The Jackdaw (22 page)

‘Clever boy,’ he said quietly as the white van came fully into view, slowing dramatically, coming to an almost halt at the entrance to the common, like a large herbivore cautiously approaching a watering hole.

Jackson strained to see into the cabin, but the tinted windows made it almost impossible, although he could make out the dark shape of a man … or woman, behind the wheel. He swallowed drily as his stomach tightened and his bowels loosened, the van inching into the car park and heading straight towards him, the gravel sounding like crunching snow under the slow-turning wheels.

‘Shit,’ he whispered through gritted teeth as the van finally stopped only feet in front of him. Jackson watched, almost unable to move with fear as the driver’s door opened and what looked to be a man stepped out, not as tall as he’d expected, but stockier than he’d looked on the Your View videos, dressed in the now familiar black overalls and ski-mask, the voice-distorting device across his mouth, connected to a black box on his chest. But what held Jackson’s attention most, what made him realize he might have made a grave mistake, was the sawn-off shotgun that the black figure was pointing at his chest.

The man stepped closer and spoke, the voice all the more unreal at such close quarters, and coming from the box on his chest rather than his mouth. ‘Well, Mr Jackson, do you still want your interview?’

Say something
, Jackson told himself.
For God’s sake say something before he blows you away.
He felt his legs would give out from under him at any moment, but somehow managed to speak.

‘Yes.’ The hardest word he’d ever had to say.

The dark figure fished in a trouser pocket with a gloved hand and pulled a piece of black material from inside, throwing it at Jackson.

‘Put that on,’ the robotic voice demanded as Jackson allowed the cloth to open into its natural shape.

‘Jesus,’ he said quietly, his hands beginning to shake even more as he looked up at the figure. ‘You don’t need to do this,’ he pleaded. ‘You can trust me.’

‘Don’t worry, Mr Jackson,’ the voice answered, his amusement and confidence detectable even through the voice distorter. ‘If I was here to kill you you’d be dead already.’ Jackson looked pleadingly at the hood in his hands and back at the figure. ‘Just a precaution,’ he explained. ‘So you can’t tell anyone where you’ve been.’

‘I won’t,’ Jackson begged. ‘I promise.’

‘The police have their ways, Mr Jackson, so if you please – time is against us.’

Jackson raised the mask in front of his face and closed his eyes. If he told the killer he wasn’t prepared to go with him he could kill him there and then. If he agreed to go with him then anything could happen to him … But if he could survive, if he could survive and get the story, get the interview – an interview with a killer who was still on the loose, not one who was already banged up for life and willing to talk to anyone to alleviate the boredom of prison – then he’d be a legend. He would have done what no other journalist had done before. This could win him News Reporter of the Year and guarantee him a bestseller.

‘Fuck it,’ he swore and pulled the hood over his head. The sudden darkness almost made him panic enough to pull it straight off, but he managed to resist as the man took hold of his arms and pulled them around his back. He felt something tightening around his wrists before a surprisingly gentle hand took hold of his upper arm and began to lead him away.

‘Don’t be alarmed, Mr Jackson,’ the terrible voice told him. ‘I’ve always been a big fan of your work.’

Oh my dear God
, Jackson screamed in his own head.
What have I done? What have I done?

Sean arrived at the Old Bailey shortly after nine am, battling his way through the crowded front entrance, holding up his warrant card, but still being forced to queue with the mixture of defendants, witnesses, lawyers and God knows who else, as they were all funnelled through the metal detectors and scanners. Once he was past the bottleneck he hurried up the stairs and went through a door marked ‘CPS and Police Personnel Only’. He soon reached the CPS office and searched around for the barrister who thus far had been representing the case for the prosecution – Jonathon Richman, QC. He’d met him several times before and it wasn’t long before he spotted the tall and handsome Richman sitting at a cluttered desk already wearing his black gown, although his wig was yet to be perched on top of his longish grey-black hair. Richman took a slurp from his takeaway cup before denouncing the contents to the room in his public schoolboy accent.

‘God, this coffee’s bloody awful,’ he declared loudly. ‘Sandra. Sandra darling,’ he summoned one of the young CPS clerks. ‘Be a love and pop out to Starbucks for me, will you. Large soya milk latte, please.’ He held out the offending cup. ‘I can’t drink this poison.’ The clerk took the cup away with a grin. Sean worked his way across the crowded office and sat down opposite Richman.

‘Coffee no good?’ he asked to get Richman’s attention.

Richman barely looked up from his files. ‘Bloody awful,’ he replied, ‘just like this case.’

Sean felt his frustration and anger already beginning to rise. ‘The case is solid enough,’ he reminded Richman.

‘Well,’ Richman argued, ‘as I
tried
to point out at the case conference there are always difficulties where there are doubts over the defendant’s mental state.’

‘The case is strong.’ Sean refused to yield. ‘His mental state’s not in doubt.’

Richman sighed. ‘Listen. I spoke to his barrister this morning. They’ll plead to all four abductions, three counts of false imprisonment, four counts of common assault and …’

‘And what?’ Sean pressed him.

‘And to the manslaughter of Samuel Hargrave.’

‘Manslaughter?’ Sean asked, his anger and frustrating growing, swelling up from the dark place of his blackest secrets. ‘He was a five-year-old boy.’

‘I’m well aware of that, Inspector, but …’

‘Taken from his bed in the middle of the night,’ Sean talked over him, ‘and killed by Douglas Allen’s hand.’

‘But we can’t prove Allen’s intent,’ Richman argued, the truth of his words calming Sean’s rising temper. ‘You know that.’

‘He deserves a trial.’ Sean refused to relent. ‘The boy. His parents. They deserve a trial. If the jury finds him not guilty of murder, but guilty of manslaughter then so be it. I can live with that. But they deserve a trial.’

‘He’s a diagnosed schizophrenic.’ Richman tried another approach. ‘The jury could easily find him not guilty on the grounds of diminished responsibility. They may even decide he’s not even guilty of manslaughter or the abductions – God knows with juries. Do you really want to take the risk of going to trial?’

‘R
v
Chambers,’ Sean began. ‘The psychiatric report stated, yes he’s schizophrenic, but not so much that he didn’t understand what he was doing – not so he didn’t feel guilt and remorse. Where a hospital order is not recommended, and it wasn’t, but the defendant constitutes a real danger to the public for an unpredictable period of time, then the right sentence will in all probability be one of life imprisonment. Correct?’

‘You don’t have to lecture me on the law, Inspector,’ Richman complained.

‘Nor you I,’ Sean bit back. ‘No deal. If he wants to plead guilty to everything, that’s his business, but no deal.’

‘Fine,’ Richman relented. ‘Have it your own way. I’ll inform the defence there’ll be no deal.’

‘Good,’ Sean told him, getting to his feet and handing Richman his business card. ‘If you need me, call me on this mobile number.’

‘Need you?’ Richman said incredulously. ‘I do need you – here – for the duration of the trial.’

‘Sorry,’ Sean told him. ‘I can’t hang around here for the next three weeks. I’m in the middle of a murder investigation. I leave you with DC McGowan. He’s more than capable of looking after things here. I just popped in this morning to assure you that everything’s good to go. To make sure you have everything you need and that we’re all singing from the same song sheet. When you need me to give my evidence I’ll be here. If I’m needed before then I’ll come if I can.’

‘Oh,’ Richman faked a laugh, ‘you’ll be needed, Inspector. I can assure you of that.’

Sean looked him up and down expressionlessly. ‘Goodbye, sir.’

‘Just one thing,’ Richman stopped him. ‘Your new case – anything interesting?’

Sean remembered Richman knew he was running the Special Investigations Unit and that meant high-profile cases – just what every barrister wanted. ‘The Your View Killer,’ he told him.

‘Ooh, now there’s a case I’d really like to get my hands on,’ Richman admitted.

‘Really?’ Sean asked. ‘Defence or prosecution?’

Richman smiled broadly and held his arms wide apart. ‘Like I’d bloody well care.’

Sean looked him up and down one more time. ‘Call me if you need me.’

Jackson blinked against the brightness of the light that reflected and magnified off the white walls, its harshness conflicting with the darkness of the hood that his captor had just pulled off his head. He gave his eyes a few seconds to adjust, opening them a millimetre wider every two or three seconds until they were all but wide open, the mistiness clearing as he focused on the dark figure sitting casually on what looked like a fold-out table – the type decorators used for pasting wallpaper. This one was covered with electrical equipment: at least two laptops, several webcams and other items he didn’t recognize, most of which were plugged into a small electricity generator. At the man’s side was the object that attracted most of his attention – the sawn-off shotgun. The dark figure seemed to notice him looking at the gun, gently resting his hand on it as if to make the point, but the gun remained on the table.

Jackson looked down at his wrists and ankles. He was sitting in a heavy wooden chair that he immediately recognized from the Your View videos. Memories of the man’s violent death and the young woman’s torture made him want to leap from it immediately, but the shotgun kept him firmly seated, despite there being no bindings to hold him.

‘You haven’t … you haven’t tied me to the chair?’ he asked.

The electronic laughter filled the white room. ‘Why would I do that? You’re my guest, Mr Jackson.’

‘Were the others guests?’ Jackson nervously asked, still afraid the same fate awaited him.

‘No,’ the man answered, his distorted voice sounding calm, but serious. ‘They were necessary hostages. Necessary sacrifices.’

‘Are you going to kill me?’ Jackson couldn’t stop himself from asking. He’d rather know straight away than try to avoid the subject until it was too late. He’d rather know it was coming and prepare himself than be ambushed and suddenly slaughtered like a free-range pig.

‘Why would I do that?’ the man asked. ‘Do you think I’m insane, that I’m doing what I do for some kind of perverted satisfaction?’

‘No,’ Jackson spluttered. ‘No. Of course not.’

‘It’s important you understand I have nothing
personal
against the people you call victims,’ the dark figure explained. ‘I hate what they are, not necessarily who they are. They’ve never insulted me or spat in my face, but they are more than complicit with the institutions they work for in piling misery and suffering on the normal, hard-working people of this country, many of whom who have lost everything. They screw up, but it’s we who pay the penalty. Why should that be, Mr Jackson?’

‘It shouldn’t,’ Jackson stuttered. ‘You’re right. I agree with you. They should pay for what they’ve done. But aren’t there others more deserving of your justice?’

‘Such as?’

‘What about paedophiles? People who hurt children?’

‘Ahh, yes. Of course,’ the masked man nodded. ‘It was you who uncovered the vile scum who were using their celebrity to abuse the young and innocent, was it not?’

‘It was,’ Jackson proudly admitted.

‘But that would make me a vigilante, Mr Jackson,’ he explained. ‘Do you think all I am is another misguided vigilante?’

‘No,’ Jackson quickly answered.

‘They will be adequately punished by the justice system. Who will make the bankers pay – the government, the unions, the police? None of them can touch these people.’

‘I understand now,’ Jackson told him, sounding a little more confident. ‘So you punish them because no one else will?’

‘It is necessary,’ he explained, ‘to address the imbalance of power and wealth. To punish the guilty who are yet to be punished. It is right that they should live in fear – that they should feel the fear working people live with all their lives, never knowing when they will be left jobless or homeless, cut adrift from society, trying to survive day to day, hand to mouth. That’s living in fear – a fear the rich will never know. So I bring to them a different type of fear.’

‘So you’re avenging the working people of Britain?’ Jackson asked, warming to his task.

‘Why just Britain?’ the man replied. ‘The whole world has suffered at their hands.’

‘Isn’t there some other way of punishing them,’ Jackson asked, ‘other than violence and murder?’

‘I only wish there were, but these people only respond to such extreme acts. If you threaten them with taking away their wealth they’ll only hide it where it can’t be found: property, overseas investments, blood diamonds, gold mined by people who are little more than slaves. They’ve been protecting their wealth for almost two hundred years now. This is the only way to strike back
.
’

‘You seem to know a lot about it,’ Jackson couldn’t help but comment. ‘Wealth, commodities, investment.’

‘I have spent years researching these institutions,’ he answered, ‘and the more I learnt the angrier I became and the angrier I became the more convinced I was that this is the only way to make them truly notice us – we
the people
.’

‘So why come to me?’ Jackson asked. ‘Why accept my offer of a face-to-face interview? Why not stick to Your View?’

‘Because my message isn’t just for those with access to a computer or device. My message is for everyone, young or old, able to use a computer or not. Many of the people I speak for can’t even afford such luxuries − but they can, however, afford your newspaper. Through you I can reach millions who would otherwise never hear my words. Do you understand now?’