The Advent Killer (13 page)

He wandered away from Swanny’s Urn-Tug and into the darkness, losing himself among the crowd of disparate day-trippers who had provided him with cover for most of the afternoon. They may have shared a coach to get there, but seemed to have so little else in common that he was surprised they’d remained together in a pack.

He glanced back to see Swanny watching them go. The stallholder was at least sixty, but he had already demonstrated hawkish awareness when one of the party’s kids had tried to pilfer sweets from the stall during a particularly intense round of urn tugging.

Just as he’d been careful with the cab driver, he didn’t want Swanny’s, or any of his roughneck compatriots’, suspicions raised by his prolonged presence and lack of participation.

His group paused under the central marquee to watch one of the Roadshow’s colourful, live performances which was just beginning on the main stage, and he positioned himself with a direct view of one particular tent near the eastern boundary.

The advantage of the fair’s layout meant that, once he had located the tent with ‘Psychic Summer’ emblazoned above the entrance, he’d been able to watch her activities almost uninterrupted since his midday arrival. Not that there was much to report. Easton had left her tent only
three times, once to disappear into the unhitched caravan directly behind it, and twice for a few minutes each to use one of the portable onsite conveniences. For the moment, the small queue of punters outside the entrance indicated that she was still inside.

He checked his watch. It was approaching eight o’clock, and had been dark for nearly three hours, but he wasn’t yet ready to leave.

His initial goal had been to locate Summer Easton, but now he was more interested in what would happen once this fair shut down for the night.

Where would she spend the night? And would she be alone? Only once he had established the answers to both these questions would he be able to properly plan her demise. But Old Glad Soul’s Roadshow didn’t close, according to the signs, until 11 p.m.

So he would wait.

He strolled over to a burger van and ordered some food, watching from the corner of his eye as one patron left Easton’s tent, to be replaced immediately by the next. He moved across and leaned against an old truck, swallowed by darkness, eating and assessing the scene.

The fair sprawled before him, its uncontained presence in this vast field offering countless escape routes through an ideal collection of dark corners and erratic crowds. Rain fell in a fine haze, extending iridescent beams from massive multicoloured lights that burned against the blackened sky. The acrid smell of diesel generators hung in the night air, while the speakers they drove fired bass lines at volumes necessary to overwhelm their clatter.

Beside the entrance, a huge effigy of Old Glad Soul
himself held arms aloft in perpetual welcome, but only Nemesis mirrored his composure here amid a typical night scene. People clamoured in every corner, a constantly shifting sea of faces, no more recognizable or distinct to one another than enemies at war. They were just like all the others, oblivious to danger, blithe until they realized Nemesis had come for their souls.

A couple of teenage girls approached, laughing. One of them had removed her tiny jacket, and the pair used it as an improvised umbrella against the snow that was now beginning to replace the rain.

‘Sorry, mate,’ one of the girls squawked as they pushed past. But he made no attempt to hide his already disguised face: identity was irrelevant there.

That was what made places such as London and Brighton such perfect places for him to work. Who would look twice at him in a city? Or a place like this, where every type of freak rubbed shoulders with every other?

Although here, unlike a modern metropolis, Old Glad Soul would not have invested in countless CCTV cameras.

He finished eating and wandered over to join the crowd under the open-sided marquee. On the raised stage between him and Summer Easton’s tent, a large man dressed as Father Christmas was throwing enormous quoits over volunteers from the audience. Music blared. The onlookers clapped.

To the casual observer his eyes were on the show, but his mind was on tomorrow.

As usual he had left nothing to chance. The train from Victoria to Brighton had taken exactly fifty-two minutes,
the cab ride and walk to his destination a further eighteen. He would arrive at the fair at 9.30 p.m., three and a half hours before Summer Easton was due to die, which would give him time to locate his target, identify any additional weekend security and establish his exit strategy.

And at 1 a.m., as every police officer in the south east of England was looking for him in London, he would be here in Brighton, imposing punishment on his latest victim, and be far away before anyone discovered her twitching remains.

But then Summer Easton did something unexpected.

She emerged from her tent and spent a moment talking to the remaining queue of punters before politely turning them away. Then she rotated the sign above her tent to display a ‘Closed’ message and disappeared into the caravan behind. A light came on, and her shadow began moving back and forth behind the thin curtains.

Ten minutes later, Summer Easton left the caravan wearing a winter coat and carrying a holdall.

He started forwards in surprise before berating himself for reacting so blatantly. But everyone around him was captivated by the show in front of them, and no one had noticed a thing. He skirted the crowd, keeping his target in view.

Easton stopped briefly to converse with another stallholder, but then she headed for the main exit. She joined the stream of people leaving the venue, looking up every few steps at the snow falling more heavily now, as she began crossing the open area in the direction of the city.

Intrigued and, ensuring that he wouldn’t be seen, Nemesis followed.

People of London

The Metropolitan Police are not being fair to you. There are things they do not want you to know.

 

You will all be aware of the deaths of Glenis Ward, Tess Underwood and Jessica Anderton. But you do not know why they died.

 

Their deaths were demonstrations of virtuous justice in a morally neglectful society. How many more follow them will be up to you.

 

Those who live with integrity have nothing to fear from me, but those who shun the ethical code inherent in their souls deserve to die as examples to the rest of humanity.

 

I am not a coward. The righteous among you will understand why I cannot show my face until I am satisfied that my message has been heard, understood and acted upon. Therefore, a new demonstration begins. This Sunday, one more of you will die.

 

Until then, I am the person opposite you on the tube, I am the man walking his dog in the park. Remember me every time you make eye contact in the street.

 

I am everywhere.

 

Nemesis

 

The
thunk, click
from outside the door barely registered as Hawkins sat motionless in front of the projector screen,
where the second message was displayed to full, intimidating effect. Only when she picked up the aroma of vending-machine coffee did she open her eyes.

She had known both of Nemesis’ messages word for word since the night before.

‘Extra sugar.’ Mike put down the plastic cup. ‘How’s the headache?’

‘World-class, thanks.’

‘Shame the coffee’s not.’ Mike took a sip from his cup as he sat down. ‘Could use a decent caffeine hit myself.’

Hawkins stopped massaging her neck and looked at him. She hadn’t noticed until now, but he looked exhausted. She reminded herself she wasn’t the only one under pressure; Kirby-Jones had maltreated everyone’s eardrums first thing that morning.

The media, who had just started to report other news again, had found fresh enthusiasm for the Advent Killer when the
Mail
’s big news broke. Despite the weather, the crowds of reporters were back, bigger than ever outside Scotland Yard, and now even here outside Becke House.

Snow showers had started overnight and continued through the day. Normally, the media would be going mad at the prospect of a white Christmas, but for now there was only one story.

The public had taken Nemesis’ messages seriously, too. Calls were flooding in to the switchboard, mainly through 999. The fact it was so close to Christmas meant that most people not out sledging were at home, televisions on: the perfect conditions in which to cultivate paranoia.

So far, 745 women had seen a man acting suspiciously in their neighbourhood, 268 thought they’d been followed
home, and one thought her new son-in-law’s dexterity with the hedge trimmer was definite cause for concern.

Panic wasn’t the word.

At least Danny Burns had agreed to pass on any further communications from the killer, despite his cringe-worthy attempt to secure exclusive rights to pictures of the next murder scene in return. He’d backed off when Hawkins had threatened to lock him up on extortion charges. Still, she wasn’t naïve enough to think he wouldn’t reappear as soon as another one was killed. Only
if
, she remembered to hope,
if
another one was killed.

Danny had been right, however, about the traceability of the emails themselves. Hawkins had received a crash-course. After they had contacted its operator, the email account had indeed proved to be unregistered. More surprising was the fact that the technology team had been unable to locate the source. Nemesis’ emails lacked the usual identification, meaning the killer was either in possession of some advanced encryption software, or he was using a dial-up modem.

None of the terminology meant very much to Hawkins, but even
she
could translate the results into just another bunch of dead ends.

The DCS wanted Nemesis caught before he killed any more members of the public. Fair enough, but today was Saturday –
Christmas Eve
, she realized grimly – which gave Hawkins and her team less than twenty-four hours to work out how to stop the Advent Killer before he revealed his next present to the nation’s headline writers.

Hence their crisis strategy meeting.

Hawkins had gathered her core officers to discuss the situation, away from the diluted confusion of a full investigation team briefing.

Hunter had joined them briefly to add his insight to their analysis. After reading both messages, he had snapped shut his notebook and proclaimed that Nemesis was what profilers referred to as a ‘mission killer’.

According to Hunter, an individual was able to commit a string of brutal murders, completely free from the constraints of conscience, if he believed himself justified in doing so.

The emails implied that Nemesis was attempting to instruct others, through acts of brutality, and that his beliefs should be esteemed and replicated throughout society. The length of his mission would depend on the results he perceived. Resistance would almost certainly lead to further attacks, whereas hypothetical compliance might prompt Nemesis to simply stop, or hand himself in.

At least Hunter seemed to appreciate the latter was not a realistic prospect.

The profiler had repeated his suggestion that they attempt to engage Nemesis in further communication, via the media if necessary, in a method similar to those used by negotiators in hostage situations. Once open, that channel could then be used to feed Nemesis information, possibly even to suggest that his crusade had succeeded.

What this plan didn’t take into account was that the next murder was imminent – Hawkins had reminded him that things like building Rome, and playing disinformation ping-pong with serial killers exclusively through the media, weren’t twenty-four hour operations.

She had also speculated that, if the killer was making some Advent-related statement – as the newspapers continued to claim – that night’s probable attack might be his last. At least for this year. And if that was the case, they had only one more opportunity to stop him.

As for how Nemesis was choosing his targets, Hunter surmised that the killer’s self-proclaimed war on immorality meant he would be selecting victims he saw as having somehow abandoned their inherent ethical obligations; although in a mind as twisted as this, a lack of probity might be demonstrated by something as simple as not apologizing for crossing his path in the street. None of which, Hunter admitted, would help them identify forthcoming targets.

For a prediction on where Nemesis might strike next, they might as well have rung 118 118.

Hawkins had called a coffee break fifteen minutes ago, but only because after three hours of discussion, tempers were beginning to fray. Nobody could quite understand how, after two weeks, three murder scenes and a couple of direct communications from the killer, they were no nearer to an arrest. Plausible courses of action remained in short supply.

She stood and peered out through the blinds, past the exhausted-looking piece of faded red tinsel, strung untidily across the window. In the main office beyond the glass, her team had scattered. Connor and Barclay obviously hadn’t anything left to say about the Nemesis case: the young TDC was displaying typical curiosity in Connor’s Glock 17 handgun; the firearms officer exercising due restraint, despite his friend’s persistence, by
keeping the weapon holstered. At a separate station, Todd was motionless, oblivious to the fact that he sat alone beneath a sprig of mistletoe somebody had hung from the ceiling, while just outside the door, Yasir sat reading the extensive notes she had taken throughout the meeting.

At another desk, Brian Norton finished a telephone call. The call-centre manager was based at Scotland Yard, but had taken time out from his considerable workload to join them at Becke House. He looked every one of his forty-three years, had an appetite for cake, an aversion to exercise, and a waistline to prove both. With unkempt brown hair and a tendency to wear the same shirt three days running, he was perfectly suited to the secluded world of the incident room.

As she watched, Brian heaved himself out of his chair and waddled over to stick his head round the door. ‘Sorry, Antonia, that was Barry. He’s just about holding the fort down at the Yard, what with all these calls coming in, but he says it’s getting stupid now. I’ll head back if that’s OK.’

‘No problem, Brian,’ she replied. ‘I’ll update you later. Good luck.’

Norton puffed out his cheeks and closed the door on his way out.

Hawkins watched him lumbering towards the lifts before she turned to Mike with a look of resignation.

Maguire drained his cup. ‘Want me to call the others back in?’

‘I suppose.’

He moved to the door and leaned out. ‘Round two, guys.’

The team stood and filed back into the room. Yasir was first, closely followed by Todd. Yasir smiled; Todd scowled into space. Hawkins watched them retake adjacent seats, confounded as ever by their surprisingly effective partnership: the weathered, middle-aged Geordie and the exotic eastern princess. They were followed by Barclay and Connor, the sergeant carrying an open festive tin of chocolates. They took seats opposite Todd and Yasir.

Hawkins waited while Connor passed the Cadbury’s Heroes round, and let everyone settle before she spoke.

‘OK, I don’t want to end up going round in the same circles as before, but has anyone come up with anything fresh on how to handle tonight?’

Blank faces.

‘Right then.’ She glanced at Mike. ‘We’ll go with Plan A: use the public as radar, monitor hotline calls as they come in to Brian’s team, and attend as many potential sightings as possible using rapid response teams. The teams will be made up of everyone on duty plus the extras we’ve got on overtime, supported by firearms officers from SCO19. You four’ – she looked at Todd and Yasir; Connor and Barclay – ‘will join response teams out in the field to bolster numbers while Mike and I will be at Scotland Yard, taking skeleton transcripts straight from the incident room and coordinating the teams via radio. If we can keep up we might just get lucky. Any questions?’

Todd was straight in. ‘We’ll have to get mighty fortunate to pick out the right call. There’ll be thousands of the fuckers ringing up, mostly to bleat about nothing.’

Hawkins ignored his language. ‘Yes, Frank, I imagine there will. But that’s to our advantage: the more the better.
If we prioritize successfully, the genuine possibilities should emphasize themselves.’

‘“Emphasize themselves”?’ Todd repeated. ‘Sounds like management speak for pissing in the wind.’ He laughed, probably to temper the severity of his disrespect.

Hawkins was glad when nobody joined in.

Yasir came to her aid. ‘Hunter thinks the chief’s idea is good, and so do I. If we have two hundred officers divided into teams of three, those sixty-six teams should be able to attend two hundred and sixty calls an hour, assuming an average of fifteen minutes per call. Over the peak couple of hours around midnight, if we respond to the statistically strongest alerts, that’s over five hundred opportunities to stop Nemesis.’

‘OK, Amala,’ Barclay joined in. ‘But what if reaction time is thirty minutes and there are twenty thousand calls? Don’t tell your abacus, but then our response ratio is less than two per cent.’

Connor dug him in the ribs. ‘Yeah? Well, I buy a lottery ticket every week, and I won a tenner on Wednesday. I say go with the chief’s plan.’

Mike backed him up. ‘Five hundred chances are better than nada, right?’

There was a long moment of silence.

‘Good.’ Hawkins stood. ‘Democracy wins. Everyone go home and get some rest, but make sure you’re at Scotland Yard for the briefing at nine tonight. I know it’s Christmas Eve, but we’re here to save lives, so that’s the nature of your job.’ She crossed her arms to signal the matter closed, but her conscience refused to let her end on such a tough statement.

‘Come on,’ she glanced around at her team, ‘let’s get this guy. And if you miss Christmas dinner, I’ll cook one for you.’

There were a few thoughtful nods before Eddie and Amala stood, although the others remained seated. Frank was doing his heavy breathing, which meant he really wanted to continue the argument, but was also aware the decision had been made. John seemed lost in thought.

‘Smile, boys.’ Connor threw a Hero at Barclay, making him jump. ‘You’re on double time. Go home and jerk off, it’s gonna be a long night.’

John grinned and unwrapped his chocolate.

At last they rose, and no further words were exchanged as everyone except Maguire and Hawkins drifted out. She was also glad to see John and Frank, as opponents of her plan, head in separate directions.

She was left staring at the four melamine-topped tables in the centre of the room. On two were copies of the
Daily Mail
, each with its front-page bearing the headline,
ADVENT KILLER: ‘MORE OF YOU WILL DIE’
.

The
Mail
already had a styled logo for anything related to the story: it might as well have been dripping with blood like some seventies horror film poster. She pushed the nearest paper away, looking across to where Mike had logged on to the media point in the corner.

‘That went well.’

‘Yeah.’ He turned. ‘Least Frank still has the hots for you. Really pulling your pigtails today.’

‘Behave.’ She unwrapped a Malteser, scowling at him. ‘Put your Yankee verve into work for a change, and tell me if you’ve cracked the chat room thing.’