this stuff to track paedophiles grooming kids online. Those bastards know their business, but they still never seem to see us coming.’
‘I hope you’re right,’ Sean told him before turning to the others. ‘All right. We’re all feeling pretty shit right now and so will the rest of the team. I need you to get them out there doing whatever they can to find this fucker. Keep them busy. I want them to remember what they’ve seen, but not dwell on it. They’ve all got jobs to do. There’ll be witnesses we haven’t found yet and we need to intensify our efforts to find this van. Let’s have every white Renault Trafic van in London stopped and checked if we have to. If the driver seems even a little strange then have them arrested and held until we can take a look at them. And check on number plate thefts too. Anyone who’s reported having their number plate stolen within the last few months we need to know about it – all vehicles, not just vans. And this damn white room. Somebody somewhere might have recognized it. Let’s pump the public for information – let them know just because they might know where it isn’t doesn’t mean we do. Some people assume we know everything while others just don’t want to get involved. We need people to start coming forward with information. Maybe someone out there even knows who he is. Maybe they’re covering for him. Make sure we’re pricking their conscience. An anonymous phone call with a name could break this whole thing open.’
‘What about the equipment he uses to disguise his voice?’ Sally asked.
‘Looks homemade,’ Sean reminded her, ‘but he may have had to buy some of the component parts. If we’re lucky he’s not competent with electronics and paid someone to put it together for him, although I doubt it. Get Summers or Jesson to check it out from all angles anyway. Find out what shops sell this kind of stuff and start phoning around – see if someone remembers dealing with anyone they thought were a little off and check for CCTV. You never know your luck. As soon as I think of anything else I’ll let you know.’
Sally and Donnelly nodded and headed off into the main office to rally the team. Sean tapped Bishop on the shoulder. ‘And you just keep doing whatever it is you do.’ He felt a presence at the door and turned to see an ashen-faced Addis standing, staring at him.
‘A word, Inspector,’ Addis insisted. ‘Your office will do.’ Addis spun on his heels and led the way, Sean following without enthusiasm. ‘Take a seat if you like,’ Addis told him calmly, but menacingly. Sean took him up on his offer and slumped in his own chair behind his desk. Addis remained standing, loo
king at the door Sean had left open behind him. ‘You may want to close that,’ he told Sean, ‘unless you want your entire team to hear what I have to say.’
‘I have no secrets from them,’ Sean lied, hoping the open door might curb Addis’s words.
‘Really? Perhaps you should,’ Addis told him, moving on before Sean could ask what he meant. ‘I assume you’ve just watched the same footage on Your View as I had to watch. For God’s sake, Inspector – a young bloody woman this time – one even the public voted to spare. The media will crucify us over this and frankly I don’t blame them. Why don’t we have anyone in custody yet? Why is this madman still running around out there wreaking havoc across London?’
‘With all due respect,’ Sean cut in, ‘it’s only been a matter of days and this is only the second victim he’s taken. But we’re making progress. We’re getting closer and closer to tracing wherever it is he’s broadcasting from.’
‘Is that all we’ve got?’ Addis snapped. ‘Hope that we can trace his signal?’
‘No, sir,’ Sean explained. ‘We’re chasing down dozens of lines of inquiry and now we’ll have dozens more.’
‘Good, because it would be most unsatisfactory to think that all you are doing is sitting around waiting for this lunatic to snatch someone else so you can trace the signal.’
‘Well we’re not,’ Sean assured him.
‘And this latest victim – has it been confirmed she is who he said she is yet?’
‘Not yet, but it’ll only be a matter of time now the broadcast’s been out there.’