Hawkins positioned the telephone receiver a few inches above its base and dropped it as sarcastically as she could manage. As if in retort, the handset clipped the edge of the unit and clattered away across the desktop. She retrieved it and banged it back on the hook.
The latest update from Yasir’s team wasn’t good.
She stared into space, resisting the notion that randomly pursuing every spiritualist in the capital – with fingers crossed that one of them might happen to be the killer’s next target – was pretty futile. Their opening line might as well be, ‘Hi, I’m from the Met. We’re missing a particularly nasty murderer. Carries a Taser, responds to the name Nemesis. Have you seen him?’
Even Faith Easton, despite her online contacts in the clairvoyant community, hadn’t come up with anything useful. Okay, so she might not have been ‘gifted’ like her daughter, and shock would undoubtedly be playing a part, but all the hours she spent on psychic chat rooms should at least have provided a
few
leads.
No such luck.
But the spiritualist angle was still the best anyone had come up with to link the victims so far. And at least it meant they were doing
something
.
Hawkins sighed and reached for her mobile, deciding
that now was as good a time as any to ring Paul about collecting his stuff. Whatever happened in the Nemesis case, things at work weren’t going to calm down in the next few days. So she might as well get it over with. Mid-second ring, however, she ended the call, because Mike had walked in.
She couldn’t help herself: ‘Where the hell have you been?’
‘Busting my ass, actually.’
She relented. ‘Sorry, ignore me. How was your morning?’
‘Real productive.’ He seemed to relax. ‘Found something big. Call it a late Christmas present.’
He reached into his coat and produced a worn-looking videocassette.
Hawkins eyed him, remembering Mike’s passion for photography, ‘I hope this isn’t some sort of confession.’
Hawkins massaged closed eyelids, trying to relieve the strain of staring from close range at a television screen. So far, she and Mike had watched the tape he delivered an hour ago five times. Unfortunately, during the last three viewings, she had noticed nothing new.
She rewound to the right place again, swearing at the dilapidated technology when it ejected the tape as soon as she pressed the stop button. She grabbed the warm cassette from its slot and banged the wood-effect side panel of the television.
‘Stupid thing.’
The clunky old set rocked. Its fuzzy, low-resolution picture and wheeled trolley reminded Hawkins of science
lessons at school, but this junk was the only apparatus capable of playing their aged bounty.
And without it, they wouldn’t be watching footage of Nemesis.
It was probably an idea to let the whole system cool down.
They’d borrowed the video set-up from the sympathetically entitled Media Suite, which was actually a converted storage cupboard on the floor below. You weren’t supposed to remove equipment from the area, even stuff as arthritic as this, but Hawkins ranked highly enough to ignore that particular rule.
Even the cleaners avoided spending time in the Media Suite, which these days smelled permanently of takeaways and sweat. You could never be sure who had used the desk in there last or, more sordidly, for what. Affairs between colleagues were common, and window blinds and an internal twist lock made this room popular.
Hawkins pushed back her chair and walked over to the window, gripping the cassette, reminding herself to be thankful they had it at all.
It was the best news she’d had in weeks.
The tape came from a lady called Doris Hicks, who had recently converted her house into two flats. And then sold the lower half to Summer Easton.
Ms Hicks had been visiting friends in Corfu until the previous evening, when she’d returned home to find her property garnished with crime-scene tape. She’d immediately called the number provided for enquiries, and ended up talking to Mike; at which point she had mentioned the motion-triggered security camera above her old front door.
Images from the camera were recorded on a three-hour tape by a VCR in what was now the upstairs flat, where she lived. Her call had come just in time: the system ran on a loop and, once full, the tape simply rewound and started again. And because nobody had noticed the camera hidden behind ivy above the door, the flurry of police activity over the past two days had given the system plenty to record. The critical footage was almost the oldest thing on the tape: if Ms Hicks had called any later, they’d have found nothing but images of forensics officers wandering in and out.
Hawkins was still watching raindrops edge down the window when Mike interrupted her thoughts.
‘You gonna play that thing, or marry it?’
Hawkins realized she was clutching the tape to her chest. She lowered it, noticing that the plastic had cooled.
She returned to the VCR, hoping it would survive at least one more viewing. A digital copy had already been made by Anton Harris, who also happened to be a skilled video editor. Harris thought he could clean up the pictures, but that was going to take a while, so in the meantime they were making good use of the original.
What concerned Hawkins was that he couldn’t retrieve what hadn’t been there in the first place. It was hardly Sky HD.
She pushed the tape into the slot, waiting as the machine groaned and gulped it down. She winced at the appliance’s various mechanical protestations, hoping the noises weren’t being made by the tape permanently tethering itself to the electronic stalagmites within.
At last it settled, and she pressed play.
The display illuminated blue for a second before a grainy image appeared, difficult to make out while the tracking adjusted itself.
The end of the previous recording appeared; an overture to Summer Easton’s final hours as she returned home for the last time. It was already late evening in the clip, and Summer’s vibrant hair contrasted with the dark pavement below.
A moment later she passed out of shot and entered the house, followed by a ten-second still of the front step, as the system made sure that whoever had set off the sensor had gone, and wasn’t just standing still.
The image flickered, and interference lines ran up the screen as the scene changed.
A pair of feet entered from above.
They both leaned closer and Hawkins raised a hand to shadow the screen, determined to capture every detail the poorly defined image had to offer.
The figure moved fully into frame. Once again she recognised the overalls, rucksack and baseball cap that obscured most of the killer’s face, inscribing every visible element on her memory, noting again that the shape she’d later seen around his head was indeed created by shoulder-length hair protruding from under his hat.
But the shaky monotone picture made it impossible to determine his features, and the high camera angle meant it was difficult to determine height or even build.
The killer produced a bunch of flowers and a clipboard from his bag. Then he shouldered the backpack and reached for the buzzer.
They heard the electrical chime that had brought
Summer Easton to the door, and watched as Nemesis waited.
Hawkins felt her stomach turn over, as it had every other time she’d seen the tape. Watching the killer’s controlled behaviour from the safety of her office emphasized just how dangerous this man was; something she hadn’t had time to consider when they were only metres apart on Christmas morning.
On screen, a shaft of light fell across the pavement, indicating that the door had been opened on the chain. Then the killer spoke.
‘Twenty-four-hour flowers, love.’ The sound was scratchy and distorted, but the accent seemed local. He raised the clipboard as if to check it. ‘From your old lady.’
Nemesis turned to look up and down the street as the shaft of light vanished momentarily, before reappearing when the door was opened fully.
Hawkins swallowed as Summer’s shadow fell across the scene.
‘Just need a signature, darling. Mind if I step into the light?’
The shadow in the doorway slid aside, and Nemesis moved out of shot. The door closed, leaving the scene empty again. Ten seconds later the image flickered, instantly skipping the time gap between that clip and the next. Hawkins watched herself and Mike enter from the top of the screen.
She pressed stop, retrieving the cassette when the machine finally spat it out.
‘The guy’s smart,’ Mike said. ‘Gotta give him that. If he
dresses up like that every time, even if the victims know him, they’re not gonna recognize him till it’s too damn late.’
Hawkins nodded.
‘Let’s run this through,’ Mike went on. ‘It doesn’t matter if he follows her home or if he already knows where she lives. He waits till after midnight, then knocks on the door and pretends to be delivering flowers from her mom, right?’
Hawkins took over: ‘She’s taken in by the gesture and doesn’t feel threatened by the delivery guy because of the twenty-four-hour flowers stuff, so she lets him in.’
‘Then she gets Tasered and …’ Mike shook his head. ‘We’ve seen the rest.’
‘And because she lets him in, any neighbours who see aren’t suspicious enough to raise the alarm.’
‘Right. The overalls pass for a uniform, but it’s really an anti-contamination suit – same as we got, just blue instead of white. I know it ain’t clear in the video, but I
guarantee
he got black overshoes and clear plastic gloves on already. All available to Joe Public, right off the shelf.’
Hawkins asked Mike to prime the investigation team. She wanted them to look into where the flowers used by the killer might have come from. If they were real, they must have been sourced in the last couple of days. Perhaps from a local florist. If they were fake, perhaps they were of a recognizable make.
While Mike was gone, Hawkins rang the press office and told them to contact
Crimewatch
. Their timing was fortunate. The team said they could get the tape broadcast on the upcoming show.
Mike returned while she was making her second call, to check on Harris’ progress with the recording.
She hung up, turning to see Mike replacing one of the pictures on the shelf behind her desk. It showed the two of them at the Met’s Christmas party last year, towards the end of their affair.
‘I forgot about this picture,’ Mike said, ‘Why wasn’t it here the other day?’
‘It was. The first digitally enhanced copies of the tape will be ready in an hour, and the recording will be shown on tomorrow night’s
Crimewatch
.’
‘Great. So why’s this frame not coated in dust like all the others?’
‘OK, Poirot, I came across it in a drawer yesterday. Anton says they’re doing well on cleaning up the sound and the picture. We can help Yasir and Todd take it round to all the victims’ friends and relatives later.’
‘Cool. Where’s that snap I took when you made DI?’
‘It’s there somewhere,’ she replied, hoping that Mike wouldn’t remember the picture of Paul she’d removed to make space for the dustless frame.
Hawkins walked over and prised apart the dusty blinds on the internal windows of the room, peering out into the operations room beyond. Barclay still hadn’t reappeared since his dramatic exit first thing, but Amala Yasir sat at her desk with the phone pressed to her ear. Her hunched pose suggested she was conscious of being overheard by Frank Todd, the room’s only other occupant.
She was probably apologizing yet again to her boyfriend about her negligible chances of being home at a humane hour. Hawkins had asked her and Todd to play
the tape to every officer involved with the case, as soon as copies were available.
It was good that the footage would appear on
Crimewatch
tomorrow night, but the thirty-odd hours before that was also a head start for them over Nemesis, who wouldn’t know they had it until then.
Seconds later, Yasir replaced the handset, before she and Todd gathered their respective belongings and left, probably to get some food.
She turned back to Mike, suddenly feeling light headed. ‘Have you had lunch?’
‘No.’ Concern entered his voice as she steadied herself on the desk. ‘When did you last eat?’
‘I’m fine,’ she said, not even sure she had convinced herself. ‘I just need to get out of here. You know, forget the mess I’m—that we’re in with this case.’
‘Hey.’ Mike rubbed her shoulder. ‘Just keep doing your thing. We’ll get this guy, I swear.’
Hawkins picked at a splinter on the edge of her desk, nodding as enthusiastically as she could.
‘Come here, girl.’ Mike put his arms around her. ‘Don’t lose it on me now.’
She lowered her head to his chest and closed her eyes, brought her hands together behind Mike’s back and breathed deeply, inhaling his aftershave.
Hawkins was barely aware of the light knocking sound, and was still in Mike’s arms when she heard the door open. She pulled away, looking up to see Barclay in the doorway with a shocked expression on his face. His jaw hung open, but only his eyelids moved, flickering as if locked in complex calculation as he stared at them.
‘John––’ Hawkins began.
Barclay said nothing, but his stare broke away. Then he was gone, banging the door closed behind him.
Mike watched him go and then turned to look at her. ‘What the hell just happened?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Come on, this ain’t a big thing. You find your boss hugging a colleague, you apologize, right?’
Hawkins was about to respond when it hit her. She looked down at her desk, silent as the answer arranged itself in her mind. Suddenly, it seemed amazing she hadn’t realized before.
‘Oh, bloody hell.’ She slumped into her chair.
‘Hello?’ Mike stepped closer. ‘Bloody hell
what?
’
Hawkins sighed, unable to think of a convincing reason not to tell him the truth. ‘I thought he was just upset about Eddie, but maybe he suspected …’ She trailed off, realizing she needed to start at the beginning. ‘Look, John … asked me out when I was lecturing here last year. Obviously I refused.’