Authors: Fiona McIntosh
There was a moment’s silence before Jack spoke. ‘Thanks, John, lots there for us to consider.’
The psychologist nodded, smiled sympathetically at his audience and departed, a young PC accompanying him to see him out.
‘Right, has anyone got anything to add to the profile?’ Jack asked. No one did. ‘Okay, then. I want one of you getting final confirmation from pathology that we are indeed looking for a left-handed killer. That will help narrow down the field a little.’ He nodded with understanding at the groans that greeted this understatement.
‘Bill, as soon as you can, get across to the Lincoln scene and get a full briefing from the boys at Louth. And go lightly. Remember, we need to act as the umbrella guys on this and I don’t want complaints that the Yard team are stampeding over local investigations.’
‘On my way, Hawk.’
Jack knew Bill would have the right touch. It was Brodie he was more concerned about. ‘Cam,’ he said, ‘you do the same over at Hackney. And remember, don’t leave any footprints.’
‘You know it’s going to be just another day, another body, to them, sir,’ Brodie said. ‘Lower Clapton Road’s not called the Murder Mile for nothing.’
‘I realise that. But Clive Farrow is someone’s fiance, someone’s son, and so we’ll treat his death as though it’s the first murder we’ve ever investigated.’
Jack turned to the room at large. ‘For all of you newbies out of Hendon, Hackney is considered a poor, relatively deprived borough. It’s home to a large Hasidic Jewish community, as well as large Asian and Caribbean populations, and tends to be overrun with Yardie gangs. It’s not unusual to find bodies around there, which is why Cam said what he did.’ He gave Brodie a brief hard gaze to warn him about the youngsters on the team who needed education and encouragement, not the assumption that their efforts were pointless before they even began.
‘Kate,’ he said.
‘Sir?’ Her expression of resignation told him she was anticipating the tiresome task of wading through files, finding out about blue paint suppliers or something equally tedious now that the two plum jobs had gone to the blokes.
‘We’re going to visit the families of the victims. We’ll start in Lincoln.’ He didn’t wait for her response and flicked his gaze away from her grateful look of surprise. ‘The rest of you, I want to know what brand of paint is on the victims’ hands, where it can be bought, and ideas on why it might be significant. I want to know what knife was used by the killer, and as soon as you do know, I want the brand, where it can be purchased and someone compiling a list of those stores to visit or contact. Someone else, go back over the scenes of the
two crimes — constantly ask yourself, have we missed anything? What questions haven’t been asked yet?’
‘What about cold cases, sir?’ DS Jones asked.
Sarah Jones was a bright young woman, definitely a rising star, and Jack had witnessed her efforts on a previous case. She didn’t have Kate’s instincts but she possessed an enviable trait of attention to detail and a need to tie off every loose thread — both of which had led to her receiving specific training on the national police indexing system.
‘Tell us more,’ he said, hoping to encourage her by letting her show the rest of the team her strengths.
She looked nervous, shifted her glasses. ‘Well, sir, it occurs to me that if we follow the line of reasoning that these could be revenge killings, then we need to go back over some old crimes. Perhaps something might bob up in London or Lincolnshire, or there may be some similarities with the paint, type of injuries, use of the drugs, stabbings . . .’
Jack had hoped someone would suggest this crucial and tedious legwork, yet none of the senior people had and it should have been one of their first thoughts. He imagined it was because none of them wanted to do that kind of work, which troubled him. He noticed Kate’s not very well concealed scowl at the young detective. He made her expression darken further when he said, ‘Excellent, DS Jones. Why don’t you take that on, run some comparisons through the database?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Sarah said crisply.
When he had first drawn up his list of people to be involved in Operation Danube Jack had wondered whether these two women would hit it off. Although
they were both ambitious, they were opposing poles. Kate had the looks and personality to command attention, while Sarah had neither but made up for it with a shrewd mind. He realised his instincts had been right but couldn’t fret on it now.
‘So, you all know what you’re doing,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you at our new home on the twelfth floor for a debriefing tomorrow morning. Happy hunting, all.’
5
It was one of those freezing, drizzly, depressing days. Kate grabbed her scarf, gloves and leather jacket and hurried down to the car park.
Don’t run,
she told herself, as she hit the bowels of the building.
Be cool
. She could see Hawksworth now, beside a Vauxhall Zafira, talking to another man. Jack spotted her and gave a wave before turning back to finish his animated conversation.
Oh, this is very dangerous
, she thought. Kate had worked with Jack Hawksworth twice before, the most recent occasion being three years ago, and had found her mind clouded with irrational, often ridiculous, daydreams that at times threatened her ability to function lucidly. It was a state of mind she hated and she’d sworn never to allow it to occur again, not at work anyway, and certainly not with a colleague.
Kate didn’t believe in love at first sight — she didn’t even believe in lust at first sight — and yet she was ashamed to admit that during that March of 2000, whenever Hawksworth stood near her, her hands went clammy. Eye contact with him had been hard because she was convinced he was able to read her mind with
that penetrating gaze of his that made whomever he was speaking with feel as though they were the only person that mattered. Everything about him, from his charming manner to his maddening aloofness, even his questionable taste in music, was a turn-on.
But that was three years ago and, when he’d called to ask if she’d join this special team, Kate had convinced herself that she had grown up. She was thirty-two now, after all, and engaged. She’d figured her previous infatuation was simply that. So why was she feeling so jittery now?
‘DI Kate Carter,’ Jack said with a smile, ‘this is DCI Geoff Benson. We’ve worked a couple of cases together.’
Kate looked at the enormous bear of a man who stood opposite her. She knew of him but they’d never met.
‘How are you, Kate?’ Geoff said, extending a colossal hand.
She shook it. ‘Fine, thank you. So, you guys go back a long way?’ They looked like Beauty and the Beast.
The men shared a conspiratorial grin. ‘Er, yes, I’m afraid so. Geoff ‘s been responsible for many an untidy weekend in our youth,’ Jack admitted.
‘We were probationers together,’ his friend explained.
‘Ah, Hendon,’ she said, her tone matching an all-knowing expression. She wasn’t really sure what was coming out of her mouth, distracted by the way Jack was looking at her with that soft smile. She couldn’t read him at all. His giant friend said something she didn’t catch that made Jack laugh and in that moment she was sure she could see the carefree boy he’d probably once been.
Bet that hair flopped right over your eyes too and gave you a wickedly cute look
, she thought.
‘We’ve got to go, Geoff. See you for a pint soon, eh?’ Jack said.
Geoff used his hand to mimic a phone. ‘It’s your turn to call,’ he said. ‘Nice meeting you, Kate. You’re welcome to come for a beer, too.’
Jack opened the front passenger door for Kate, and laughed at Geoff ‘s parting shot. Again, Kate didn’t catch it; she was too busy wondering whether any other men still did that opening the door thing. Dan reckoned opening doors these days for women was fraught with danger.
The last time I did that for a female colleague, she snapped some waspish comment at me,
he had moaned. The lines were clearly drawn between him and Kate: equal terms, equal partners in life. With Jack, however, his opening the door for her didn’t feel in any way smarmy and it certainly didn’t seem to her as though he was using it to reinforce his rank or his maleness.
It’s simply good manners
, she thought, and felt instantly feminine for being treated so courteously. An inner voice cut in and urged her to please pull her ragged thoughts together.
It’s just the first day
, she replied silently.
I’ll be fine by tomorrow
.
Hawksworth threw his jacket across his files in the back seat, got in and was down to business straightaway, reversing out of the parking spot. She inhaled a waft of a spicy citrus cologne she recognised and liked. It suited him. Dan didn’t wear cologne, nor did he wear good-looking sports coats.
But let’s face it
, she reasoned,
Dan’s a software engineer
. A damn good one too, and on a huge salary working as a consultant to some enormous American bank in the city. Dan had no reason to wear suits with sexy shoes, she thought, glancing down at the chunky chocolate suede shoes
her boss was wearing. Dan’s uniform was jeans and his Doc Martens. He looked great in them, she admitted it, but it would be nice to see him in some chinos occasionally or, heaven forbid, some tailored trousers.
Jack was talking and she forced herself to pay attention, irritated with herself for being so flighty today of all days.
‘We’re seeing Michael Sheriff's wife in Lincoln — well, Louth actually. Should take us a couple of hours max.’
He rolled his sleeves up as they emerged out of the awkward single entrance-exit into Westminster and the watery sunlight of an icy February morning. ‘Freezing in here,’ he commented. ‘Let’s get some heat happening.’
She unwound her scarf as he turned up the heat on the car’s dial. It would be steamy and warm in the small car before she knew it.
Victoria Street was teeming with its usual horde of London cabs, now available in maroon, and even white —
perhaps they double as wedding cars
, she thought. An equally famous convoy of red London buses lumbered past. She noticed most were tourist buses, totally incompatible with Britain’s propensity for sudden downpours in any season. As expected, the open-air upper deck was crowded with Japanese sightseers. Why was that? Other nations happily sat on the lower deck but the Japanese always rushed upstairs, no matter how inclement the weather.
‘I’ll take the less obvious tourist route,’ Jack said, echoing her thoughts and swinging left past the Army & Navy Store to head towards Westminster Cathedral. ‘Any excuse to drive by one of my favourite buildings,’
he added, as they glided past the imposing red and cream-coloured stone church that was the home of Catholicism in the UK. ‘I love this piazza, don’t you?’ he said.
‘Pity about the McDonald’s on the corner,’ Kate replied.
‘I’ve taught myself to block it out.’
‘Don’t you think it looks eastern?’ she asked.
‘I think it looks like crap,’ he replied vehemently.
‘I mean the church, sir.’ This was the first time Kate had really noticed the cathedral, even though she passed it almost daily. ‘That surely looks like a minaret.’
Jack didn’t respond to her question, his gaze darting from the road to quickly grab a glimpse of the building he clearly admired. ‘The tourists should come here at night when it looks its most heavenly and angelic,’ he said.
Kate smiled. ‘So, our meeting is with Diane Sheriff, right, sir?’
‘Listen, Kate, I don’t go in for that “sir” stuff when we’re not being watched over by anyone official. You’re a DI now, so get comfortable calling me Jack, and at the Yard we’ll fall back into the formalities. Okay?’
Kate nodded, and understood yet another reason why the man that people called Hawk was popular.
‘Yes, her name’s Diane,’ he continued, ‘she’s taking the afternoon off work to see us.’ He began negotiating the confusing one-way system around Victoria Station, headed for Grosvenor Place with its line of embassies.
Kate gave a soft sigh. ‘And I imagine she’s only just coming to terms with her husband’s loss. We arrive to re-open the wound like the typically heartless bastards we are.’
‘That’s why I asked you to come along,’ he said gently and glanced at her. She didn’t look at him, touched her hair instead. ‘I knew you’d handle it the right way. Cam and Bill — well,’ he shrugged, ‘you’re the right person.’
‘Thanks.’ She cleared her throat, staring at the seemingly endless red brick wall and barbed wire that was the back of Buckingham Palace. ‘Look, I haven’t really had a chance to thank you for bringing me onto this operation. I appreciate it and I’m glad to be working with you.’
‘Bored over at Kingston, were you?’
‘Dying,’ she admitted and liked how it prompted a chuckle from him. ‘Being on the HAT team sounds great, but there aren’t many homicides around the Richmond-Twickenham borough.’
‘Your talents are wasted over there, Kate.’
‘Tell that to management, would you.’
‘I did. It’s why you’re here.’
That was the end of the personal chit-chat. He moved back to the case. ‘How did you feel about Tandy’s profile?’
‘He’s right, it’s loose,’ she answered, definitely on more solid ground now. Work was safe. ‘Not much for us to go on. A late thirties, possibly early forties, left-handed killer who’s taking revenge.’
‘It’s more than we had last night,’ he replied, boldly entering the notoriously hazardous roundabout of Hyde Park that usually had her flinching. He handled the navigation smoothly though, passing the Hilton and Dorchester hotels slowly to join the thickening traffic. ‘I think it’s given us a reasonable platform.’
‘Yes, but where to start? If we haven’t already found a grudge against Sheriff, for instance, you and I both know there probably isn’t one, so we’re just going through the motions in talking to his wife. That would have been one of the first questions that Lincoln Police asked, surely?’
‘I know, but people forget things. When she was interviewed originally, Mrs Sheriff was likely out of her mind with shock and despair. She’s probably thinking more clearly now.’
‘And you believe no one’s bothered to ask since then?’ Kate said incredulously.
‘All I’m saying is that if anything has occurred to her, she perhaps doesn’t think it’s important.’
‘But Sheriff's death was only three months ago. It would be an active file.’
‘Yes, but not everyone’s as diligent as you, Kate.’
More praise. She felt her cheeks begin to flush.
‘The individual officers who originally interviewed her could have been moved to other cases, different departments, retired, been promoted or just got busy.
They might not have revisited the file for a week or more.’
‘Bet they do now,’ she said, staring out the window as they finally gathered some speed and whizzed left at Speaker’s Corner and around Marble Arch.
Jack touched a button on the CD player and Roy Orbison began crooning a sad song, one of his later ones. She smiled. Jack Hawksworth was an enigma.
‘Do you like the Big O, Kate?’ he asked, apparently reading her thoughts.
‘Haven’t heard him since I lived at home. My dad liked him.’
‘Ouch,’ he said and they laughed. ‘So did my father. I think it’s why I listen to Roy. It keeps the memories of Dad alive. Does that sound corny?’
‘No,’ she said, secretly delighted that he would mention such an intimate and obviously painful subject. She’d heard about his parents’ death and had felt sorry for him, but had never gone in for the doe-eyed sympathy of some of the other women officers. ‘And your mother? Perry Como, perhaps? Engelbert Humperdinck?’
‘Well, curiously, my mother loved The Police.’
He laughed and she noticed how clean his teeth were. Definitely a flosser and regular visitor to the dentist.
‘You’re kidding, right?’
‘No, really, it was nothing to do with my career. She just loved Sting’s music. My father never quite got it.’
‘Let me guess, “Every Breath You Take”?’
‘Mmm, yes, that’s everyone’s favourite. She loved it all in truth, and I’m glad that before she died I was able to take her to a Sting concert.’
‘Wow, hardly a blogsy mum, then.’
‘No,’ he said somewhat wistfully, ‘she was never that. Oh, here we go, the Edgeware Road for a while until we hit the A1 to Grantham, then towards Lincoln and Louth.’
‘Very cocky.’
‘I’ve done this drive many times.’
‘Dirty weekends?’
He grinned. ‘Well, my grandmother and I did love to bake together and we used to get very grubby with our hands deep in dough.’
‘Your grandmother lives in Lincoln?’
‘Used to live in Lincoln. She died last year.’
‘Oops, sorry.’
‘Don’t be. She was ninety-two and a great old girl who passed away peacefully in her sleep.’
In an effort to regain some ground from the slippery slide she felt herself permanently on this morning, Kate tried for levity. ‘And do you still bake?’ she said archly.
Tragically, he answered her seriously. ‘Occasionally. She left me her KitchenAid mixer and I can’t not use it. Besides, I find that sort of indulgent cooking relaxing.’ Then he flushed. ‘Quite embarrassing really. If Geoff knew, he’d have me publicly tarred and feathered.’
Was he for real?
‘Do you bake for anyone in particular?’
‘No.’
Ah, that thread was tied off fairly quickly
, she thought.
‘Do you wear a pinny when you bake?’
‘No, just a mint and pale pink striped shirt.’
Now they both relaxed into genuine mirth. His birthday shirt had been the butt of endless jokes, which even Kate had heard about over at Richmond.
‘What do you think the blue paint means?’ She asked. It was an odd segue but she noticed he didn’t skip a beat in responding.
‘No idea. Not even a hunch, other than that it could be some form of humiliation.’
‘I agree. It seems like some kind of ritual, so we have to presume it carries significance for both killer and victims.’
‘I have a feeling that the paint will be his real message.’
‘If it’s any help, the colour blue in Feng Shui means relaxing.’
‘It’s not.’
‘Twenty pounds says it is, and you’d lose.’
‘No,’ he said with a grin, ‘I mean, it’s not any help.’
‘Oh.’
‘But you’re right, Kate. That’s how we have to think. What does blue mean to this killer, rather than what does it mean to us? What is its significance in the scheme of murder?’ He sighed. ‘It could be anything.’
‘The obvious one is woad. You know, the Pict warriors painting themselves. Although real woad is indigo in colour, almost black.’
‘Our killer has been very deliberate and organised,’ Jack mused. ‘Care has been taken in choosing when and where. One would presume he’s taken the same care in choosing that paint, especially if it is meant to be meaningful to the victims.’