The Jackdaw

‘I don’t know. Several.’ An amateur, Sean reminded himself. ‘Then he picked him off the ground and literally dragged him to the white van and bundled him in the back. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Anyway, I grabbed the phone,’ she pointed to the one next to her bed, ‘and phoned the police. By the time someone answered he, the man with the ski-mask over his face, was still at the back of his van. He was there for quite a while actually, and then while I was talking to the police on the phone he closed the doors, ran around to the driver’s side, got in, started the van and drove away as calm as you like.’

‘Could you see what he was doing at the back of the van?’

‘No. Sorry. I was at the wrong angle to see.’

‘But he was there for a while?’

‘Yes.’

What the hell were you doing, my friend? You abduct a man from a London street in broad daylight. Then you mess around at the back of your van for several minutes. Why would you do that? Why take the risk?

‘Did he restrain him at all?’ Sean asked. ‘Tie him up or use handcuffs – anything like that?’

‘No. He just hit him over the head and dragged him to the van.’

A fully grown man, unrestrained in the back of a van, could make a hell of a noise. Did you really risk driving across London with him thrashing around? I don’t think so. So is that what you were doing at the back of the van – restraining him, or drugging him? He had a flash back to the Thomas Keller case – a rapist and murder who used chloroform to overpower his victims. You must have been. You must have been. This was all so carefully planned – victim selection and research, the room you prepared for his murder – you would have planned how to restrain them too – you must have.

‘You all right, Inspector?’ Angela Haitink’s voice brought him back.

‘What?’ He remembered she was there. ‘Yeah. Fine. I was just thinking something through.’ He quickly re-gathered his thoughts. ‘And then he just calmly drove away?’

‘Well, yes.’

‘At speed, engine revving, tyres squealing?’

‘No. Nothing. Just pulled out and drove away. I gave the police the number plate. Can’t you find him from that?’

‘Maybe. If we get lucky. But he planned everything else, so my guess is it’s unlikely he used his own van. Probably used a stolen one or one with false plates. We’re looking into it. Thanks for your time, Mrs Haitink.’

‘Is that it?’ she asked.

‘We’ll be in touch,’ he told her and headed for the bedroom door. ‘We’ll need a full written statement in due course. I’ll send one of my team around at a time that suits you.’

‘I’m sorry I couldn’t have been more help.’

‘You’ve helped plenty,’ he reassured her. ‘In fact, more than you probably realize.’

3 (#ulink_bf1bc7bb-ffdf-5cb3-ba6f-a748a86f6f39)

Geoff Jackson stood in front of the huge whiteboard and surveyed the collection of seasoned crime correspondents gathered in the conference room laughing and joking with each other, half nursing unlit cigarettes. Unbeknown to them, Jackson was already considering their individual talents and assigning them tasks. He’d virtually grown up in the business, getting a first-class degree in Journalism Studies, then straight to work for a local paper in Swanley, Kent, before rising quickly through the ranks to become the crime editor of the most-read newspaper in Britain.

Jackson was good. Really good. He knew many of his colleagues on the broadsheets looked down on him working for a red-top rag, but he didn’t give a damn. He could take their jobs any time he wanted, but they’d never be able to take his. He had an almost predatory instinct for a story and let nothing stand in the way of getting it. How he got it – that was his business. The public just wanted the story, with all the unpleasant details, and he was the man to get it for them.

‘All right, you lot,’ he bellowed across the room. ‘Everyone shut the fuck up and listen.’ The room fell almost instantly quiet and serious. ‘Do any of you pricks know why we’re here?’

‘To get the smoking ban lifted,’ someone called out, causing calls of approval and much laughter.

‘Very fucking funny,’ Jackson told the comedian. ‘You’ve just volunteered to be the official tea boy.’ More laughter until Jackson killed it, turning and writing on the board in letters almost big enough to fill it:

THE YOUR VIEW KILLER

‘Drop your other stories,’ he told them. ‘From now on this is the only story. I want to look into the victim’s background. I want to know everything about him. How rich was he? How did he live? Did he have any secrets, or vices? Was he liked, or disliked? Everything. And let’s find out what the public are thinking. Do they agree with what the killer’s doing, or do they think he’s just another sicko? Let’s speak to them and find out and get an online poll going so people can tell us if they’re for him or against him. And get hold of your sources and see if any of them know anything. Someone must have heard something on the criminal grapevine, so find out what. I’ll email you all your assignments within the next hour, so let’s get on with it.’

‘You reckon he’ll kill again, then?’ one of the journos asked.

‘I bloody hope so,’ Jackson answered deadpan, causing muted laughter amongst his audience. ‘Not much of a story if he doesn’t, is it?’ He looked away from them, checking his iPhone for messages. The journos took their cue and started to file out of the room, leaving Jackson alone to think.

He was happy enough with the meeting, but knew he needed more. The Your View Killer was gold dust, but he still needed to make it different – the public were growing immune to press coverage of protracted cases, preferring to get quick updates from the Internet or the multitude of twenty-four-hour news shows on television. He needed something – something no one else had. He pulled up a chair and sat staring out of the window, waiting for that magical moment when an undeniably brilliant idea popped into his head. He didn’t have to wait long. A smile spread across his face at the sheer audacity of the idea and he jumped out of his chair in celebration.

‘Yes. Fucking yes.’ He pumped his fists in front of him. ‘Interview the bastard. Just him and me. Sensational, Geoff my old son – fucking sensational, but how? How am I gonna get one on one with this joker?’

And even if I do, how am I going to keep the police off my back?

Sean and Donnelly arrived back at the Yard and headed towards their offices, but Sean froze in his tracks when he saw Anna sitting in his. Featherstone had warned him she’d be attached to the investigation, but the sight of her so close still made his stomach tighten and his head feel suddenly cloudy, if only for a few seconds.

‘You all right?’ Donnelly asked. ‘Look like you’ve just been made Addis’s new bag carrier.’ He followed Sean’s eyeline until he saw Anna. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Well, you did tell me she was going to be with us again.’

‘I know,’ Sean answered, still looking decidedly uncomfortable.

‘Jesus,’ Donnelly told him. ‘She’s not that bad.’

‘No,’ Sean agreed. ‘No she’s not.’

‘Aye, aye,’ Donnelly teased. ‘I’ll leave you to it then.’

Sean watched Donnelly head toward his office and Sally, before following suit and walking the short distance to his own. Anna still hadn’t seen him when he reached the office door.

‘Hello,’ was all he could think of to say, but at least it made her look up from her file.

‘Sean,’ she smiled. ‘Not too much of a shock seeing me here I hope?’

‘No. Superintendent Featherstone told me you’d be with us. It’s good to see you again.’

‘Thank you, although I sense a but in there somewhere.’

‘No. Not really. Just I’m not sure this particular case warrants your input. Your expertise.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning I don’t see a psychiatric angle here – not particularly, anyway.’

‘You have an offender who’s killed someone live on the Internet. I would have thought a psychiatric evaluation would be just what you needed.’

‘This one’s no Thomas Keller, Anna – no tortured childhood and history of abuse. He’s pissed off and he wants revenge. Nice, straightforward, old-fashioned motivation.’

‘That simple?’

‘Why not?’