by Luke Delaney
‘Just try me,’ Sean threatened him. ‘Just try me.’
‘I take it then you don’t want to hear what I have to say.’
Sean felt unclean and compromised. He wanted to get away from Jackson before his dark temper rose and overtook him – before he dragged Jackson across the table and beat him senseless. ‘I’m all ears,’ he managed to say.
Jackson leaned forward, his eyes fixed on Sean’s. ‘He said he was going to have to speed things up if he was to achieve what he wanted to achieve. Move his timetable forward.’
Sean felt a little confused. It was the first time he’d considered that the killer could be working to a specific timetable. It meant he’d set himself goals – but what were they? He decided not to share his confusion with Jackson.
‘Did he tell you what he wanted to achieve?’
‘Not exactly,’ Jackson asked, looking a bit puzzled, ‘but it’s obvious, isn’t it? He’s said it often enough. He wants to make the greedy bankers pay for their crimes.’ Jackson leaned back, smiling, as if The Jackdaw’s motive was some sort of sick joke.
‘You don’t believe him then?’ Sean asked. ‘Don’t believe in all this working-class-hero shit?’
‘Do me a favour,’ Jackson answered. ‘He’ll turn out to be just another nutter, although …’
‘Although what?’ Sean encouraged him.
‘Well I’ve met a few, you know, once they’re behind bars. Interviews for the paper and research for the books. They’re all pretty much the same, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Keep talking, Jackson.’
‘Yeah, this one’s definitely got something about him. Something a little different.’
‘Different how?’
‘Control,’ Jackson told him. ‘He always seems to be in total control – confident – like he’s absolutely sure of what he’s doing. I didn’t sense any madness in him, just clarity of purpose. Even his voice is controlled – the way he speaks – his sentence construction and intonation – nobody really speaks like that. Probably just one more thing he does to keep you lot off his scent.’ For a moment Sean thought Jackson looked genuinely spooked before he re-gathered himself. ‘Still – probably just the mask and weird voice making him appear more than he is. He’ll turn out to be just another loony. But right now he’s the hottest story in town. The readers just can’t get enough of him.’
‘But he says he needs to speed up his timetable? Did he say why?’ Sean asked.
‘Absolutely,’ Jackson grinned.
‘And?’
‘It’s because of you, DI Corrigan. He looked up your old cases. He thinks you’re very determined. To be honest – I think you’ve got him worried. Great angle to the story: “The Jackdaw versus London’s top detective”. I was thinking give the readers a little background about yourself first, you know – how you got your man and all that stuff – how Thomas Keller almost killed you. What do you reckon?’
‘Don’t even think about it,’ Sean warned him, imagining what Kate would say if his name appeared on the front page of The World.
‘Come on,’ Jackson tormented him. ‘We haven’t had anything this interesting since the Yorkshire Ripper sent tape recordings to the chief investigating officer, and even that turned out to be a hoax.’
‘I don’t know who’s crazier,’ Sean told him. ‘You or him.’
‘Think of the positive publicity,’ Jackson tried to persuade him. ‘The top-brass would love it: “Hero cop pitted against merciless killer”. You’ll be famous.’
‘You put me all over that arsewipe you call a newspaper and I’ll come for you, Jackson,’ Sean warned him through thin lips as he got to his feet.
‘Just think about it.’ Jackson smiled. ‘You have my business card. My number’s on it. And in case you were thinking of listening in to my conversations, that’s not the phone I use to speak to The Jackdaw. You’d be wasting your time.’
‘Stay away from me,’ Sean insisted, taking the card and slipping it into his jacket pocket, ‘and stay away from this joker who’s got you convinced he’s the real killer. You want to get yourself killed, fine. Just do it on someone else’s patch.’
‘Oh, he’s the real killer,’ Jackson told him, his eyes a mixture of excitement and terror. ‘Believe me, he’s the real deal and when you finally come face to face with him, you’ll see it for yourself.’
‘We’ll see,’ Sean snarled and turned to leave before Jackson said something he couldn’t ignore.
‘You know we’re a lot alike, you and me. I see it, even if you don’t.’
‘We’re nothing alike,’ Sean protested. ‘You’re imagining things.’
‘Sure we are,’ Jackson argued. ‘We both love our jobs, even when they’re destroying everything around us – our families and friends. We’re both determined to get the job done, no matter what it takes – even if we have to bend a few rules. I never quit until I have my story and you never quit until you have your man. We’re both prepared to take risks others would never dream of to get what we want. And why do we do this? For money or celebrity? No. We do it for our own satisfaction and peace of mind, because if we didn’t, we just wouldn’t be able to live with ourselves. Ring any bells?’
‘Similar traits don’t mean we’re alike,’ Sean replied.
‘Come on, Corrigan. Your colleagues look at you just the same way mine look at me – like you’re crazy. Like you’re insane for taking the chances you do. But it’s what makes you you – just as it’s what makes me me. We’re lost to our professions, Corrigan, and ultimately it’ll probably destroy us both.’
Jackson’s words cut deep, but Sean managed to hide how much they had disturbed him. He reminded himself he still had Kate and his girls – clinging to them like a drowning man clinging to a rock.
‘Have a nice day,’ he told Jackson and headed for the exit.
Sean arrived back in the office at the Yard with Jackson’s words still dancing around inside his mind. Was that what Jackson wanted, was that what The Jackdaw wanted? To bring them face to face – to turn the investigation and its ultimate end into some kind of public entertainment – just so long as they could watch it all from a safe distance? But maybe, just maybe, he could still use Jackson to lead him straight to The Jackdaw.
He burst into the main office and headed for his own goldfish bowl of a room, palming off the efforts of both Sally and Donnelly to get his attention, for the moment at least. Right now there was only one person he wanted, needed, to see. As he entered his office she was already sitting on the opposite side of his desk, once more watching the videos from the Your View broadcasts.
Anna looked up when she heard him enter. ‘You’ve been gone a long time,’ she told him. ‘Anywhere interesting?’
‘You could say that,’ he replied. ‘I met with Geoff Jackson.’
‘The journalist from The World?’ she asked. ‘The one covering our investigation?’
‘Yeah,’ he answered. ‘He met with the killer again.’
‘How d’you know?’ Anna argued. ‘How d’you know he’s meeting with the real murderer? How does Jackson know?’
‘He seems convinced,’ Sean told her. ‘I may not like the little prick, but he’s smart enough and experienced enough to make sure he’s speaking to the real deal.’
‘So what now?’
‘Said the killer’s working to some kind of timetable, implying he intends to achieve certain targets he’s set himself. D’you think that’s possible – that he could reach a point that satisfies him and then stop?’
‘Interesting,’ Anna answered, pursing her red lips as she considered the question. ‘I suppose I’d have to say it’s possible, based on the fact he killed his first victim, but not the next two, which tells us he’s not in a state of rage or frenzy. He’s in control – he has discipline and restraint. But it means he’s even more organized than we thought he was. He may be trying to balance the number of victims he can claim with the chances of eventually being caught. Not something
your typical serial killer can do. Most will offend until they’re caught or killed.’
‘But he’s not a serial killer,’ Sean reminded her. ‘He’s only killed one of his victims. If anything he’s becoming less violent, not more.’ He slipped off his raincoat and slumped into his chair. ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘D’you buy all this vengeful voice of the oppressed crap?’
‘Why not?’ she asked. ‘If this is a man who’s potentially lost everything because of the banking collapse, then yes, it could psychologically destabilize him enough to make him act out his fantasies of revenge in a violent way. Even commit murder.’
‘And want to broadcast it to the world?’
‘For some people revenge is an intensely personal thing. For others, they want the world to know it was them.’
‘But he hides behind a mask.’
‘When he sees the masked man on the videos, he sees himself.’
‘But he would have to have had some underlying psychological issues already, right? He hasn’t gone from nought to a hundred in one go. The screws were already loose. Whatever effect the banking crisis had on him it just finished the job. If it hadn’t been that it would have been something else – his wife leaving him, losing his job, someone looking at him the wrong way while he’s queuing with his kids at Legoland – something would have set him off. If he is in fact just another psychopath, albeit a particularly patient and clever one.’
‘Having doubts?’ Anna asked.
‘Let’s just say I like my psychopaths nice and straightforward. You know, start with pulling legs off spiders then a slow and steady descent into complete violent madness – each crime worse than the last, sort of thing.’
Anna smiled. ‘Not all people with psychopathic tendencies end up as violent criminals,’ she explained. ‘A significant number of company CEOs have psychopathic personalities, only they kill people in the boardroom and in business deals, but they still do so without feeling the same sort of compassion a normal person would for their victims. They enjoy the power. They enjoy being able to control what happens to the life of another person.’
‘Well, this one’s certainly turned the tables on your boardroom psychos. I bet they’re not feeling quite so in control right now,’ he told her, before being distracted by DC Bishop wandering past his door. ‘Bishop,’ Sean called out, stopping him in his tracks and making him look up from the latest technical data sheets he was studying while walking. He retraced his steps backwards and poked his head into Sean’s office.
‘Something I can do for you, guv’nor?’ he asked.
‘Yeah,’ Sean told him. ‘How you getting on tracing the source of the signal?’
Bishop looked puzzled for a second. ‘I’ve already traced the source, guv’nor,’ he answered. ‘It’s the location of the source that’s the tricky bit.’
Sean’s eyes narrowed. ‘Don’t play with me,’ he warned him.
Bishop nervously cleared his throat. ‘No change since the last broadcast,’ he explained. ‘I can’t get any closer until he’s—’
‘Online,’ Sean interrupted. ‘Yeah, yeah. I get the picture,’ but as Bishop was about to walk away an idea came from nowhere and jumped into the front of Sean’s mind. ‘Hold on a second,’ he stopped him, fishing in his jacket pocket for the card Jackson had given him. ‘Can you track a mobile phone signal, even if it’s on the move?’
‘You should go through technical support for that,’ Bishop reminded him.
‘I know technical support can,’ Sean answered. ‘What I asked is can you track a mobile?’
‘So long as it’s turned on and I have the number. All I have to do is triangulate the signal and bingo.’
‘Number’s on there,’ Sean told him, handing him the card.
‘Geoff Jackson?’ Bishop queried. ‘The journalist? I doubt he’s using his own mobile to communicate with the suspect.’
‘He’s not,’ Sean agreed, ‘but he’s a journalist. He’s no more likely to be without his own mobile than we would.’
‘So,’ Bishop surmised, ‘when he goes to meet with the suspect he’ll still have his mobile with him.’
‘Of course he will,’ Sean told him.
‘If he goes to meet him again,’ Anna argued.
‘He will,’ Sean assured her.
‘The suspect took the phones from the other victims prior to abducting them,’ Anna reminded him. ‘At the very least I’d expect him to be cautious enough to make Jackson turn his phone off and with it your chance of tracking it.’
‘He probably will,’ Sean agreed, ‘but if the surveillance can stay close enough to the signal before that, it could be too late. Jackson might just lead us straight to him, even if he doesn’t know it himself.’
‘But why not technical support?’ Bishop asked. ‘They’ve got better equipment for this than I can cobble together.’
‘Because I need it now,’ Sean insisted. ‘Jackson isn’t gonna hang around. Technical support will take too long to get themselves sorted. Don’t worry about the authority – I’ll get Addis to sort it ASAP. He won’t argue if he thinks it’ll bring a result.’
‘And the surveillance?’ Bishop asked.
‘Let me worry about the surveillance,’ Sean told him. ‘You just get a fix on Jackson’s phone.’ Bishop shrugged his shoulders and headed off to find people who had access to the equipment he would need and who owed him a favour or two. Sean stood and walked to his door, summoning Sally and Donnelly from the main office. A few seconds later they were all gathered in his office waiting for the news. ‘We’re going to triangulate the signal on Geoff Jackson’s mobile phone and put a surveillance team up his arse. Next time he goes to meet our boy we’ll be there with a welcoming committee.’
‘Sneaky,’ Donnelly observed. ‘Very sneaky.’
‘Dave,’ Sean ordered, ‘get hold of Addis and get me a surveillance team on the hurry up. With Addis ordering it – it’ll happen fast. He has that effect on people.’
‘I’m on it,’ Donnelly told him and immediately headed off to hunt down Addis.
‘What d’you want me to do?’ Sally asked.
‘Stay close,’ Sean told her. ‘If Jackson looks like he’s heading to a meet I want you with me, and Bishop too. If he leads us to our man I want someone with me I can trust – someone to handle Jackson while I handle the suspect.’
‘What if he’s armed?’ Sally questioned. ‘Goldsboro said he was armed with a shotgun.’
‘Then I’ll be careful,’ he answered flippantly.
‘Like you were with Thomas Keller?’ she asked.
‘That was different.’ Sean tried to dodge the subject.
‘Promise me you won’t try and take him on your own,’ Sally insisted. He looked from Sally to Anna and back, unable to decide who looked the most concerned.
‘OK,’ he assured them. ‘If this works and it looks like there’s even a chance he might be armed, then I promise we’ll just box him in and wait for an ARV to take him down.’
‘You’d bloody better,’ Sally warned him. ‘You’d better.’
Zukov and DC Tessa Carlisle turned into Cecil Road – an unattractive dead-end street in Colindale, north London, full of ugly grey houses thrown up after the Second World War.
‘I hate it around here,’ Zukov complained. ‘Gives me the creeps. Reminds me of being at training school.’ He was referring to the nearby Metropolitan Police Training College – a place that held little other than bad memories for him.
‘It wasn’t that bad,’ Carlisle disagreed. ‘I had a pretty good time there.’
Zukov eyed the pretty young detective from behind his sunglasses. He had his own ideas why Carlisle, with her sparkling blue eyes, heavy chest and long blonde hair, had enjoyed her time at training school more than he had, but he kept his thoughts to himself. He found the house he was looking for and parked up.
‘This is it,’ he told her, ‘number fourteen – flat number five.’
‘Can’t be much of a
flat in a house that size,’ Carlisle deduced.
‘More like a bedsit, I reckon,’ Zukov agreed. ‘Probably going to be a right shithole too. Don’t know why they make us wear suits all the time when we spend half our lives crawling around dumps like this. Some immigrant carved up his council house with plaster board and now charges other immigrants a fortune to live like pigs.’
‘Let’s not make any judgements just yet,’ Carlisle warned him and climbed out the car before he could reply, waiting for him to join her on the pavement. ‘Shall we?’ She smiled at the grumpy-looking Zukov before heading towards the front door of number fourteen. She pressed the cheap white doorbell that electronically chimed a classical tune she vaguely recognized and waited for sounds of life to come from beyond the frosted double-glazed glass that dominated the white PVC door. A few seconds later she heard footsteps and saw the distorted silhouette of someone approaching. She heard a lock turn and the door was opened by a slim man who looked to be in his mid-sixties, although she guessed he was probably a lot younger – a hard unprivileged life having taken its toll. He wore a grey shirt under a burgundy cardigan, with matching grey trousers and comfortable grey shoes. The smell from inside the house was immediately unpleasant – too many people trying to co-exist in too small a domicile, the cooking smells from at least three continents mixing in the overly warm central heating. Carlisle almost gagged, but recovered quickly enough.
‘Can I help you with something?’ the man asked, friendly enough.
‘Police,’ Zukov told him, holding out his warrant card to prove it. ‘DC Zukov and DC Carlisle from the Special Investigations Unit – New Scotland Yard,’ he added for extra credence. ‘Do you live here?’
‘Yes,’ the man nodded.
‘Is it your house?’ Zukov continued.
‘I own the house, yes,’ he answered, looking increasingly confused.
‘Does anyone else live here?’ Zukov laboured.
‘Yes,’ he admitted without concern. ‘My tenants.’
‘Your tenants?’ Zukov asked as if he’d made a significant discovery.