by Luke Delaney
‘Any connection to any of the other victims?’
‘Only that he worked in the City, but we haven’t done much digging yet.’
‘OK,’ Sean told him. ‘Let’s get digging and see if we can’t find a connection. Maybe his victim selection won’t be as random as we believe.’
‘I’ll get on it. But doing full profiles for the victims, going back years into their lives, takes forever,’ Donnelly warned him. ‘We’re struggling to keep up with this bastard’s rate of offending as it is.’
‘I know, I know,’ Sean agreed, ‘but let’s at least go back a few months. We might get lucky profiling them short term. If they are somehow connected to each other then they’ll be connected to the suspect too.’
‘Leave it with me,’ Donnelly assured him.
‘Bollocks,’ Sean suddenly cursed.
‘Problem?’ Donnelly asked confused.
‘Addis,’ Sean told him. ‘Just walked in the main office. Do yourself a favour and make yourself scarce.’
‘You sure?’ Donnelly offered.
‘I’m sure.’
Donnelly moved as fast as he could without looking obvious, but Addis was already at Sean’s door before he’d escaped. ‘Assistant Commissioner,’ he nodded to Addis as he slipped past him. Once Donnelly was gone Addis stepped into the office and closed the door. Sean thought he could detect a slight twitching in Addis’s right eye.
‘Assistant Commissioner,’ Sean acknowledged him without standing. ‘Please, take a seat.’
‘Do I look like I’ve come here for a sit-down chat?’ Addis snarled.
‘No,’ Sean agreed, knowing there was no point in pulling the tail of an already angry dog. ‘No you don’t.’
‘I told you, Inspector – no more bloody victims.’
‘It was a little bit beyond my control,’ Sean argued as gently as he could.
‘And if that wasn’t enough for the public to completely lose confidence in us, you walk straight into a trap and end up looking like a bumbling fool.’
‘You’re right,’ Sean admitted. ‘He set me up. He got the better of me – this time.’
‘Every time,’ Addis told him. ‘It seems to me he gets the better of you every time. Have you any idea of how much pressure I’m being put under to resolve this matter? Any idea at all?’
‘I can imagine,’ Sean answered.
‘No, you can’t,’ Addis insisted. ‘How could you possibly imagine?’ The two men stared at each other in silence for as long as Sean could bear it.
‘If I don’t have your full confidence to carry on with this investigation, then perhaps you should replace me with someone else,’ Sean suggested.
‘Don’t play double-bluff with me,’ Addis warned him. ‘You may have got away with it in the Douglas Allen investigation, but lightning rarely strikes the same place twice.’
Sean pursed his lips and considered Addis with more clarity than he’d done since the first time they met. One question burned too brightly in his mind not to be asked.
‘One thing I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘You set this unit up, you put me in charge, but then you do nothing but jump all over my back. You’ve even threatened to replace me. Why give me the unit and then act like I’m the last person in the world you actually want here? I don’t understand. It makes no sense.’
‘For God’s sake,’ Addis answered with barely hidden contempt for Sean’s naivety. ‘What do you think this is? The bloody Boy Scouts? You’re here because I want you to be here. Because you’re an asset. Because at this time I believe you can get results when I need them quicker than anyone else. But if you think that gives you some sort of immunity from criticism or protection from failure then you’re sadly mistaken. You’re subject to the same scrutiny as everybody else who works for me and I find people work best when they fully appreciate my expectations. But remember, Inspector – if you don’t work for me then you’re nobody. Just another DI rotting on some murder squad investigating domestic killings or sitting in some outlying borough dreaming of your retirement, only to die within a few months of leaving. We play for high stakes here. Any time you don’t believe you can handle it, be sure to let me know.’ Addis moved slowly to the door and pulled it open before looking back at Sean. ‘We’re in a results-orientated business, Inspector. So get me a result.’ He walked through the door and strode across the office and was gone. Sean just gazed into the space Addis had occupied until Donnelly popped his head tentatively around the corner.
‘You all right?’ he asked.
Sean blinked the image of Addis that was seared in his mind away. ‘I’m fine,’ he answered, standing and pulling his coat on. ‘Nothing a little time away from here won’t fix.’
‘Want some company?’ Donnelly offered.
‘No,’ Sean answered too quickly. ‘I need time and space to think. I’m better on my own.’
Jackson sat at the basement bar of a West End strip club, the sort of place that only people who were looking for it would find. For the average customer the drinks were extortionate, but as an old friend of the owner, Jackson was rarely asked to settle his tab. He drank with his back to the stage where failed actresses who’d long since given up on fame and fortune danced until they were naked just to survive.
Jackson came here when he didn’t want to be seen, nicely hidden away in the dark of the bar amongst other men who didn’t want to be seen either. He often ended up here after a bad day at work and this had definitely been that. God damn Corrigan for using him to try to take down The Jackdaw. He’d still give the story full coverage and his follow-up book would still sell, but without the one-on-one interviews it would never stand out – never net him the sort of cash he’d been banking on. Bastard Corrigan had cost him tens of thousands, maybe even hundreds of thousands by the time you’d factored in the TV deal he now wasn’t going to get. Son of a bitch. But still, he couldn’t help but have a sneaking respect for him. Clever boy tracking his personal mobile and not wasting his time trying to find the pay-as-you-go’s signal. Jackson couldn’t forgive himself for not seeing it coming, though. If he’d just left his mobile phone behind – for once in his life. He drained his glass of whisky, tapped the empty glass on the bar and jutted his chin at the barman who quickly headed his way with the bottle.
‘Just keep ’em coming, Frankie. Just keep ’em coming.’ The barman filled his glass and glided away. Jackson raised the glass to his lips just as the pay-as-you-go mobile began to vibrate and flash on the bar, the sound of the club’s music all but drowning out its ringing.
Jackson froze for a second before slowly lowering his glass and staring at the phone. What sort of game was this? Had Corrigan somehow managed to get hold of the number? Or could it really be him? He quickly raised his glass and drained it in one before answering the phone, his heart racing.
‘Hello,’ he tentatively answered, but there was nothing but silence. ‘Hello,’ he repeated. ‘Who is this?’ More silence. He covered the ear the phone wasn’t pressed against to block out the music and waited for an answer. After what seemed the longest time he heard the familiar electronic voice.
‘You betrayed me,’ the voice accused him, rocking Jackson back.
‘No,’ he spurted out. ‘It was the police. It was Corrigan. He set me up – used my mobile phone to track me.’ Jackson listened to the silence. ‘Why would I betray you? You are the story. Why would I want it to end?’
‘Why should I believe you?’ the warped voice eventually asked.
‘Because it doesn’t make any sense,’ Jackson tried. ‘Just think it through yourself. Why would I help the police?’
‘To gain favour with them. In exchange for insider information for your book. You are planning on writing a book, aren’t you, Mr Jackson?’
‘Maybe,’ Jackson partially admitted, ‘but I don’t need to help Corrigan to get information. I have my sources.’
‘Just as I no longer need your help to spread my message. My followers now number in the
hundreds of thousands.’
‘And my readers number in the millions,’ Jackson snapped back. ‘Come on. We’ve been through all of this. I can help you and you can help me. We both know it.’
‘What’s to stop him tracking you again?’ the voice asked.
‘I’ve already changed my mobile,’ Jackson explained. ‘Even had the number changed, which is a real pain in the arse, let me tell you.’
‘And this phone? What do the police know of this phone?’
‘They know it exists,’ Jackson answered, ‘but it’s journalistic material, which is why I still have it and not Corrigan.’
‘And the number?’
‘They don’t know it. Trust me.’ More silence.
‘Very well,’ the voice finally answered. ‘I’ll contact you when the time is right. But if you cross me, I won’t be as merciful with you as I have been with others.’ The phone went dead before Jackson could answer.
‘Shit,’ he whispered while attracting the barman by waving his empty glass in front of him. Excitement rising in his chest, mixing with the fear of once again facing The Jackdaw. ‘Just think of the money, Geoff old boy. Just think of the money.’
Sean stood outside St Thomas More Church in Dulwich. It looked black and forbidding in the darkness, although he was surprised to see some yellow light behind several of the windows. At this late hour he hadn’t expected to see any signs of life at the church. So why had he come here? Truth was he didn’t really know himself. He’d been heading home when suddenly he found himself taking the longer route past the church. He tried to tell himself he just needed the fresh air to wash away Addis’s poison, but deep inside he knew it was more.
After several minutes of looking up at the building he moved forward and tentatively rested his hand on the black iron gate that led into the small courtyard. He gently pushed the gate and almost recoiled with surprise when it swung slightly open. He looked up and down the deserted street, feeling like a criminal, before pushing the gate open wide enough to be able to slip through, holding his warrant card in his pocket as he walked to the arched wooden door of the church itself. He rested the palm of his hand on the door and once again gently pushed, expecting the door to be locked shut and unyielding, but this too opened slightly – just enough for the dim light from inside to leak into the darkness outside. Even if he’d not really wanted to enter the church, finding the door open in the middle of the night ensured the policeman in him took over. Now he had to enter, even if it was just to make sure the church wasn’t being relieved of its charitable donations box.
He slowly pushed the door open enough to slip inside, cringing at every creak it made. Once inside he closed it behind him, the sound of the latch lock clunking into place, filling the modest church and echoing off every surface. Sean froze by the door and waited for the ghost sounds to fall silent before daring to step away. His eyes continually searched for any sign of movement as he moved deeper inside the church, his ears pulled slightly backwards by the tension in his face muscles as he listened for the slightest sound. But all he could hear were his footsteps, harsh and brutal on the solid wood floor. Betrayed by the sound of his own shoes he decided to announce himself, even if it was just to the paintings and statues of Christ, the Virgin Mary and God himself.
‘Hello,’ he called quietly, tentatively into the dimness. ‘Hello,’ he repeated with more conviction, but nobody suddenly appeared to welcome or challenge him. He kept walking towards the altar and statue of Christ on the cross that dominated the space, pulling him further and further forward, only stopping once he’d reached the few wide steps that led to the bleeding feet of the Messiah.
He looked around nervously before speaking to himself. ‘What the hell am I doing here?’ The sudden sound of a voice made him spin on his heels and reach for his ASP.
‘Perhaps you came to pray,’ the man’s voice offered. Sean squinted in the poor light as the dark figure came towards him, like a floating aberration, until he was close enough for Sean to see who it was. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you,’ Father Alex Jones apologized. ‘I heard someone moving around down here and thought we might be having a visit from one of our not-so Christian flock.’
‘The door was open,’ Sean explained. ‘I was just checking it out.’
‘Well, you are a policeman, after all,’ Jones teased him.
‘I didn’t expect the church to be open this late,’ Sean told him.
‘I like to keep it open as late as I can,’ Jones replied. ‘You get a better class of sinner this time of night.’
Sean looked the young priest over and allowed himself a wry smile. ‘Yes. I suppose you do.’
‘I haven’t seen you in a while.’
‘I’ve been busy,’ Sean explained.
‘Of course. So what brings you here now?’ Jones asked. ‘Forgive me, but I doubt you really came to check on my rather lax security.’
‘I’m at work,’ Sean tried to explain. ‘I guess I just needed to clear my head.’
‘What strange work hours we keep, you and I.’
‘Comes with the territory, I guess.’
‘I suppose,’ Jones agreed before allowing a silence to fall between them for a while. ‘So what is it you’re trying to clear your head of, if you don’t mind me asking?’
‘People,’ Sean answered bluntly.
‘I see,’ Jones replied, looking at the floor.
‘And a case,’ Sean continued. ‘A case I’m working on.’
‘And this case troubles you?’ Jones asked.
‘No,’ Sean told him. ‘It’s my inability to solve it that troubles me.’
‘Nothing worse than an itch you can’t scratch,’ Jones replied. Sean said nothing as he stared up at the crucifixion scene. Was that how The Jackdaw saw himself – as a latter-day messiah, prepared to allow himself to be crucified to make his point?
‘So what’s the case?’ Jones interrupted his thoughts. ‘If I’m allowed to ask. One of the benefits of speaking to a priest is they can’t tell anyone about it.’
‘Like a journalist,’ Sean explained, drawing a slightly confused look from Jones.
‘Indeed,’ he agreed. ‘Although you’d need more than a court order to persuade a priest to give up what he’s been told.’
‘You seem to know more about the law than most,’ Sean answered.
‘I have a law degree,’ Jones told him. ‘The Church put me through university before I completed my vows.’
‘Any regrets?’ Sean found himself asking.
‘About joining the priesthood? No,’ Jones answered unwaveringly. ‘Never. It’s what I was meant to do. And you?’
‘The police?’ Sean asked. ‘It’s more something I have to do than want to do.’
‘I see,’ Jones answered, ‘but it’s not all plain sailing, I suppose. Like your current case.’
Sean looked from Christ to the young priest. ‘I’m investigating the man some people are calling the Your View Killer and others The Jackdaw. To me he’s just a man I need to find and stop.’
‘Ahh,’ Jones nodded his head slowly. ‘I know the case. I’ve been following it on the Internet.’
Sean struggled to hide his surprise. ‘You’ve been watching it?’
‘I have,’ Jones admitted. ‘Such terrible videos. Those poor people and their families.’
‘You don’t seem the type to be watching such … graphic videos,’ Sean told him.
‘But I have to,’ Jones replied.
‘Why?’
‘To pray for them,’ Jones told him. ‘So I can pray they don’t come to any harm and to pray for forgiveness for the man you hunt.’
‘Prayer doesn’t look like it’s working,’ Sean pointed out.
‘Who can say?’ Jones argued. ‘Perhaps if I and others hadn’t been praying for the victims things would have gone even worse for them.’
‘Maybe,’ Sean said without really believing it, ‘but it’ll take more than prayer to make him stop. That’s my job
– not God’s.’
‘Oh, I’m sure the Lord will guide your hand.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Sean dismissed the possibility and hoped Jones wouldn’t pursue it.
‘Well,’ Jones continued, looking at the ground for a second, ‘all the same, the man you’re looking for must have been terribly aggrieved to become as angry as he is.’
‘Or at least he thinks he has been,’ Sean argued, ‘and now he wants his revenge.’
‘Apparently so,’ Jones agreed. ‘God loves a sinner and this one’s certainly that.’
‘Because he hurts people?’ Sean asked. ‘Because he’s killed?’
‘Thou shall not kill is one of the ten commandments, not one of the seven deadly sins.’
‘Does it matter?’ Sean questioned.
‘Just a technical point,’ Jones told him with a slight smile. ‘The Catholic religion is one of the few things that has more technicalities than the law.’
‘So what makes him a sinner,’ Sean asked, ‘technically speaking?’
‘Pride,’ Jones answered. ‘He can cover his face and disguise his voice, but he can’t hide his pride.’
‘You mean his damaged pride?’ Sean asked.
‘No,’ Jones told him. ‘I mean pride in what he’s doing now. He’s proud of what he’s doing, otherwise why would he seek the assistance of that newspaper – The World?’
‘To reach more people with his message,’ Sean offered.
‘Perhaps,’ Jones partially agreed, ‘but I also see envy and vanity in his actions and words. He’s envious of those he hurts while his vanity tells him he deserves to be more than they should ever be.’
‘Really?’ Sean asked, squinting his eyes. ‘I don’t see it. He hates the victims as he hates everyone connected to the banking industry. He doesn’t envy them. He doesn’t want to be like them. He wants to destroy them.’
‘Indeed,’ Jones replied, ‘but some people, if they can’t have something they desire, they would rather destroy it.’
‘That I have seen,’ Sean told him, ‘but envy?’
‘Trust me, Sean,’ Jones insisted, ‘I’ve seen plenty of envy in my time and I see it here.’