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‘No one’s told me it’s linked,’ Vaughan argued. ‘And no one’s told me to hand over my investigation to you or anyone else. SIU’s not needed here. Me and my team will have this wrapped up in a few days, tops. We know how to hunt down bastards like this. Why don’t you save yourself for something a bit more exotic and leave this to us old-fashioned by-the-numbersdetectives.’
‘I can’t do that,’ Sean told him. ‘Orders of Assistant Commissioner Addis. SIU are to take over this investigation.’
‘Addis hasn’t told me about SIU taking over anything,’ Vaughan growled. ‘Until he does – the investigation stays with me.’
‘He left it to me to tell you,’ Sean explained. ‘Addis wants SIU to take over and Addis gets what he wants. And you don’t want to get on Addis’s wrong side. Believe me – I know.’
‘I don’t take kindly to DIs marching into my crime scenes and telling me what’s gonna happen,’ Vaughan continued to dig his heels in.
Sean didn’t have time to argue, but neither did he want to alienate Vaughan and his MIT. He needed them onside and cooperative. He couldn’t afford to have anyone withholding some important fact they’d discovered – deliberately or otherwise. ‘I understand it’s a difficult situation,’ he said in a conciliatory tone, ‘but my unit was set up to deal with exactly this sort of investigation. I know you and your team could find whoever did this, but the fact is I have access to things you don’t, which means I’ve a better than decent chance of finding him sooner – before he kills again. That’s what we all want, isn’t it?’ Vaughan looked him up and down – weighing up Sean’s words. ‘All I need is full cooperation. I need everything you’ve found to date and in return I promise you’ll get full credit for what you’ve achieved.’ Still he sensed Vaughan wasn’t satisfied. ‘If we need any help I’ll come straight to you. Fair enough?’
Vaughan sighed in resignation. ‘Very well. Fair enough, but no airbrushing us out of what’s been done.’
‘Of course,’ Sean readily agreed, ‘but I need the forensic team to stop whatever they’re doing and prepare their exhibits for transfer.’
‘You want them to stop?’ Vaughan questioned his wisdom.
‘Like I said,’ Sean reminded him, ‘I have access to things you don’t – including a specialist forensics team who know exactly what I expect from them.’
‘If you insist,’ Vaughan agreed, unconvinced.
‘And I’ll need all the paperwork you have so far. Door-to-doors, witnesses spoken to. Anything you’ve generated – in order and filed properly, so I can find what I’m looking for.’
‘It will be,’ Vaughan assured him.
Sean moved on. ‘I understand the body’s been removed to the morgue at Guy’s?’
‘It has.’
‘Good,’ he said, knowing that it would fall under the care of his most trusted pathologist – Dr Simon Canning.
‘Your forensic team on their way?’ Vaughan asked.
‘No,’ Sean told him. ‘They’re briefed and preparing, but no point starting now. Better to start afresh in the morning, when your people have packed up and gone. Just make sure everything’s secure till then.’
‘Very well,’ Vaughan answered, but Sean had already started to drift away – looking out across the streets and the park close to the garage where William Dalton came to his violent end.
Vaughan noticed it. ‘You want to take a closer look at the scene?’
Sean looked at the houses and flats around the scene – full of light and life – children awake, meals being prepared, people walking home across the park, the smell of heavy traffic thick in the freezing air, its sound a constant hum in the background. It wasn’t right. ‘No,’ he told Vaughan. ‘This isn’t how it was.’
‘Excuse me,’ Vaughan asked, confused.
‘Nothing,’ Sean realized he’d been speaking out loud. ‘I’ll send a couple of my people over to your office tomorrow to pick up whatever you have.’
‘It’ll be ready,’ Vaughan assured him.
‘Good,’ Sean told him and turned to leave. ‘I need to be somewhere.’
‘One thing,’ Vaughan stopped him.
‘Which is?’
‘If you ever decide you’ve had enough of the SIU, give me a call, will you,’ Vaughan told him. ‘I wouldn’t mind that job myself some day.’
‘I’ll keep it in mind,’ Sean replied before heading off back to his car, fully aware that Vaughan wouldn’t be the only one who’d like his job and that Addis wouldn’t hesitate to replace him if he ever looked like he’d lost his special edge.
Anna Ravenni-Ceron entered the private members’ club in St James’s Park, close to New Scotland Yard, and was led to a large dark dining room where Assistant Commissioner Robert Addis sat in full uniform looking as trim and tidy as ever – his peaked cap and brown leather gloves perched on the edge of the table next to him. He sipped water from a crystal glass as he read from an open file he held expertly in one hand.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ the hostess murmured discreetly, making him look up. ‘Your guest has arrived.’
‘Anna,’ he smiled, but remained seated and made no effort to shake her hand. ‘Please, have a seat.’
‘Thank you,’ Anna told the hostess as she seated herself on the straight-backed chair that had been pulled out for her. Slim and elegant with a head of unruly wavy black hair caught and tamed into a mass of swirls and ringlets, her dark brown eyes stared from a pretty oval face, studying Addis as he waited until the hostess had left before speaking again.
‘I’m glad you could make it on such short notice,’ he told her. ‘You’ll understand this isn’t the sort of thing I’d want to discuss over the phone.’
‘So you said.’
‘Being the head of the Specialist Crime Operations can make one somewhat … cautious.’
‘No doubt,’ she agreed, before realizing she was being more assertive and questioning than she’d been with Addis in the past. If she didn’t play the game better he would pick up on the subtle change and become suspicious. He might even deny her access to the investigation and with it her chance to help or protect Sean. ‘Face-to-face is preferable,’ she lied.
‘Good,’ Addis relaxed somewhat. ‘Good.’
‘Is this the new case?’ she asked, her eyes indicating the file in his hand.
‘Yes,’ Addis told her, closing the file as if she’d somehow spied on its contents. ‘Have you heard anything?’
‘Only what you’ve told me,’ she lied again. ‘Two young adult victims. No apparent links between them. DI Corrigan and the SIU will be investigating … Which makes me wonder what you want from me.’
Addis handed her the file, which she accepted. ‘Same as always, Anna.’
‘I see,’ she said, trying to hide her disappointment. ‘You want me to look like I’m helping profile the killer, but really you want me to keep an eye on DI Corrigan and report back to you?’
‘No,’ Addis smiled condescendingly. ‘I want you to assist in profiling the type of person we’re looking for – not merely look as if you are.’
‘I understand,’ she replied, a hint of frustration in her voice, ‘but you also want me to observe DI Corrigan? Correct?’
‘You make it sound as if I’m asking you to spy on him,’ Addis said without a hint of irony.
‘Aren’t you?’ Anna asked.
Addis leaned back in his chair and watched her for a long few seconds before answering. ‘We’ve discussed this before, Anna. DI Corrigan is an asset not just to the Special Investigations Unit, but the Specialist Crimes Operations. Indeed, he’s an asset to the Metropolitan Police Service. He has a rare and special talent, which is why I have personally seen to it that he became day-to-day leader of the SIU. But these cases are by their very nature high profile, constantly under the glare of the media spotlight. I can’t allow serious mistakes to be made during such investigations. I need to see any such mistakes coming before they actually happen.’
‘But Sean— DI Corrigan is an outstanding detective and investigator,’ she reminded him. ‘Yet I can’t help but feel you’re expecting him to make a mistake, sooner rather than later.’
‘I’m not talking about him missing or overlooking some vital piece of evidence,’ he explained. ‘He’s as thorough as he is instinctive and imaginative – as I’m sure you’re aware. It’s almost as if he can think like the very people he’s trying to find and stop.’ He let his words hang in front of her, the silence pressurizing her to say something.
‘He’s simply able to combine years of experience with an excellent and active imagination,’ she tried to argue. ‘Nothing more than that. It’s a trait I’ve seen in other detectives.’
‘Yes,’ Addis agreed, but his eyes had narrowed to slits and his voice lowered to a hush. ‘But with Corrigan it’s much more than an active imagination. I leave you psychiatrists to decide its precise nature, but what I do know is that in order to make whatever it is work, he needs to tread a very thin line. He needs to be very close to the edge.’ He paused to take a sip of water. ‘Perhaps it’s only a matter of time before he falls from one of those edges.’
‘Then move him from the SIU,’ she told him, though she knew Sean would be furious if he found out she’d suggested as much to Addis. Much as she valued their friendship, if she had to sacrifice itto protect him, she would. ‘Before he puts himself in harm’s way again. It’s within your power.’
‘I can’t do that,’ he replied. ‘As I’ve said, Corrigan is an asset. A valuable asset. Police officers are paid to make sacrifices – to take risks. They just need to be controlled – which is why we are having this conversation.’
‘You don’t care if he puts himself in danger, do you?’ she accused him. ‘So long as he solves the high-profile cases quickly. Right?’
Addis ignored her question. ‘Do you accept my offer?’ he asked briskly.
Anna sighed, but knew she had no choice. ‘If it helps catch the killer, how could I say no?’
‘Good,’ Addis smiled, satisfied. ‘Then I look forward to your reports. Can I get you something to eat? To drink?’
‘No,’ she told him, getting to her feet clutching the file he’d given her – feeling like she needed to shower and change her clothes. ‘I have to be somewhere.’
‘Of course,’ he nodded. ‘Please. Don’t let me keep you.’
‘Goodbye, Robert,’ she replied, and headed for the entrance and the fresh, cold air she desperately needed beyond.
Addis watched her all the way. He hadn’t missed the difference in her attitude. She’d been more questioning than during their previous meetings. He would have to do what he always did the second he had the slightest doubt about anyone’s loyalty. He would assume she could no longer be trusted. Perhaps she’d been too close to Corrigan and his team for too long. She was supposed to be helping the gamekeeper, but maybe the poacher now had her allegiance. He decided the best way to be sure was to play along with her – for the time being.
Geoff Jackson was working at his desk in the huge open-plan office of The World newspaper when his editor appeared over his shoulder.
‘Sue,’ he acknowledged her and swivelled in his chair to face her.
‘Well,’ Dempsey asked him, sitting on the edge of his desk. She was tall for a woman – her slimness making her appear taller, with short blond hair that augmented her attractive face. At fifty-one she’d lost little of her appeal to men and knew it. ‘Did you get the interview?’
‘Yeah, I met him.’
‘And?’ she pressed.
‘And,’ he mimicked her, ‘it was very interesting.’
‘I bet it was,’ she said. ‘But what did Gibran tell you? Did you get him to talk about the murders the police think he committed?’
‘No,’ Jackson deflated her. ‘Nothing that specific. He’s too smart to talk about something he could be charged and tried for. We kept it more general – what goes through the mind of a killer, that sort of stuff. It’s good, though – even if I say so myself. Good enough to be our lead story. I’ll have it polished and ready to go for tomorrow’s edition. I’ll email it to you when it’s done.’
‘Fine,’ she told him, springing off his desk, ‘but it won’t be front page. Not without him confessing to something.’
‘I agree,’ Jackson replied, surprising her somewhat. He rarely agreed to anything without a fight. ‘I was thinking more centre-page spread – with a leader to it on the front. Lots of old photos of Gibran, his victims, DI Corrigan – that sort of thing, in amongst the interview. As I do more interviews we can run more centre-page spreads – build up a serialization.’
‘Do I sense a book in the making?’ Dempsey asked.
‘Maybe,’ he evaded, knowing she would be aware that was his plan, but that she wouldn’t care.
‘Fine,’ she smiled and was about to walk away when she remembered something. ‘By the way – have you heard about the Mint Street murder?’
Jackson leaned back in his chair looking slightly confused. ‘I wasn’t even a journalist back then,’ he answered, ‘but I’m aware of the case. Most good crime reporters are. Some crazed teenager killed a young courting couple with a knife. Can’t recall his name …’
‘Jesus, Geoff,’ Dempsey told him. ‘Not the murder from the eighties. Another one. A new one.’
‘What?’ he asked, surprised that a murder could have slipped past him. The Gibran interviews had distracted him from current affairs.
‘Some homeless guy,’ Dempsey explained, immediately deflating his interest. Who cared about a homeless man meeting his end? ‘Probably connected to the murder of a female prostitute about eleven days ago,’ she continued, reigniting his interest.
‘Linked?’ he asked suspiciously. ‘Linked how?’
‘Both had their throats cut,’ Dempsey answered, but that wasn’t enough for Jackson.
‘And?’ he pressed.
‘And,’ she told him with a trace of relish in her voice, ‘they both had a number of teeth pulled out or cut out or something.’
Jackson felt the surge of excitement he always felt when he could smell a big crime story brewing and this one sounded like it had real potential. He hadn’t had a killer who’d captured the public’s imagination since he covered the story of the Jackdaw – a name that he, unbeknown to the rest of the world, had bestowed on the killer. ‘Anybody covering it?’ he asked urgently.
‘Bill Curtis,’ she replied. ‘One of your own.’
‘Curtis,’ he muttered under his breath. He wasn’t about to let a junior reporter like Curtis have what could be the crime scoopof the year.
‘I would have put you straight on it,’ Dempsey explained, ‘but you were off meeting Gibran. Maybe you could get Curtis to give his expertopinion on this new killer,’ she teased him before walking off.
‘Very funny,’ he answered with a grimace, grabbing his phone and checking his messages and missed calls. He’d been so wrapped up in the Gibran interview it had been hours since he’d looked at his mobile. There’d been several missed calls, including one from Dempsey and one from Curtis. ‘Shit,’ he cursed. He tapped the screen to call Curtis back, shaking his head at Dempsey’s attempt at being funny – Maybe you could get Curtis to give his expert opinion, but even as he repeated her words to himself in his head a smile began to spread across his face. ‘Sue, my friend,’ he whispered under his breath, ‘you’re a genius and you don’t know it.’ He heard the scuffling sounds of the phone being answered.
‘Bill Curtis speaking,’ the reporter answered curtly.
‘Talk to me, Bill,’ Jackson demanded. ‘I want to know everything on these murders. Everything.’
Sean sat alone in his office, poring over the crime scene photographs, studying every square centimetre of each one then swapping it for a corresponding report, searching both for something that might have been overlooked. Something he might have missed. But to his frustration he could find nothing he hadn’t already seen. He was about to go through the whole procedure again when Sally knocked on his door, entered without being asked, and slumped exhausted into the chair on the opposite side of the desk. He looked her up and down. ‘You look tired.’
‘I’m fine,’ she lied. ‘Nothing a dose of caffeine won’t fix.’
‘You find the family?’ he asked.
‘Was easy enough,’ she told him. ‘Dalton had a long and illustrious criminal record, going back to his early childhood. His mum and dad, Jane and Peter, still live in the family home in Lewisham. Neither had seen William in a few months, but they were pretty devastated when they got the news.’
‘They’ve lost a child,’ Sean reminded her. ‘Doesn’t matter to the parents what that child may have become. He’ll always be their boy.’
‘I know,’ Sally agreed. ‘Anyway, they tried repeatedly to help him turn it around, but ultimately he chose drugs over them. If we need them to formally identify the body, they will.’
‘We do,’ he confirmed.
‘Apparently, he has an older brother: Sam,’ she continued. ‘He tracked William down to the West End, found him on the streets begging. When he tried to get William to go with him, stay at his place for a while and get cleaned up, the lad wasn’t having it.’
‘Some people don’t want to get clean,’ Sean reminded her. ‘They prefer their own version of reality.’
‘Well, he sure did,’ Sally said. ‘None of the family knew he was living in a disused garage,’ she continued. ‘Or at least, they didn’t until now.’
