Authors: Luke Delaney
‘So what’s this all about, Geoff?’ DCI Ryan Ramsay asked him straight in his London accent. ‘Why have you dragged me into the West End on a weekend?’
‘Just thought we could have a quiet little chat,’ Jackson told Ramsay.
‘Oh yeah?’ Ramsay replied suspiciously, running his hands through his short, thick salt-and-pepper hair before readjusting his wire-frame spectacles. ‘What about – exactly?’
‘No need to be defensive,’ Jackson explained. ‘We’ve worked together before. You know me. You know you can trust me.’
‘I was working on cases you were interested in,’ Ramsay reminded him, ‘and I needed the media exposure to help solve them. A mutually beneficial partnership, all sanctioned by the Press Bureau. But as far as I’m aware I’m not working on anything right now you’d be interested in. So why am I here, Geoff?’
Jackson took a deep breath. ‘DI Sean Corrigan,’ he simply stated. Apparently the name alone was enough to make Ramsay sink deep into his chair.
‘You want to ask me about a fellow cop? A detective?’
‘He interests me,’ Jackson admitted. ‘He’s different.’
‘I couldn’t give a fat man’s arse how different he is,’ Ramsay told him. ‘I don’t talk about other cops.’
‘Come on,’ Jackson smiled as he encouraged him. ‘Corrigan’s a story. I know he is and you do too.’
‘What makes you think I even know him?’
‘I did my research,’ Jackson explained. ‘Back in 2006 – the Mao Ma case. You were on that together, right?’
‘So?’
‘So you must have
heard
things.
Seen
things.’
‘Maybe,’ Ramsay answered cagily, ‘but like I said – I don’t talk about other Old Bill.’
Jackson leaned back to consider his next move before leaning in towards Ramsay once more. ‘How long you got left?’ he asked. ‘How long until you retire? Two, three years?’ Ramsay just shrugged. ‘Then what you gonna do – get a job as a security adviser to Tesco’s or NCP, if you’re lucky. If you’re thinking of getting a job with some bank in the City investigating frauds and picking up a few big fat bonuses, you can forget it. Those jobs are strictly for the ex-Serious Fraud Squad boys. They’re not interested in ex-Flying Squad or Murder Squad. They want the number crunchers.’
‘What’s your point?’ Ramsay demanded.
‘My point is,’ Jackson explained, ‘that you could come work with me at
The World
– straight in as the deputy crime editor. You’d still be doing proper police work – covering proper investigations – only you’d be getting paid about three times as much for doing it. I could even introduce you to my publisher – you could maybe write books about some of your old cases.’
‘If,’ Ramsay stopped him, ‘if I talk about Corrigan?’
Jackson spread his arms apart. ‘Come on. I’m not asking you to throw him under the bus, it’s just the man’s turning into the Grim Reaper: wherever he turns up, things get interesting. He’s a walking front-page story.’
‘I’ll think about it,’ Ramsay told him not too encouragingly.
‘Come on, Ryan,’ Jackson persisted. ‘This could be as good for Corrigan as it would be for you. I’m going to make him a celebrity. A celebrity cop. The public will love him. It’ll keep the brass off his arse.’
‘You’re out of touch,’ Ramsay insisted. ‘This isn’t LA. The powers that be in the Met wouldn’t stand for a celebrity cop, not unless they
are
the celebrity. As far as the brass is concerned, detectives these days have one purpose and one purpose only: to make them look good. They won’t tolerate sharing the limelight with the likes of Corrigan.’
‘We’ll see,’ Jackson answered with a grin.
‘I’m telling you,’ Ramsay reiterated, ‘you’re wasting your time.’
‘Just promise me you’ll think about my offer.’
‘Fine,’ Ramsay agreed, getting to his feet. ‘I’ll think about it. Don’t call me. I’ll call you.’ He picked up his folded newspaper and walked towards the exit.
Jackson was left alone with his thoughts, but no sooner had Ramsay headed through the door and out into the street than his mobile began to ring.
‘Shit,’ he cursed. ‘What now?’ But when he pulled the phone from his pocket he realized it wasn’t ringing. It was his
other
phone. ‘Shit,’ he cursed again as he scrambled to find it hiding somewhere in the many pockets of his coat, finally locating it and answering like a man slightly out of breath. ‘Hello.’ He waited for a reply. ‘Hello,’ he repeated impatiently.
‘You still have the phone, I see,’ the unearthly voice told him.
‘Of course,’ Jackson stammered.
‘Then you must believe you deserve another chance.’
‘No,’ Jackson tried to sound contrite. ‘I just hoped. You said you might contact me.’
‘Don’t grovel, Mr Jackson,’ the voice told him. ‘Your false platitudes aren’t what I need now. I need your attention and your skills as a journalist.’
‘For what?’
‘For the finale,’ the voice answered. ‘All good things must come to an end, as must this.’
‘What do you want me to do?’ Jackson asked.
‘Simply keep watching,’ The Jackdaw told him. ‘Just simply keep watching.’
The Jackdaw moved quickly and nimbly around the white room, ensuring everything was just how he wanted it – just how it needed to be for his penultimate broadcast. As he checked the computer equipment and the camera it was attached to, a mumbling, sobbing sound distracted him and made him look over his shoulder at the man who lay bound, gagged and hooded on the floor – his pleas nothing more than an unintelligible grumbling. His captor sighed through the electronic voice distorter hanging in front of his mouth, rendering the sound metallic and threatening. He moved away from the computer and walked slowly over to the forlorn figure on the floor, speaking as he approached.
‘Your constant babbling is distracting me,’ he accused his victim. ‘I need to concentrate.’ But the man’s groans only grew louder and more desperate as he tried to appeal to the captor he couldn’t see. ‘Be quiet,’ the hooded figure demanded, and he pulled back his leg and kicked the man in his stomach hard enough to make him curl into a ball. ‘You’re disturbing me,’ he shouted, lifting his boot above the man’s head and stamping down with a sickening thump as it hit the concrete floor, the man’s body falling limp. Electronic laughter filled the room as the figure looked down on his doomed victim. ‘The police won’t notice a few bruises to your head,’ he laughed. ‘Not once I’ve blown it off.’
He walked back to the table and the equipment laid out on it, making several small adjustments before clearing his throat and turning everything on. Within a few seconds he was watching his own image on the Your View broadcast. He stood still staring into the camera for several minutes while the number of people logging in to the broadcast grew, until he was satisfied there were enough to spread the message. It mattered not to him if people watched it live or later – just so long as he was seen and heard, almost for the last time.
‘Brothers and sisters,’ he began. ‘We have woken up the world. We have changed things forever. Never again will the rich, greedy and powerful take us for granted. Never again will they believe they can act without consequence. Never again will they live without fear. Together we have made all this possible. However, I am a hunted man, and they will find me. This much is inevitable. But I won’t let them lock me in a cage for their own amusement – won’t let them build a fabric of lies around my living body to denigrate all that we have achieved. Better to die a martyr than to live in captivity. From the very beginning I have known this must be so and have accepted it. This is what
they
could never understand: sacrifice. Sacrifice for the greater good. The needs of the many outweighing the needs of the few.
‘But the war has begun. My goals have been achieved and I am not sad. I am joyful. Soon I will leave this world satisfied and happy, knowing the legacy I have left behind and that
you
, my brothers and my sisters, will carry on this righteous struggle for our justice and equality. For now there is still time. Time for me to strike one last blow into the heart of the devil before I show them our true strength of purpose and belief. If the authorities attempt to block or interfere with my broadcasts I will kill the next person I take. Keep watching and wait for my signal. Soon it will be over.’ He stepped forward and turned the connection off. As soon as the screen went blank he disconnected the voice distorter, removed his wraparound sunglasses and pulled the ski-mask from his head, the cool air invigorating against his skin. He closed his eyes to better enjoy and remember the moment, smiling to himself as he thought of the tens of thousands of people hanging on his every word – ready to march on the City of London if he just gave the command.
The sound of the stricken man’s moaning spoilt his moment, the smile falling slowly from his face as he remembered where he was and what he must do. His eyes searched the table in front of him until he found what he was looking for – the small leather-clad cosh. He picked it up and ceremonially tapped it in the palm of his hand as he walked to the man who was beginning to struggle on the floor.
‘Almost the end now for you, my friend,’ he told the hooded figure before violently striking him over the back of his head with the cosh, the man’s body falling instantly limp, the only sound the air rushing from his lungs. ‘Or should I say … The Jackdaw?’
Sean enjoyed the silence and tranquillity of the car as he drove from the Yard to Holland Park thinking about Anna and her revelation, which although he’d long suspected, he’d hoped wasn’t true. No matter. Now it was out in the open and there to be used to his advantage. He also used the time to question his own theory – to try to see it how everyone else probably saw it. But he simply couldn’t reconcile The Jackdaw leaving the hood over Goldsboro’s head with anything other than there being a connection between the two – a personal connection. The hood hid something, something he didn’t want them to see. He reached Goldsboro’s home street and parked in a residents-only bay and tossed the vehicle logbook on the dashboard in the hope of dissuading any passing parking meter attendants from giving him a ticket.
He climbed quickly from the car and walked along the quiet, upmarket street until he found what he was looking for – the six-storey Georgian house towering above him. He looked up at the imposing building before climbing the short flight of steps to the shiny black door. Sean pressed the intercom and waited. A clear but electronic-sounding female voice answered cheerfully. ‘Hello.’
‘Hello,’ Sean tried to sound relaxed. ‘Sorry to disturb you. I’m Detective Inspector Corrigan, from the Special Investigations Unit.’
‘Who?’ the voice asked, not so cheerful now.
‘Detective Inspector Corrigan,’ Sean repeated, trying not to let his frustration tell in his voice, holding his warrant card towards the intercom, which he assumed would have a camera in it. ‘I’m investigating what happened to Mr Goldsboro. From the police,’ he added to be sure.
‘Oh. Jeremy’s not here at the moment,’ she replied. ‘Perhaps you could come back later.’
‘This can’t really wait,’ Sean insisted. ‘Maybe you could tell me where he is?’ There was a long silence. ‘It’s very important.’ There was another pause.
‘He said he was going fishing,’ she finally answered.
‘Shit,’ Sean cursed under his breath while he considered his next move. ‘Perhaps you might be able to answer some of my questions,’ he tried.
‘Very well,’ she eventually agreed. ‘You’d better come in.’ A second later he heard locks being turned and pushed aside before the door swung slowly open to reveal a tall, slim woman in her mid-forties, her short blonde hair framing her attractive face. ‘Sorry about all the security,’ she apologized. ‘Since what happened to Jeremy, well, I’ve been a bit on edge.’
‘No need to apologize,’ Sean told her, faking a smile. ‘It’s totally understandable. Mrs Goldsboro, I assume.’
‘Sorry,’ she apologized again. ‘Yes … I’m Mrs Goldsboro, but please, call me Sarah.’
‘Sarah it is,’ he replied. ‘Perhaps it’s best if I come inside?’
‘Yes,’ she answered without hesitation. ‘Sorry. Please come in.’ She opened the door fully and stepped aside, allowing him to enter. Sean quickly scanned his surroundings to get his bearings, paying little attention to the beautiful high ceilings and artwork that adorned them. He had too many questions dancing around inside his head to care about anything else but how he was going to ask them.
‘You have a beautiful house here,’ he managed to say, trying to sound like a normal person.
‘Thank you,’ Mrs Goldsboro answered. ‘We’ve thought about moving to the country, since Jeremy retired,’ she explained, ‘but we’d miss London too much, I think. Please, this way,’ she told him and headed towards the kitchen.
‘I know what you mean,’ he played along. ‘I imagine Mr Goldsboro misses work. Sometimes. Must have been a buzz, working in the City.’
‘He says not,’ she told him, ‘but I have my doubts. He locks himself away in his office for hours some days. Heaven knows what he does in there. Still playing with stocks and shares, I imagine.’
‘Still keeping his hand in?’ Sean asked as they entered the huge kitchen-cum-dining room.
‘It’s in his blood,’ she answered, ‘although lately he’s been selling a lot of our portfolio and buying up precious metals and diamonds – gold, silver, even palladium, if you please. Turned into quite the magpie. Please, take a seat.’
Sean recalled Addis’s attempt at a joke when he warned him that The Jackdaw’s crimes were affecting share prices in The City:
If you have any shares, Inspector, now would be a good time to sell them and buy yourself some gold, or silver perhaps.
‘I hear a lot of people are getting out of stocks and shares in favour of something a little more solid,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘Gold’s always been seen a safe haven in troubled times. This lunatic’s not just hurting people physically – he’s hurting them financially too.’
‘It’s the physical hurt I’m interested in,’ Sean told her. ‘Like the physical harm he did to your husband.’