The Jackdaw Page 6

  ‘Not quite,’ Sean explained. ‘Put out a national circulation – anyone reports having their number plates nicked off their van we want to know about it immediately.’

  ‘No problem,’ Sally agreed.

  ‘Some time later the victim pops up on Your View, with our masked killer who gives anyone who cares to listen a lecture on the wrongs of being overly wealthy and in particular gives it to the bankers and the banking system. He encourages people to vote online as to whether they think Elkins is guilty of greed, corruption, God knows what. The vote goes against Elkins and he’s murdered – we all know how. So … ideas.’

  ‘Check with his company and wife to see if he had any death threats or other threats. Emails, letters, phone calls,’ Sally suggested.

  ‘Yeah. Good,’ Sean agreed. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Check if anyone’s been seen acting suspiciously outside his home or work,’ DC Alan Jesson offered. ‘Maybe there’s a record of someone causing trouble or some other incidents.’

  ‘Fine,’ Sean told him. ‘Check it out.’

  ‘Check the rope around the victim’s neck,’ DC Maggie O’Neil joined in. ‘It might be a rare type.’

  ‘Unfortunately the killer didn’t leave us the rope,’ Sean told her. ‘He removed it from the body before he dumped it, but I’ll have Dr Canning check the marks around the victim’s neck anyway. He may be able to re-create the rope’s pattern and then yes, we might be able to tell if it’s exotic. Anything else?’ he asked the room.

  ‘Search the area where the body was found for the scene – this white room he used for the killing,’ DC Ashley Goodwin added.

  ‘Could be anywhere,’ Sean dismissed it. ‘We don’t have anything specific enough to target an area, but we can circulate a request Met-wide asking everyone to keep their eyes open. Get that out to surrounding forces too, will you, Ash? I don’t think he went outside the southeast.’ Goodwin nodded.

  ‘This white room,’ DC Fiona Cahill interrupted, ‘looks pretty unusual. If he’d prepared it in advance someone else might have seen it – a builder, a caretaker. Maybe it’s been seen by someone and the suspect doesn’t even know.’

  ‘Worth a chance,’ Sean agreed. ‘Get that out to the media as an appeal for assistance. Anyone thinks they might have seen anything like it to get in touch. Anyone else got anything?’ The room was silent, the detectives looking at one another, but no one spoke. ‘All right,’ Sean told them. ‘Dave, find me someone who’s a bit of a whizz with computers and the Internet and all that stuff. We’re gonna need a bit of help with this one.’

  ‘Where from?’ Donnelly asked.

  ‘I don’t care,’ Sean told him. ‘Anywhere. Try the Cyber Crime Unit. They must have someone they can spare.’

  ‘If we look outside the Met I might be able to find you a real expert,’ Donnelly argued.

  ‘And wipe out our unit’s budget for the entire year?’ Sean complained, ‘I don’t think so. Let’s make do with someone who’s homegrown and knows what they’re doing and keep a little money for a rainy day.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Donnelly agreed.

  ‘And we’re going to need to monitor Your View around the clock,’ Sean continued. ‘Dave, you sort out a shift pattern so someone’s always got it covered.’ Donnelly nodded he understood. ‘OK, that’s it for now,’ but the meeting didn’t disperse as quickly as he expected, telling him something was wrong. ‘Problem?’ he asked them as a group.

  ‘This could be a complicated investigation,’ Donnelly spoke for them.

  ‘So?’ Sean queried.

  ‘So how’re we supposed to investigate it properly when Douglas Allen’s trial’s about to kick off at the Bailey?’

  ‘Don’t hang around at court,’ Sean told them. ‘Keep your mobiles on and the CPS will call you when and if you’re needed to give evidence. Go to court – give your evidence and get back here.’

  ‘They’ll want us there,’ Donnelly reminded him, ‘for the exhibits alone.’

  ‘We’ll manage,’ Sean insisted, holding his hands up, palms out, to let everyone know it wasn’t up for further discussion. ‘We don’t have any other choice but to manage, so let’s get on with it.’ There were a few moans and groans as the meeting finally broke up, but Sean knew they’d be fine. They just needed to become immersed in the new investigation – move on from the last case. It would do them all good to have Douglas Allen out of their heads. He just wished he could get Anna out of his.

  Assistant Commissioner Addis stood looking out of his office window on the top floor of New Scotland Yard, over the vast city he had ambitions to be the next Commissioner of – so long as he could outmanoeuvre his rivals. They had their high-profile marches to police, getting their faces all over the TV news, but he had Special Investigations, ensuring he’d be overseeing every prominent murder, abduction or anything else he deemed fit to assign Corrigan and his team. So long as he kept a tight control over media access to information and press conferences, the TV and paperboys would have to come begging to him or miss out on the story. If they kept him nicely in the eye of the public and politicians, he’d keep them up to speed on the hunt for the Your View Killer.

  He just needed Corrigan to do what he seemed able to do better than anyone else and get a quick result without blowing up and turning his trump card into a liability. That was why he wanted to keep a close watch on things – a tight rein. He was pleased with himself for integrating Anna into the team, but would she remember where her loyalties lay? And would Corrigan’s team become suspicious of her and start feeding her misinformation? He knew detectives could be a cunning lot – suspicious and instinctive. Anna would be no match for them if they sensed she was there for any other reason than to observe and advise. Maybe it was time he had someone even closer to Corrigan on the unit – someone who was already in place and trusted. Maybe only another detective could be completely relied on to provide him with what he needed.

  The landline phone ringing on his desk broke into his thoughts and he turned and strode across the office, grabbing the phone as he sat in his large leather chair, back straight, head high.

  ‘Assistant Commissioner Addis speaking.’

  ‘Assistant Commissioner,’ the voice began. ‘My name is Nick Poole – I’m the CEO of Your View.’ Addis’s eyebrows arched high on his brow.

  ‘And what can I do for you, Mr Poole?’

  ‘Well, as you’re no doubt aware, in the light of our site being used by what I can only describe as a sick and evil individual, we gave a lot of consideration to temporarily closing it down.’

  ‘And then decided not to,’ Addis cut in, fully aware of the situation.

  ‘It’s just we felt it improper to be dictated to by this individual and hugely unfair to our other users, the vast majority of whom are responsible, decent people.’

  ‘Quite,’ Addis agreed, losing patience. ‘So why are we having this conversation?’

  ‘Because,’ Poole continued, ‘we’ve met with our technical people and they tell us it would be possible to close the site practically the second this lunatic appears on Your View – should he try to use it again.’

  Addis sank back in his chair to consider the offer for a few seconds before leaning forward again. ‘No,’ he told Addis. ‘We’d rather see what we’re dealing with, and tracing the source of the broadcast could be our best chance of finding him quickly. No. Should there be another broadcast – let it run.’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Poole complained. ‘People might start accusing us of being complicit. We’ve already had a lot of complaints about the one he’s already broadcast. I’m, shall we say, very uncomfortable with giving this person a platform to preach from – let alone to commit more serious crimes on.’

  ‘My call,’ Addis told him. ‘Tell your complainants you’re acting on instructions given to you by the police. Absolve yourself of the responsibility if you like, but if he uses Your View again, we want to be able to monitor it. Understand?’

 
; ‘OK, but it’s your call.’

  ‘Of course it is,’ Addis told him and hung up. ‘It’s always my call.’

  Sean and Sally arrived at the offices of Fairfield’s Bank in Leadenhall Street in the heart of the City of London. It was getting late, but the Acting CEO had agreed to stay and see them. His boss had been murdered live on the Internet – what else could he do? An elegant woman met them in reception and told them her name, although Sean forgot it immediately, his mind wandering to the meeting ahead. They rose high through the tall building in the elevator until they reached the top floor and were led to a large but simple office where a slim man in his late forties rose from his chair to greet them, pushing back his longish, sandy blond hair with his left hand while holding out his right. He wore a dark blue pinstripe suit, the jacket of which hung over the back of his chair. His bold red tie and braces contrasted sharply with his pale blue and white striped shirt.

  ‘Simon Damant,’ he told them, eagerly shaking their hands in turn, as if he’d been desperately awaiting their arrival. ‘Acting CEO.’

  ‘DI Sean Corrigan and this is my colleague, DS Sally Jones,’ Sean replied. ‘We spoke briefly on the phone.’

  ‘Yes, yes. Of course. Please. Take a seat.’

  ‘Thanks for waiting around for us,’ Sean continued, pulling up a chair.

  ‘Really, don’t mention it. Least I could do, frankly. Christ, poor Paul. He was a good guy. Didn’t deserve what happened. God, I hope you catch the bastard.’ Damant’s accent fitted the rest of him perfectly.

  ‘We will,’ Sean assured him.

  ‘Glad to hear it,’ Damant told him, spreading his arms wide in an expression of openness. ‘Well, what do you want to know?’

  ‘Did Mr Elkins have any, to put it bluntly, obvious enemies?’ Sean dived straight in.

  ‘Not really,’ Damant explained. ‘There are always rivals once you reach his level of seniority. You don’t get to his position in this business without making a few enemies along the way, but Jesus, somebody who’d do something like this – no chance. Professional rivalry – that’s all we’re talking about here. The papers and TV stations are saying he was taken and killed by some sort of vengeance-seeking lunatic. Someone who blames the banking sector for all the ills of the world. Is that what you think?’

  ‘We’re keeping an open mind,’ Sean told him. ‘What about anyone else threatening him or the company? Anything like that going on?’

  ‘Well, there’s always the anti-capitalist nutters and the anarchist groups, of course, and since the banking crisis we get the occasional disgruntled member of the public phoning up to have a go or writing poison pen letters, but nothing particularly personal to Paul. Some of the letters might have been addressed to him, but only because he was the CEO.’

  ‘Have there been any incidents here at your offices?’ Sally asked. ‘Anyone making trouble, threatening anyone, anything like that?’

  ‘Not inside,’ Damant answered, ‘but we’ve had the occasional small group protests outside – you know, marching up and down with daft placards, usually stirred up by left-wing agitators and trouble-makers, but again, nothing you could describe as personal to Paul.’

  ‘What about everyday folk?’ Sean asked. ‘People who lost their life savings and homes?’

  Damant moved uncomfortably in his chair. ‘Sometimes,’ he admitted. ‘Little groups of the disaffected. Paul always felt sorry for them. He took no pleasure in their plight. Like I said, he was a good guy and a bit of a philanthropist too – gave a lot of his wealth away to good causes, but never sought to gain out of it. Just did it because he thought it was the right thing to do. Maybe if he’d made more of a thing about it this nutter wouldn’t have targeted him. Christ, the whole thing’s just unbelievable.’

  ‘What about within the company?’ Sean asked. ‘Did Paul have to sack anyone lately – make anyone redundant who took it badly?’

  ‘No. No,’ Damant replied. ‘Paul was too senior to personally take care of things like that, unless the person being sacked or made redundant were also very senior, and that hasn’t happened for a very long time.’

  ‘How long?’ Sally asked.

  ‘So long ago I can’t remember. Even then I’d imagine they were happy to take redundancy and go. Our redundancy packages are very generous, believe me.’

  ‘I’m sure they are,’ Sean agreed, losing interest in what seemed another dead end. ‘Does your company keep records of any threatening or malicious calls or letters you receive?’

  ‘We do. Our internal security people take care of that sort of thing.’

  ‘We’ll need copies of everything and any records of calls received too,’ Sean told him. ‘There may be something in them we can use.’

  ‘Of course. No problem. I’ll get security to get those ready for you right away.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Sean told him. ‘It’s appreciated.’

  ‘Don’t thank me,’ Damant insisted. ‘Just catch the bastard – before he grabs another one of us.’

  The Your View Killer stalked around the white room making sure everything was ready for his next trial. The victim had been selected and his plans for their abduction well prepared and even rehearsed – to a point.

  He wore the same black work overalls, black leather gloves and even the ski-mask, even though he was alone and the broadcasting equipment was disconnected. There was no one to recognize him, but he wouldn’t make the mistake of becoming lazy and leaving his fingerprints or a strand of hair carrying his DNA in the wrong place for the police to find once they discovered the white room, as surely one day they would – one day long after he, the Your View Killer, had already disappeared forever. A smile spread across his lips at the irony of the situation – one day soon he’d practically have to give the police the very things that could damn him. And when that day happened it would be a sign that everything was progressing just as he’d planned.

  Sean had arrived home late, but early enough to help his wife Kate prepare supper for both of them. They sat at the kitchen table, Kate doing most of the talking and the eating, while Sean pretended to be listening as he concentrated on his wine and thought about the new case. Kate had a lot to get off her chest and talked away happily about the children and her work as a casualty doctor at Guy’s Hospital, but eventually she looked at him long enough to notice he wasn’t truly with her.

  ‘You OK?’ she asked.

  ‘Sorry?’ he replied when he realized he was expected to respond.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Kate repeated.

  ‘Yeah. Sorry. New case.’

  ‘A new case?’ she inquired. ‘What is it?’

  Sean rubbed his temples and considered his answer, but Kate had already worked it out. ‘Don’t tell me – it’s the one that’s been all over the news – the so-called Your View Killer.’ Sean didn’t reply. ‘It is, isn’t it?’

  ‘Same as any other murder investigation,’ he lied. ‘Just because it’s on the telly doesn’t make it any more difficult than if no one had heard about it.’

  ‘Well that’s not true, is it?’ she argued. ‘The more high profile the case the more pressure you’ll be under to solve it, and the more pressure you’re under, the grumpier you’ll get.’

  ‘I can handle it,’ he tried to reassure her, but he knew he didn’t sound convincing.

  ‘I know you can handle it,’ she answered, ‘but only if you push everything else away so you can think of nothing but the case – including me. Including the kids.’

  ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘Isn’t it? You sure?’

  ‘I do the best I can. Hopefully we’ll get this sorted quickly and then you won’t have to worry about it.’

  ‘Until the next high-profile case they dump on you.’

  ‘We’re Special Investigations only now – they’re all going to be high profile. On the plus side there should be less of them – maybe less than one a year.’

  ‘You hope, or maybe you don’t.’ He didn’t answer.
‘Anyway, what’s this one about? The people at work seem convinced he’s some latter-day Robin Hood, come to make the rich and corrupt pay for their greed. There’s not a lot of sympathy out there for the victim.’

  ‘People are quick to judge, but I guess that’s the whole point,’ Sean told her.

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘The killer – that’s what he does. Tells people to judge, although they only have a fragment of the facts. And they’re all too willing to go along with it, even if it means a man ends up losing his life.’

  ‘I don’t think people believed it was for real,’ Kate argued.

  ‘Did some of the people you work with vote?’ he questioned her.

  ‘Why?’ she asked, a little suspicious of her husband’s reason for asking. ‘Are they in trouble if they did?’

  ‘Maybe. Probably not – if they thought it was a hoax. But anyone voting in the future could be guilty of conspiracy to murder.’

  ‘You can’t arrest everybody,’ Kate said. ‘You can’t arrest tens of thousands of people, maybe hundreds of thousands.’

  ‘We might have to make a few arrests – scare people away from voting.’

  ‘I’d better not say anything else,’ she half joked. ‘Wouldn’t want to get anyone at work arrested. We’re short-staffed as it is.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he told her. ‘I promise not to arrest any of your work colleagues, or friends, or whatever you call them.’

  Kate rolled her brown eyes, making the golden skin of her forehead wrinkle. ‘Gee, thanks,’ she replied, getting to her feet and beginning to clear the table. ‘Speaking of friends, don’t forget we’re going out for dinner with ours this week.’

  ‘We are?’

  ‘Yes. We are. It’s in the calendar on the computer, if you ever bothered to check it.’

  He watched her head to the sink, her long, curly black hair tied back in a ponytail. He tried to remember the last time he’d seen her dressed for a night out, but couldn’t. ‘Who we going out with?’

  ‘James and Kerry, Chris and Sally and Leon and Sophie.’

  ‘So what you’re saying is we’re going out with your friends?’