Authors: Lee Weeks
‘Where’s he been, Robbo?’ said Bowie. ‘Find out. Trace similar crimes and let’s get a lead on him.’
‘I’m pretty sure he’s not in our system,’ answered Robbo. ‘Because he has definitely left forensic evidence on Pauline Murphy and he doesn’t care; he
didn’t try to dispose of the body in such a way that it wouldn’t surface – the opposite. Plus, this time we have a witness and he’s calling the victim’s family to add
to his game.’
‘Have we had any luck in tracing the calls?’ asked Bowie.
Carter answered: ‘No, Sir. I don’t think we will either, not unless he calls from a different phone. It’s not a contract phone. He never stays on the phone long
enough.’
‘Well, then at least the phone calls give us an insight into him.’
‘Yes, Sir, if we listen to this . . .’
Carter pressed a button on Robbo’s laptop and the deep distorted voice of Hawk filled the breathless office. ‘Tracy? Are you listening to me?’ Carter paused it as Hawk began
reciting the nursery rhyme about Baby Bunting.
‘Skin a rabbit. Hawk mentions skinning and that’s what he did to Pauline Murphy.’
Carter resumed play and screams from somewhere primeval filled the office. Jeanie flinched. She wished she hadn’t heard it. The sound of the woman screaming would stay in her memory banks,
to be brought back on dark nights when she couldn’t sleep, or even worse when she was asleep and she couldn’t stop it coming. Jeanie seemed to be collecting bad memories in a nightmare
scrapbook. But this would be nothing to what poor Tracy was having to deal with. It took someone with enormous strength to handle that.
‘He didn’t ring Emily Styles’ parents,’ said Carter. ‘He didn’t ring Pauline Murphy’s. He’s getting brazen, bold, reckless. He feels a connection
to Tracy – I think we should use it. We have nothing to lose. I know Tracy has agreed to go on television and appeal directly to him. I think if he puts a face to Tracy, stripped bare, he
might relent. He wants to play God, so we can appeal to that side of him – it’s all within his control. Let her go.’
Bowie was thinking it through: ‘We need to word it just right. Robbo?’ He looked across at Robbo who nodded.
‘I agree. It can’t make it worse. It might work for us. Things are different this time. Tracy seems to be significant. This time Hawk felt secure enough to take his victim from her
home, in full view of Danielle’s son Jackson. Why? Maybe because Jackson has Down’s syndrome and our killer doesn’t think he’ll be able to remember things accurately enough
to help. Maybe because he’s grown over-confident.’
Bowie shifted his perch on the desk, threw his coffee cup away and turned to Jeanie, who stood ready to speak.
‘First of all I want to clarify the position on Jackson’s abilities. He has learning difficulties but he’s bright. He is on the higher ability scale. I’ve learnt that he
can tell right from wrong. He can count. He can draw really well for his age. There is nothing stopping us getting just as much information about what happened to his mum from Jackson as from any
other kid of his age. And that’s the thing – he’s only four.’ Jeanie waited whilst Carter stepped outside to take a message from an officer from Archway police station. He
apologized when he returned and said: ‘Whoever else is in the frame to be Hawk, Danielle Foster’s boyfriend Niall Manson is definitely out of it. He was killed yesterday afternoon.
Someone dragged him down Balls Pond Road, left his head by the kebab shop and his body next to the Kenyos two-hour dry-cleaning shop. We’ve put up a roadblock to ask for help but I doubt his
death has much to do with Danielle. He was a hit waiting to happen.’
He nodded to Jeanie to continue.
‘I believe we are slowly unravelling a description of the man who took Jackson’s mother and who he says his mother was shouting at and trying to get out of the house. As far as
Jackson understands, the man is white, he has dark hair. But the most significant thing is that Jackson saw the same man when Scruffy the family pet was attacked. The way Jackson describes both the
man who took his mummy away and the man who set the dog on fire is that he looks like the cartoon character “Daddy Pig”. This is a well-known character in a cartoon called
Peppa
Pig
. The thing to say about this character is that he has round, black-rimmed glasses, designer stubble. He wears a T-shirt type of thing – usually turquoise, sometimes purple. He has a
small smile.’
‘Do you have a picture?’ asked Bowie.
‘Yes.’ Jeanie tapped on her keyboard and brought up an image of Daddy Pig, which was shared with the other PCs in the room.
‘He has a sneaky-looking smile,’ Ebony said. ‘And the glasses are really fashionable now.
Jeanie looked across at Ebony and smiled gratefully. She’d worried unnecessarily about looking stupid.
Bowie stood up from his perch on the edge of the desk at the far side of the office across from Jeanie and Ebony.
‘Let’s presume Jackson is accurate and it is the same man. It’s Hawk. What does that mean to our investigation?’
Ebony spoke up. ‘If this proves to be a targeted attack on the dog then it means that Hawk has a lot more elements to his game. He might also be after Jackson or Tracy? He’s getting
physically close to them.’
Carter spoke: ‘We’ll give her twenty-four hour surveillance on the house.’
Bowie nodded. ‘Why might Tracy interest him . . . Jeanie?’
Jeanie was reluctant to say that, ever since she’d seen the image of the make-up on Pauline Murphy’s dead face, she’d been reminded of Tracy.
‘Tracy’s make-up was really thick when I first met her,’ she said hesitantly. ‘It’s getting less every day but, if Hawk was watching her when she worked in Simmons
department store at the beauty counter, if he has a thing about make-up, good or bad, he would definitely have been drawn to Tracy.’
‘So what we’re saying is that something about Tracy has made him change his MO – or has brought out some other element in it,’ said Bowie. ‘Tell us more about her.
What is she like?’
Jeanie thought for a few seconds before she answered: ‘She is in a brittle marriage. I haven’t even seen her husband; he chooses to stay away, I think. Or Tracy chooses not to have
him there while this is going on. It’s becoming obvious that things aren’t great between them. Steve, the husband, was obviously not keen on Tracy’s reunion with Danielle. She
went to speak to him yesterday about coming home to support her but she returned saying he still wasn’t coming back. It’s a lot to cope with on her own. But . . . having said all that,
I’m amazed the way that she does seems to cope with whatever is thrown at her. She is in the middle of the crisis of her life but she copes with it the way she would cope with the busiest day
ever on the beauty counter where she works. But then, I’m not sure Tracy realizes that this might have become personal to her. She asks if Jackson is safe. She has never asked me if
she
is safe. She has agreed to the TV appeal. I think the sooner we do it the better. We just have to hope it makes things better, not worse.’
‘We’ll look into every angle and have something ready for Tracy as soon as possible and for you, Sir.’ Robbo addressed Bowie.
‘I hope it’s a good one, Robbo. The press will hound us. I don’t want us to look incompetent. I want to find a definite connection between these women. How does Pauline Murphy
match the lives of the other two women?’ asked Bowie.
‘The college, definitely,’ answered Carter.
Robbo pinned up a diagram of three interlocking circles with the women’s names in the centre.
‘These women didn’t all know one another but where the circles cross they have a possible two hundred and forty shared contacts from the college that we can identify by the social
network sites.’
Bowie stood.
‘We’ll call a conference later today. Get it over with. One thing we know is that at this very minute Danielle Foster will be in a coffin and she will have already started
dying.’
‘Do I look okay?’ Tracy came out of the bathroom and stood in front of Jeanie.
Jeanie had asked Tracy to take off her false eyelashes, wear only a touch of mascara.
‘A youthful look, you mean?’ she’d asked.
‘I mean a stripped-back, no-time-for-make-up, couldn’t-care-less-about-make-up look.’
‘I feel naked without my make-up. I feel vulnerable.’
‘You don’t need it and especially not today. You look really lovely, Tracy: natural, young, with shiny skin.’
‘Shiny? Oh God!’ Tracy turned back to look at herself again. ‘The only time I get to go on television and the whole world sees me looking a fright.’
Jeanie smiled and shook her head.
‘Couldn’t be further from the truth. You ready?’
‘I haven’t learnt my lines yet.’ Tracy looked panicky.
‘We need to get Jackson settled before we go in. You can look at the statement then. It doesn’t have to be too rehearsed, Tracy. Don’t worry.’
They got Jackson into his car seat and Tracy sat in the front with Jeanie. Jeanie could feel the tension coming from Tracy. She was nervous for her but she knew that the fresher Tracy appeared
on television, the better. Sometimes it wasn’t what people said, it was the way they looked when they said it.
Jeanie drew up outside the venue; Carter and Willis were waiting. Carter opened the door for Tracy whilst Ebony went around the other side and undid Jackson’s seat belt.
Ebony took Jackson off to be looked after whilst Carter escorted Jeanie and Tracy down to a green room where they’d sit and wait and prepare for the conference.
Hawk switched on the television. The press conference was about to start. He was naked; the room was warm and dark. He didn’t want to watch it alone. Beneath the decrepit
chandelier he sat on a chair and got closer to the screen. He held his breath as he watched Tracy walk in flanked by a woman and a tall pale-eyed detective. Hawk watched them as they took their
seats. He looked at the female officer’s name badge pinned on her:
Jeanie Vincent
. He looked at the Chief Inspector’s –
Simon Bowie
– and next to him was
Detective Inspector Dan Carter
.
His eyes focused back on Tracy.
‘Ha . . .’ he said out loud and he laughed. ‘Where’s your make-up now?’ His laughter petered out: inside he was angry.
Tracy began speaking. She glanced at the paper in her hand. It was shaking. Hawk squealed with delight. From the corner of the room a woman moved. Hawk’s eyes flicked her way but he
didn’t turn to look at her; he had no need – she wasn’t going anywhere.
‘I want to appeal to whoever is holding my daughter,’ Tracy said, her voice quivering. ‘I want to tell him he has the power to release her. He has the power to let my daughter
come home now before any more harm is done. Please.’ Tracy looked up into the camera. ‘Please. Don’t kill my daughter, she is a lovely mum – she cares deeply for her little
boy Jackson who has special needs and he misses his mum terribly.’ Tracy turned away as she was in danger of crumbling. The camera flashes popped all over the room as they looked for that one
perfect shot.
Hawk stood and the chair fell backwards as he stamped his foot and raged at the screen.
‘Where’s your make-up? You’re not playing fair. Why don’t you show us who you really are? You’ve spoilt it now, Tracy. You’ve lied to me.’ Hawk looked
at Bowie and Carter and Vincent and he muttered: ‘You think I’m stupid? You think I’m so arrogant as to be that easily manipulated? I know what’s in your minds. You’re
trying to make me change my plan, to trip me up. I see through your schemes and I’ll raise the stakes and I’ll play a hand that you won’t see coming. It’s my game and my
rules and I will prepare for the arrival of another player.’
Hawk switched off the TV and pressed the button on the music system. He closed his eyes as he swayed to the music. His heart lifted with the violins as they plucked at his emotions. His heart
was full to bursting as his head moved, swam on a magic carpet of sensations – then stopped.
He slowly opened his eyes and turned to the sound that had disturbed him – ‘Shut the fuck up.’
The woman was moaning in pain from the corner of the room.
He felt for the remote control in his pocket and switched up the volume until he could no longer hear her.
He waltzed around the room, his feet shushing on the bare floorboards. Then he moved towards her and picked her up and put her over his shoulder as his chest rose and fell. She moaned in pain as
he carried her out of the room and down the corridor, down the stairs and into another room. He switched on the light and laid her on the floor as he moved like a ballet dancer, pointing his toes,
flexing his feet he danced around her. He stood above her, his eyes gleaming, his breath quick. He tilted his head this way and that as he looked her over. Her body was peppered with
maggot-infested holes.
‘Ah, my sweet Jenny Smith . . . you and I have been on the longest journey. But now I feel your road is coming to an end. She did not answer; she stared back at him with the massive eyes
of the emaciated. Her breathing was shallow, her bones so exposed that he could see every rib. She had on a red metallic bikini that was baggy and soiled. He took off his combat-style trousers and
knelt beside her and undid the ties of the bikini from around her neck. He rolled her to her side to undo the string around her back. She groaned as he moved her.
‘Be patient, Jenny. Be patient.’ He slid the bikini bottoms down over her legs. ‘You must hand this over to someone else now. We’ll play our game one last time, Jenny,
and I’ll let you go.’
For a second her eyes filled with panic and then they filled with calm. She could no longer talk. She had not spoken for two years. Her eyes followed his movements as he pulled a long, silky
woman’s scarf from his trouser pocket.
‘This was my mother’s, as you know.’ He threaded it beneath her neck and her eyes stayed on his. He twisted the excess around his knuckles and twisted the scarf tighter. She
struggled the way she always did as she fought to stay alive, but she didn’t struggle for long and he kept the knot tight. This time he would take her to the end. When she was dead he hung
her on a hook from the ceiling in the centre of the room.