My Bloody Valentine (Alastair Gunn) (34 page)

Relaying her method to the others, she and Amala had started with the four cameras closest to Cain’s home, covering each day since the doctor’s release. If nothing showed up, they’d move on to the next nearest set of cameras for the same period, the theory being that the killer would likely avoid the cameras in the immediate vicinity of each target but perhaps be less wary in surrounding roads. Therefore, the odds of finding their man were pretty well balanced. Statistically, he was more likely to be present near each home, but with a higher probability of being caught on camera the further out they looked.

So far, though, everyone had drawn a blank. It seemed the killer, if he
was
watching any of the newly identified four, was adept at keeping himself out of shot.

Hawkins looked at the printed list of ten cameras supplied by Lambeth Council, reassessing her task. It had taken her ninety minutes to check sixteen hours’ worth of images from four cameras. Assuming that she
and Amala made similar progress, accounting for breaks and fatigue, checking these ten cameras over almost six days would take the two of them the rest of the night. The next shift weren’t due in for another ninety minutes, and considering there was plenty more footage to check from other locations, the dilemma would then be whether the current team stayed on to help. She sighed; it was going to be a long night.

She settled down for another session at the laptop, clicking Sunday’s file. After a few seconds the software organized itself and the same four camera angles appeared, except that each scene was back in darkness, the time signature showing midnight had just passed. Activity was minimal, and Hawkins tried to focus on the mostly deserted pavements as cars passed through the images at varying rates, their headlights creating patches of washed-out whiteness in the gloom. Three of the cameras were positioned close together, one on Amanda Cain’s street itself and two out on the main road, which allowed Hawkins to track most vehicles from one scene to the next as they moved down the high street and either kept going or turned to pass along Cain’s street. The fourth camera was in one of the roads away from the main thoroughfare, although the far end of the doctor’s street was visible in the back of the shot.

At one point Hawkins caught her eyes starting to close, just as a red box popped up in Cain’s road. She shook herself awake, staring at the screen, waiting for
the figure to move further into view. The person was male, just stocky enough to fit the witness description, coming towards the camera from the far end of the street. The camera in the adjoining road hadn’t picked him up, but as she watched the figure jolting along, daring to let her hopes climb, she saw he was being followed by four others, emerging from the shadows behind. Her excitement stalled as she watched the men gather outside another house a few doors along from Cain’s before filing inside.

She renewed her concentration and pressed on. What remained of the darkness passed without further event, and within moments daylight broke across her screen, headlights clicking off on some of the cars as they jerked by, flows of foot and road traffic picking up as morning arrived. Intermittently, residents began leaving the various houses in Cain’s street, getting into cars and driving away. Pedestrians started passing the house. Hawkins followed them all, blinking back tiredness, reminding herself to be thankful that, despite the cold, the weather had been dry throughout. Her task would have been almost impossible had everyone been hidden beneath umbrellas or hoods.

But still there was no sign of the Judge.

Ten minutes later, Hawkins paused the footage again and leaned back in her chair to stretch, just as someone knocked from outside.

Mike pushed the door open and leaned in. ‘There you are, you big fibber.’

Hawkins
stopped mid-yawn. ‘What?’

‘You said you were coming to join us. An hour ago.’

‘Sorry, got caught up.’ She clicked to restart the film. ‘Anyway, don’t distract me, I’m concentrating.’

Mike stepped inside. ‘Why don’t you bring the laptop upstairs and sit with the rest of us?’

‘In the media suite?’ she mocked. ‘We’d be like sardines.’

She maintained her smile but, silently, Hawkins was kicking herself. She’d intended to contact the others by now, get an update, if nothing else, even though she’d already have heard if someone had spotted their man. But the continued absence of Tanner and his two musketeers would become obvious to the others pretty soon, and she didn’t want to be answering awkward questions she didn’t have to. Plus, space to think was becoming increasingly valuable, especially because she still hadn’t decided how to handle the ever-widening rift in her team.

Mike laughed. ‘We’ll budge up. Come on, we’re ordering pizza.’

‘I’ve eaten.’

‘You mean
those
?’ He was obviously referring to the chocolate wrappers, although she didn’t look up to check. ‘That’s it. Dead or alive, you’re coming with me.’

‘I’m fine.’

‘You might be
fine
.’ He moved nearer. ‘But if you don’t eat, your concentration won’t be worth a damn.
You’re already finding it hard to focus. Tell me I’m wrong.’

‘Bloody hell.’ She kept her eyes on the screen. ‘Order me a Full House, then. I’ll eat it in here.’

Mike joined her at the desk, knocking her hand off the track pad. He paused the footage and gave her a stern look. ‘Okay, what’s with the solitude? Did someone upset you, or do you have embarrassing wind?’

She smiled, immediately restarting the film. ‘Piss off.’

‘Is this about our fight?’

‘No.’ She glanced at him. ‘I thought we sorted that out.’

‘We did. So it’s Tanner, then?’

Hawkins hesitated, taking just too long to muster a denial.

Mike sat on the corner of the desk. ‘What’s he done now?’

‘Apart from using this case solely to advance his career? Nothing. We just … don’t get on. It’s a personality thing.’

‘Yours or his?’

She ignored him, kept her eyes on the screen, willing him not to inquire why Tanner, Sharpe and Todd hadn’t been around for the past twenty-four hours. Fortunately, he didn’t.

In Clapham on screen, it was already mid-Sunday afternoon; people and cars jolting away. She watched vehicles to and fro past Amanda Cain’s door, queuing either end of the street as opposing streams of 4x4s
jostled in the overloaded road, black-and-white brake lights flickering as they negotiated the T-junction in the distance.

Mike mumbled something about being invisible.

‘Shhh,’ Hawkins urged, shifting forward in her chair, clicking to rewind the film.

She tapped the screen. ‘Look at this.’

Mike moved in next to her, suddenly alert, recognizing that her focus had changed.

Hawkins restarted the footage, running it slowly this time, watching again as the dark saloon edged on to the bottom of the screen and approached the line of other cars waiting at the far end of the street. It joined the back of the queue, and again Hawkins’ recall sparked.

‘Gonna need a clue over here,’ Maguire said.

She murmured. ‘Only one brake light.’

‘What’s that, some kind of British omen? Are we due a sunny day?’

She ignored him. ‘What type of car is that?’

‘Oh yeah, ask a Yank.’ Mike turned the laptop towards him and squinted at the image. ‘All these damned Euro-boxes look the same.’ He moved closer. ‘Zoom in.’

She did, rewinding until the car was front of shot, before accessing the software’s menu to make it fill the screen, still frustrated that the resolution was too low to read the number plate.

Mike considered it, rubbing his chin. ‘Looks like … an old Vectra. Why?’

Hawkins
realized that her discovery still wasn’t obvious to Maguire, and turned to face him. ‘I’ve seen it before.’

He frowned. ‘Where?’

‘CCTV. Outside the home of one of the other victims. If I can just remember …’

She drew the laptop towards her, minimizing the current screen. Then she accessed the server, clicking through various files until she found the records from the scenes of the previous murders. Instinct said Calano.

Hawkins opened one of the files, skipping through the footage as fast as she dared. The film had already been assessed, of course, but not in the context they now had.

The camera angle was high, showing part of the main road in Enfield adjacent to the street where Calano had lived. The area wasn’t in the same social bracket as Clapham, so this was the nearest camera to the victim’s home, but it had been installed more recently, so its image was better, both colour and higher res. Hawkins tempered her positivity; she could still be wrong.

Traffic was predictably heavier on this thoroughfare than on Cain’s smaller, shorter street. Pedestrians and vehicles pinged through the image in both directions. The sheer volume of movement made it hard to follow everything, but Hawkins was interested only in cars that took a specific route: the left turn, mid-shot, into Calano’s road. She and Maguire viewed the whole file.

She
tried another, fast forwarding again, watching night-time turn quickly to day. Mike stayed beside her, his hand on the back of her neck, comfortable and warm. Still nothing.

Hawkins was about to curse her memory when it delivered.

Time on screen passed 3 p.m., as a dark saloon entered from the lower right corner, jumped to the centre of the screen and disappeared. But Hawkins’ senses had already fired. She hit pause, wound the footage back to bring it into view and, at quarter speed, played the sequence again.

They both leaned in, watched the vehicle approaching the turn.

‘Vectra?’ she asked.

‘Yeah.’

The car came within yards of its turn, the point it needed to slow. For a nasty second Hawkins thought she’d made a mistake; perhaps it had no lights at all. But then the driver braked, and Hawkins let herself grin.

Only one brake light.

‘There.’ She paused the file, turning triumphantly to Maguire. ‘This car was present at two scenes of interest, including the street of one of the victims within days of her death. I’m guessing that’s our killer. He needs to get a feel for the area around each target’s home without being caught on camera wandering about. So he drives casually by during daylight when it’s
busy, using what would normally be an inconspicuous vehicle, obviously unaware of his faulty light.’

Mike shook his head. ‘How in
hell
did you remember that car?’

She smiled. ‘Well, partly because I’m a great detective, but mostly because I’m a woman. In case you hadn’t noticed, we memorize small details that aren’t necessarily important at the time. So I can tell you where I’ve seen cars with broken tail lights and list every time you’ve been wrong since we met.’

‘Impressive. If only we could teach you to cook.’

Hawkins punched him playfully, but her mood stayed high as she turned back to the screen.

Because every character on the Vectra’s number plate was clear.

59

Bull felt the jolt as the brakes released, then there were grinding sounds as the huge aircraft moved. He couldn’t tell how fast, because there were no windows, so he just sat in the dim light, trying to ignore the smell of burnt rubber and aviation fuel. The whole cabin reminded him of the mechanic’s workshop back at base, the place he’d never see again, which had just started feeling like home.

The plane rolled on, heavy equipment clanking whenever they went over a bump. Bull flinched as lightning stabbed at the bullet wound in his thigh. The pain didn’t bother him; he could block out the physical stuff. What made him wince were the images the pain brought back. The two of them running, the gunshots, the road. The blast that ended it all.

Get a grip.

Bull threw the thoughts out. He wasn’t ready to deal with that shit. Not yet.

In a couple of days he’d be home, away from this hell. At first he hadn’t wanted to leave, thinking the pain would fade. No one had forced the kid to sign up; war was a dangerous place. But a week later, after the nightmares and cold sweats, home became Bull’s only hope. He’d never get Cheshire’s face out of his mind here, where they’d worked together, become friends. But if he went somewhere from before they’d known each other, perhaps he could forget.

For now, he just had to hold on.

He was already booked in with some sort of head doctor. They said it might be post-traumatic stress, that he needed checking out.

But he wasn’t the only one. Beside him on the flip-down seats that ran along one side of the hull were other soldiers; all hitching on the FUBAR express.

Nobody talked.

He glanced at the faces around him in the dark. He didn’t know any of them; they were from other units. Some were injured; some dishonourably discharged; others messed up in the head. A lot, like Bull, would have more than one sick note. But everyone wore the same empty look.

The boys said he was lucky: one of the guys who survived. But that depended on whether breathing in and out meant you had a life worth saving. What about the memories you couldn’t hand back? No one warned you on the way out how hard any of that was going to be. You learned that shit for yourself.

That’s why most of the soldiers killed were just kids, teenagers who thought it was a big fucking game. Some expected to get hurt, but none of them knew what it would do to their heads. And to cap it all, as soon as you were too messed up to fight, they loaded you into a big catapult and fired you home.

See ya.

The flight would take fifteen hours, then they could all head back to whatever they’d left behind and try to make it work again. None of those lives could have been that fucking great, or they wouldn’t have left in the first place. But, however bad they’d been, they weren’t going to be any better now.

There was another jolt as the aircraft stopped and the cargo nets swayed. Then the strip lights dimmed and the roar from the engines built. They’d soon be in the air.