The Jackdaw (20 page)

‘Even if you’re right,’ Donnelly pointed out, ‘and west London and further out is his preferred territory, that’s still a hell of a big area to cover.’

‘It’s better than the whole of the southeast,’ Sean told him. ‘Tell DC Bishop to concentrate his efforts on the western outskirts of London.’

‘Fair enough,’ Donnelly agreed.

‘What about this journalist I hear you went to meet,’ Sally asked, ‘from that rag
The World
? I hear he’s trying to get the killer to contact him. Is he planning on actually trying to meet him?’

‘He says not,’ Sean explained. ‘He’s promised that if our man does contact him then he’ll restrict it to a telephone conversation.’

‘D’you believe him?’ Sally asked.

‘No,’ was Sean’s blunt answer. ‘He wants to meet him – no matter what he says. He’ll want a face-to-face, photographs of our man in his Halloween outfit, the whole thing.’

‘Then can’t we use that?’ Sally continued. ‘Put the little prick under surveillance and he might just lead us straight to the killer.’

‘Wasting our time,’ Sean told her. ‘He may be a little prick, as you said, but he’s a sly little prick. You don’t get to be crime editor of
The World
without learning a few tricks. If our man contacts him and they arrange a meet you can bet he’ll be looking hard for surveillance and he’s probably gonna spot it.’

‘What then?’ Sally asked. ‘How are we going to use this to our advantage?’

‘His phone,’ Sean answered, producing Jackson’s business card from his pocket. ‘Prick gave me his mobile number. I’ll speak to Addis about getting him listened to – texts too.’

‘Assuming he uses his own phone,’ Donnelly reminded them.

‘Nothing we can do about that,’ Sean told him before turning to Anna. ‘What d’you think the chances are our man will take the bait? D’you think he’ll go for it?’

All eyes fell on Anna. ‘Well, he clearly craves attention – otherwise why use Your View? That being the case, the idea of appearing in a mass-market newspaper may well appeal to him.’

‘But he’s already getting massive coverage in the media,’ Donnelly argued, ‘so why take a risk and meet a journo?’

‘Because so far the only coverage he’s had is what’s been written about him by other people,’ Anna told him. ‘What they write is beyond his control, but if he speaks with them directly presumably they’ll predominantly be reporting what he says. His
message
. That, I believe, would be a powerful draw for him, so long as he felt in control. He likes to be in control.’

‘He gets his message out through Your View,’ Sally reminded them. ‘Why suddenly turn to the newspapers?’

‘Because he can reach more people through them,’ Anna explained. ‘His audience on Your View will always be limited to certain demographics, but once he hits the papers – his words printed in
The World
– then he can appeal to a much wider audience.’

‘Although he’ll still be appealing to a particular type of generic group,’ Sean added. ‘
The World
know their target audience well.’

‘Which makes it the perfect paper for him,’ Anna continued. ‘They’ve been hammering on about greedy bankers ever since the financial crisis began – how the people suffer while they grow richer, despite their obvious failings. They’ve practically been spreading the same message anyway, so why not use them? He’ll undoubtedly know they’re sympathetic towards him, or at least as much as they can be.’

‘So you think he’ll go for it?’ Sean asked.

‘I think it’s a distinct possibility,’ Anna told him. ‘He’s about communication. How could he resist the opportunity to communicate with so many people, many of whom he already knows are of like mind, even if they object to the violence – and not forgetting there are a great many who don’t.’

‘If that’s what he’s about,’ Sean threatened to drop a fly in the ointment, wishing his doubts had stayed silent.

‘If he’s about what?’ Sally asked.

‘Communicating with the general public,’ he replied. ‘Maybe his message is more … more
personal
?’

‘I don’t understand,’ Anna told him. ‘Personal to his victims or personal for him?’

‘I don’t know,’ Sean answered honestly, shaking his head. ‘I guess we’ll find out soon enough: if he goes for
The World
’s offer then everything that Anna says is probably right, but if he turns it down, then perhaps there’s more to this one than we’re considering.’ He turned quickly to Anna before anyone could question him. ‘And Jackson – do you think he’s in any danger of becoming a victim?’

‘No,’ she shook her head. ‘His victim selection is too specific and, as I’ve previously stated,
The World
’s something he may see as an ally and therefore Jackson too. To turn on him wouldn’t make sense.’

‘I agree. But what about his victim selection?’ Sean asked. ‘He goes for a CEO, which makes sense, but then he drops down to a project manager.’

‘A project manager who’s clearly on her way up in the world,’ Donnelly reminded him.

‘All the same,’ Sean replied, unconvinced.

‘After Paul Elkins was murdered the other CEOs and senior players probably beefed up their security – got the company chauffeur-cum-minder to take them home. Not the sort of luxury they’d afford to a mere project manager,’ Sally suggested.

‘Makes sense,’ Anna agreed. ‘He adjusts to easier targets, but still people from the financial sector. The message is the same.’

‘But he’s a planner,’ Sean told them. ‘He picked his targets well in advance of abducting them – watched them, learned their lifestyle, habits.’

‘Agreed,’ Anna said.

‘Then we’re saying he
predicted
that the most senior people in the City would become more difficult to abduct and deliberately picked Georgina Vaughan because she was less senior and therefore more vulnerable,’ Sean argued.

‘It appears so,’ Anna agreed.

‘Then his intelligence and instincts are not to be underestimated,’ Sean told them. ‘All of which makes him even more dangerous than we first thought. If he can predict what moves people in the City are going to make, then we have to assume he’s cunning enough to predict our next move.’

‘Meaning?’ Donnelly asked.

‘Meaning we’re going to have to continually think outside the box – try not to do anything predictable.’

‘No,’ Anna partly disagreed. ‘Better to be seen to be doing the predictable. Show him you’re doing exactly what he’d expect you to do – a false front while more covertly doing the unusual.’

‘Good work, Doctor,’ Sean praised her. ‘OK. So the first thing we need to do is stop thinking about the victims he’s already chosen and try and think about what type of person could be next.’

‘Well,’ Sally suggested, ‘he’s gone from a CEO to a project manager, so maybe he’ll keep sliding down the scale. A barrow boy, maybe – something like that.’

‘Jesus,’ Donnelly rolled his eyes. ‘Where do we start … where do we stop? We can’t predict who he’s going to take next – if anyone at all, for that matter.’

‘He’ll take someone else,’ Sean insisted. ‘There’s no doubt about that.’

‘Why so certain?’ Sally asked.

‘Because he hasn’t finished yet,’ he told them. ‘Whatever this is about, whyever he’s doing this, he’s not finished yet. Of that much, I am certain.’

Geoff Jackson fidgeted at his desk in the large open-plan office of
The World
, trying to concentrate on tomorrow’s update on the Your View Killer, although he was beginning to tire of that name – not catchy enough and carrying too much implication that the man he hoped to meet was nothing more than another sadistic loser killing for kicks. The anxiety of waiting for his phone to squeal and vibrate with an email alert telling him he’d just received a tweet was driving him to distraction. For the umpteenth time he checked his phone, just in case he’d somehow missed an alert.

He’d already received more than two dozen tweets from people claiming to be the killer. Most had been transparent enough and he’d simply blocked them, but several had been convincing enough to cause him to reply, sending them the number of his newly acquired anonymous pay-as-you-go mobile phone. However, he had quickly satisfied himself none were the real killer and had summarily dismissed them and blocked their numbers.
What was the matter with these people?
he asked himself.
Pretending to be a murderer for kicks. Christ. Was nothing sacred any more?

His phone suddenly sprang to life and caught him daydreaming, startling him. He checked the screen. It was another tweet. Despite his scepticism his heart still missed a beat as he grabbed the phone and read the message.

It said simply –

You know who I am. What now?

Something in Jackson’s street brawler instinct told him this one was different. He pressed reply to tweet and typed
Call me on …
followed by the number of his pay-as-you-go phone, his finger hovering over the send icon as something made him stall, his heart and breath feeling as if they’d both stopped.
What are you doing, Geoff?
he asked himself.
Are you going too far this time, my old China?

‘Fuck it,’ he said out loud and touched the send icon with the tip of his finger. A few seconds later the phone told him the message had been sent. He huddled over his computer screen, eager to keep the call as private as he could, and waited for the mobile to ring, his body frozen in anticipation.

A minute passed and still nothing.

‘Come on,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘Don’t bottle out now, my friend.’ He tapped his desk with a pencil, losing hope of grabbing the scoop of the decade with each passing second. ‘Come on, come on,’ he encouraged the phone until once again it suddenly jumped into life and somehow managed to catch him by surprise. He quickly regained his composure and checked the screen − caller ID withheld. ‘Clever boy,’ he told himself, allowing the phone to ring three more times before answering it. ‘Geoff Jackson speaking.’

There was a silence on the other end of the line – nothing but a strange breathing sound.

‘Hello,’ Jackson encouraged, increasingly sure he was connected with the real killer. ‘Is that you?’ he whispered. ‘You called, so you must want to speak.’ Still nothing but the strange breathing sound. ‘Hello.’

‘What do you want to know?’ the voice suddenly asked in the same strange electronic voice Jackson had heard in the Your View broadcast.

‘First I need to know it’s really you,’ Jackson told him, his mouth dry, ‘and not just another fake wasting my time.’

‘Do you think me a fake?’ the voice asked, pushing him onto the back foot.

‘No,’ Jackson assured him. ‘I mean that you’re not just another crank call.’

‘You know I’m not.’

‘All the same,’ Jackson stuck to his guns, knowing he needed to maintain some control, ‘I need to be sure.’ There was a long silence before the unearthly voice returned.

‘Very well. Ask your questions.’

‘Tell me something about the case that hasn’t been in the papers or on the television,’ Jackson demanded. ‘Something only the police could know.’

‘How would that prove anything?’ the voice asked. ‘As you yourself are not a police officer, unless of course you’re working with the police?’

‘I’m not,’ Jackson assured him, ‘but I have contacts in the police – contacts in the investigation team. I know things.’

‘Then you’ll know there is nothing,’ the voice told him, ‘because the police have nothing other than what I have allowed them to see, which is no more than what I have allowed you to see.’

It was the final confirmation he needed and now he knew beyond any doubt he was talking with the real Your View Killer. It wasn’t just the words he spoke, but the tone of the mechanical voice – its calm self-confidence – things too specific for some lunatic or joker pretending to be him to fake.

‘We shouldn’t speak too long on the phone,’ Jackson warned him. ‘Short conversations for instructions only. They’re not safe.’

‘I agree,’ the electronic voice told him, making the hairs on the back of his neck tingle and uncoil.

‘We need to meet,’ Jackson told him, expecting some objection, but there was none.

‘Agreed,’ the voice answered. ‘I’ll call you on this number at exactly nine am tomorrow and give you instructions as to where and when. Goodbye, Mr Jackson.’

‘Wait,’ Jackson almost pleaded, but it was too late – the line had gone dead. ‘Fuck and bollocks,’ he cursed, staring at the phone and for the first time noticing his hands were trembling with both fear and excitement. He dropped the phone and clenched his fists to try to stop the shaking. ‘This is it, baby. Get your shit together, Geoff my old son. You’re about to land the big one.’

Sean was huddled around an oversized computer screen with Sally, Donnelly and most of his team, both Featherstone and Addis standing behind them watching their every move as the scene unfolded before them: the Your View broadcast showing a hooded woman taped to the chair in the white room, a few strands of her raven black hair protruding and snaking onto her pristine white blouse as she struggled and mumbled while the man dressed in black, his face hidden by a ski-mask and his voice disguised by whatever it was he wore across his mouth, pointed and preached into the screen, a small, gleaming knife gripped in his gloved hand. He suddenly turned back to his victim, tore her blouse open and carved an X into her exposed skin, her muffled screams filling the room, seeping from the screen and into the office. Sally turned away as if she was going to vomit.

‘Turn this vile exhibition off,’ Addis demanded, his voice strange and faded, but Sean refused, unable to look away, the man on the screen once again preaching to his disciples before suddenly pulling the hood from the victim’s head. Sean’s heart missed a beat as the breath was knocked out of him.

‘Anna,’ he called out, but there was nothing he could do to save her. The man held up the knife for all to see before spinning and plunging the blade deep into Anna’s abdomen, twisting it and pulling it free, blood beginning to flow freely from the wound, Anna’s eyes wide in fear and pain, tears mixing with mucus that spat from her nose as she tried to breathe. But he wasn’t finished yet, moving behind her, taking hold of her hair and pulling her head back, her slim, beautiful neck exposed and vulnerable, the knife resting across her trachea – a small trickle of blood beginning to run down her throat. He looked directly from the screen and spoke.
‘Her crime is treachery. Her sentence is death.’