The Jackdaw (47 page)

‘Inspector Corrigan.’ He thought he heard a distant voice. ‘Inspector Corrigan,’ the voice repeated until he realized it was the young receptionist calling his name. He half turned towards her, still in a semi-daydream.

‘Yes,’ he answered.

‘Mrs Coppolaro will see you now,’ she told him. ‘Take lift number five to the twenty-fifth. Mrs Coppolaro will meet you there.’ He followed her eyes to the lifts lined up next to each other like silver boxes.

‘Thank you,’ he replied. As soon as he pressed the call button, the doors to lift number five slid open with an electronic
whoosh
and invited him to step into the emptiness. He paused – the quietness of the huge building feeling somehow wrong and unnerving. He could sense the receptionists looking at him and glanced back from the corner of his eye before stepping inside the lift and pressing the button for the twenty-fifth floor. The doors closed with the same sound while the arrow on the display panel told him he was ascending, although the lift moved so smoothly he had no sensation of climbing at all. After only few seconds the arrow stopped flashing and the doors once more slid open. For a second he thought he’d been tricked and was about to step back out into the atrium, to the amusement of the waiting receptionist. He thought of the lifts back at the Yard, jolting and juddering at every stop – when and if they worked at all. But when he stepped out he was indeed on a new level of the building, facing another reception, only this one was unmanned and the office beyond apparently empty. He looked around for signs of life, but could find none in the dark corridors that seemed to run in every direction.

He circled the reception self-consciously, beginning to seriously wonder whether he’d got off on the wrong level, before a distant light flickered on along one of the corridors, illuminating the figure of a slim woman. More and more lights blinked on as she walked towards him, activated by her mere presence. She walked into the reception area as if on rails, stopping directly in front of him, a smile appearing on her face as if she’d had to download it from her memory banks.

‘Inspector Corrigan, I presume.’ She held her slender arm out like an android.

Sean accepted her hand and tried to read her blue eyes. They sparkled with intelligence, the magnification of her glasses making them look childlike in her stern, but attractive face. He guessed she was in her forties, though she could have been older, preserved by all the advantages that money could buy.

‘And you must be Amanda Coppolaro.’ Sean tried to appear as friendly as he knew how. ‘Thanks for seeing me at such short notice.’

‘It’s a pleasure,’ she told him without a hint of irony, before clearing her throat. ‘If I could just see your identification,’ she asked a little awkwardly.

‘Of course,’ Sean answered and fumbled for his warrant card, eventually retrieving it and holding it out in front of him.

She bent forward a little, squinting her eyes to better see before straightening, her business-like smile returning. ‘Thank you,’ she told him. ‘Can’t be too careful. We hold a lot of valuable, not to mention sensitive, material in this building, hence the reason I wasn’t prepared to discuss the matter over the telephone.’

‘I understand,’ Sean assured her, hiding his frustration at being forced to drive to the City, although he’d been glad of the time to think in solitude.

‘If you’d like to follow me,’ she said and spun on her heels, heading back along the corridor she’d come from with Sean in close pursuit. ‘I took the liberty of pulling the file for the person you mentioned from our human resources department.’

‘Jeremy Goldsboro?’ Sean checked. ‘And?’

‘Well, he hasn’t worked here for quite some time,’ she informed him. ‘I don’t know him myself, as I’ve only worked here for the last two years, although I was aware of his existence. He was, after all, a very senior figure.’

‘What was his position?’ Sean checked.

‘He was a vice president here,’ she answered over her shoulder as they kept walking.

‘I remember him telling me now,’ Sean lied. ‘Sounds like a very prestigious position to hold – why give it up so young?’

‘Who knows,’ Coppolaro answered. ‘Maybe he’d just had enough. He certainly would have been comfortable enough, financially anyway.’

‘He is,’ Sean confirmed.

‘Anything else I can help you with?’ she asked as they entered a large office surrounded by windows that gave an incredible view of the City below.

‘Yeah,’ Sean continued. ‘Did a man called Paul Elkins ever work here – round about the same time as Jeremy Goldsboro?’

Coppolaro suddenly looked at the floor. ‘Poor Paul,’ she told him, shaking her head. ‘What that awful man on Your View did to him is quite beyond belief.’

‘Then you knew him?’ Sean jumped in as his heart missed a skip. He was getting closer, he could feel it – feel him –
The Jackdaw.

‘Only a little,’ she admitted. ‘He was here when I first arrived, before he moved on.’

‘But he was here at the same time as Jeremy Goldsboro?’ Sean pushed, desperate to try to bring order to the jumble of puzzle pieces swimming around inside his mind.

‘No,’ she explained, the tone of her voice telling Sean she was about to reveal something she almost assumed he already knew. ‘Paul was Goldsboro’s replacement. When Goldsboro left, Paul was brought in from outside as the new vice president. They did the same job, just at different times.’

Sean actually felt lightheaded and a little dizzy at what he was being told. He waited for his head to clear before speaking again. ‘It’s this company,’ he spoke out loud. ‘This man’s fight is with your company. Whatever happened to him, happened because of something this company did.’

‘Are you sure?’ Coppolaro asked, unconvinced.

‘Didn’t you think that was a coincidence – two men who did the same job at this company both become victims of the same man?’

‘But neither have worked here for years, Inspector,’ she explained. ‘Jeremy Goldsboro not for almost six, and they weren’t here at the same time. Clearly if the other victims had worked here also then I and others would have become suspicious of a link between this madman and the company.’

‘And did they?’ Sean asked urgently. ‘Did the others work here?’

‘No,’ she dismissed the suggestion. ‘I’d know if they did.’

‘Not now,’ Sean explained. ‘In the past.’

Coppolaro sighed before answering. ‘I’d have to check.’

‘If you could,’ Sean encouraged her.

‘Very well,’ she agreed and strode to the huge glass table that dominated the room – a neat, silver, slim laptop one of the very few things on its surface. ‘What are their names?’ she asked.

‘Georgina Vaughan and David Barrowgate,’ Sean told her.

She leaned over the computer and typed rapid-fire instructions before straightening and resting her chin between her index finger and thumb as she waited for a response. ‘No,’ she eventually told him. ‘They were never employed here.’

Sean felt the excitement leave his body. For a moment he’d allowed himself to believe they might have missed something as obvious as all the victims having at some point in time worked for the same firm, but his hopes had been quickly dashed.
Think
, he demanded of himself.
Think.

‘Both Elkins and Goldsboro had been threatened by the same man,’ he began. ‘Someone who blamed King and Melbourn for losing his business, home, family.’

‘Because of the banking crisis,’ Coppolaro pre-empted him. ‘There was a lot of that at the time – people blaming us for their own failings.’

‘City of London Police told us they were threatened by a man called Jason Howard,’ Sean explained, ‘but what we didn’t check was whether he too worked here.’

‘As a banker,’ Coppolaro sounded incredulous. ‘I really don’t think so.’

‘Not as a banker,’ Sean told her, ‘but maybe as a cleaner, security, something else.’

Coppolaro sighed again before turning back to the laptop. ‘What did you say his name was?’

‘Jason Howard,’ he repeated and watched her type in the name as the uncomfortable excitement returned to his stomach.

‘Sorry, no,’ she quickly told him, shaking her head. ‘No one by that name on record.’

‘Damn it,’ Sean said quietly as another door appeared to slam shut. ‘Then it must be something else. Something I’m just not seeing.’ Coppolaro didn’t answer as Sean walked away and leaned against the window looking out over the City of London. ‘You’re missing something,’ he whispered to himself. ‘Something right here.’ He was silent for a few seconds before he spoke his thoughts again. ‘Two men have the same job in the same firm, only at different times. One ends up dead, the other disfigured, but the other two victims have no apparent connection to them. The men from here were both vice presidents – the other two were relatively junior, so … so why were they taken? What’s their connection to these other men?’

‘Whatever the connection is, it’s not King and Melbourn,’ Coppolaro insisted.

‘Then maybe it’s nothing.’ Sean spoke out loud rather than to her. ‘Whatever his motivation is, it’s something to do with this company, but he doesn’t want us to know that, because there’s also something that connects him to King and Melbourn.’

‘Such as?’ Coppolaro asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Sean admitted, shaking his head, ‘but he needed to keep me off his scent. He took Vaughan and Barrowgate precisely because they’re not connected to King and Melbourn, to try and make me believe this is all random, but it’s not, it’s personal – personal against the top people in this firm.’ Sean reflected on his own words for a moment.
The top people. The top people.
‘You said that both Goldsboro and Elkins were vice presidents here?’

‘Correct,’ Coppolaro agreed.

‘Then who was the top-dog, when Goldsboro was still here – just before he left?’

‘That would have been Francis Waldegrave,’ she told him, ‘but he left a couple of years ago to join Dean, Pembridge and Villiers.’

Sean paced around the room trying to align his thoughts, trying to imagine The Jackdaw sitting alone in the white room formulating his plans – considering his next move.

‘Why take out the two people who were second in command and leave the top man untouched? If the others needed to be punished for something they did to you, then doesn’t he?’ One last trial, The Jackdaw had warned them. There would be one last trial before he took his own life. ‘Waldegrave,’ Sean whispered to himself, the revelation so obvious now he had the answer. Who cared if finally the connection was there to be seen? The men he was burning to have his revenge on would have been punished and The Jackdaw would be dead. ‘I need Francis Waldegrave’s home address.’ he snapped at Coppolaro.

‘Is he in danger?’ she asked.

‘Maybe,’ Sean told her. ‘I don’t have time to explain, but I do need his address.’

She raised her eyebrows and sighed. ‘Very well,’ she agreed and once again danced her fingers over the laptop’s keyboard. ‘Here it is – 127 Cadogan Square, Brompton. But I can’t guarantee it’s current.’

‘And his telephone numbers,’ Sean pushed. ‘Home and mobile.’

‘Here,’ she told him and pointed at the screen, ‘although again, I can’t be sure they’re still current.’

Sean moved close enough to see the numbers and as quickly as he could dialled the mobile number on his own phone and waited for an answer, not quite sure what he’d say when it came, but after a few rings he heard it go to voicemail.

‘Shit,’ he cursed, hanging up.

‘No good?’ Coppolaro asked.

‘Voicemail,’ Sean replied. ‘But at least we know we’ve got the right number.’

‘You didn’t leave a message?’ Coppolaro questioned him.

‘And say what?’ Sean queried as he tried Waldegrave’s home number, the endless ringing tone stretching his patience to breaking point, until a foreign-sounding female voice answered tentatively.

‘Hello.’

‘I need to speak with Francis Waldegrave,’ Sean demanded.

‘He’s not in right now,’ the voice told him. ‘Can I take a message?’

‘I really need to speak to him,’ Sean insisted.

‘Have you tried his mobile?’

‘Yes,’ Sean told them, ‘but he’s not answering. Is there anyone there who can get a message to him?’

‘Only on his mobile,’ said the voice, ‘or you could try his golf club.’

‘His golf club?’ Sean seized on it.

‘Yes, sir,’ the woman confirmed. ‘He said he was going to play golf today, just before he left.’

‘When did he leave?’ Sean asked, speaking as fast as he could without becoming incoherent.

‘Just a few minutes ago,’ the voice answered.

‘Damn it,’ Sean cursed into the phone.

‘Sir?’

‘Where’s his golf club?’ he asked. ‘Where does he play?’

‘Hampstead,’ she told him. ‘He always plays at Hampstead Golf Club.’

Sean thought for a few seconds, but could think of nothing else the woman could help him with. ‘Thank you,’ he told her. ‘If he gets in touch I need you to get him to call me on this number. Tell him I’m Detective Inspector Corrigan and I urgently need to speak to him. Do you have a pen ready?’

‘One second,’ the woman told him. ‘OK. I’m ready for the number now.’ Sean gave her his mobile number and hung up.

‘No luck?’ Coppolaro asked.

‘Gone to play golf,’ Sean explained, the picture of a golf course flashing in his mind – trees and open land – just how The Jackdaw liked it. He tried to slow his racing mind and organize his thoughts. He turned to Coppolaro. ‘Is there anything you can remember that all three men – Waldegrave, Goldsboro and Elkins – could have been involved with that might have particularly upset someone inside the company or connected to it? Something they maybe tried to keep quiet? Something they tried to keep between themselves?’

‘Elkins and Goldsboro weren’t here at the same time,’ she reminded him.

‘Sure, but there could have been a crossover period when they were. They were troubled times.’

‘Well, if there was it all happened long before I was there,’ she pointed out. ‘You’d be better off speaking to someone who would have been here then.’

‘Such as?’ Sean hurried her.

‘Perhaps my predecessor,’ she suggested. ‘The previous HR director.’