The Jackdaw

‘Assistant Commissioner,’ the voice began. ‘My name is Nick Poole – I’m the CEO of Your View.’ Addis’s eyebrows arched high on his brow.

‘And what can I do for you, Mr Poole?’

‘Well, as you’re no doubt aware, in the light of our site being used by what I can only describe as a sick and evil individual, we gave a lot of consideration to temporarily closing it down.’

‘And then decided not to,’ Addis cut in, fully aware of the situation.

‘It’s just we felt it improper to be dictated to by this individual and hugely unfair to our other users, the vast majority of whom are responsible, decent people.’

‘Quite,’ Addis agreed, losing patience. ‘So why are we having this conversation?’

‘Because,’ Poole continued, ‘we’ve met with our technical people and they tell us it would be possible to close the site practically the second this lunatic appears on Your View – should he try to use it again.’

Addis sank back in his chair to consider the offer for a few seconds before leaning forward again. ‘No,’ he told Addis. ‘We’d rather see what we’re dealing with, and tracing the source of the broadcast could be our best chance of finding him quickly. No. Should there be another broadcast – let it run.’

‘I’m not sure,’ Poole complained. ‘People might start accusing us of being complicit. We’ve already had a lot of complaints about the one he’s already broadcast. I’m, shall we say, very uncomfortable with giving this person a platform to preach from – let alone to commit more serious crimes on.’

‘My call,’ Addis told him. ‘Tell your complainants you’re acting on instructions given to you by the police. Absolve yourself of the responsibility if you like, but if he uses Your View again, we want to be able to monitor it. Understand?’

‘OK, but it’s your call.’

‘Of course it is,’ Addis told him and hung up. ‘It’s always my call.’

Sean and Sally arrived at the offices of Fairfield’s Bank in Leadenhall Street in the heart of the City of London. It was getting late, but the Acting CEO had agreed to stay and see them. His boss had been murdered live on the Internet – what else could he do? An elegant woman met them in reception and told them her name, although Sean forgot it immediately, his mind wandering to the meeting ahead. They rose high through the tall building in the elevator until they reached the top floor and were led to a large but simple office where a slim man in his late forties rose from his chair to greet them, pushing back his longish, sandy blond hair with his left hand while holding out his right. He wore a dark blue pinstripe suit, the jacket of which hung over the back of his chair. His bold red tie and braces contrasted sharply with his pale blue and white striped shirt.

‘Simon Damant,’ he told them, eagerly shaking their hands in turn, as if he’d been desperately awaiting their arrival. ‘Acting CEO.’

‘DI Sean Corrigan and this is my colleague, DS Sally Jones,’ Sean replied. ‘We spoke briefly on the phone.’

‘Yes, yes. Of course. Please. Take a seat.’

‘Thanks for waiting around for us,’ Sean continued, pulling up a chair.

‘Really, don’t mention it. Least I could do, frankly. Christ, poor Paul. He was a good guy. Didn’t deserve what happened. God, I hope you catch the bastard.’ Damant’s accent fitted the rest of him perfectly.

‘We will,’ Sean assured him.

‘Glad to hear it,’ Damant told him, spreading his arms wide in an expression of openness. ‘Well, what do you want to know?’

‘Did Mr Elkins have any, to put it bluntly, obvious enemies?’ Sean dived straight in.

‘Not really,’ Damant explained. ‘There are always rivals once you reach his level of seniority. You don’t get to his position in this business without making a few enemies along the way, but Jesus, somebody who’d do something like this – no chance. Professional rivalry – that’s all we’re talking about here. The papers and TV stations are saying he was taken and killed by some sort of vengeance-seeking lunatic. Someone who blames the banking sector for all the ills of the world. Is that what you think?’

‘We’re keeping an open mind,’ Sean told him. ‘What about anyone else threatening him or the company? Anything like that going on?’

‘Well, there’s always the anti-capitalist nutters and the anarchist groups, of course, and since the banking crisis we get the occasional disgruntled member of the public phoning up to have a go or writing poison pen letters, but nothing particularly personal to Paul. Some of the letters might have been addressed to him, but only because he was the CEO.’

‘Have there been any incidents here at your offices?’ Sally asked. ‘Anyone making trouble, threatening anyone, anything like that?’

‘Not inside,’ Damant answered, ‘but we’ve had the occasional small group protests outside – you know, marching up and down with daft placards, usually stirred up by left-wing agitators and trouble-makers, but again, nothing you could describe as personal to Paul.’

‘What about everyday folk?’ Sean asked. ‘People who lost their life savings and homes?’

Damant moved uncomfortably in his chair. ‘Sometimes,’ he admitted. ‘Little groups of the disaffected. Paul always felt sorry for them. He took no pleasure in their plight. Like I said, he was a good guy and a bit of a philanthropist too – gave a lot of his wealth away to good causes, but never sought to gain out of it. Just did it because he thought it was the right thing to do. Maybe if he’d made more of a thing about it this nutter wouldn’t have targeted him. Christ, the whole thing’s just unbelievable.’

‘What about within the company?’ Sean asked. ‘Did Paul have to sack anyone lately – make anyone redundant who took it badly?’

‘No. No,’ Damant replied. ‘Paul was too senior to personally take care of things like that, unless the person being sacked or made redundant were also very senior, and that hasn’t happened for a very long time.’

‘How long?’ Sally asked.

‘So long ago I can’t remember. Even then I’d imagine they were happy to take redundancy and go. Our redundancy packages are very generous, believe me.’

‘I’m sure they are,’ Sean agreed, losing interest in what seemed another dead end. ‘Does your company keep records of any threatening or malicious calls or letters you receive?’

‘We do. Our internal security people take care of that sort of thing.’

‘We’ll need copies of everything and any records of calls received too,’ Sean told him. ‘There may be something in them we can use.’

‘Of course. No problem. I’ll get security to get those ready for you right away.’

‘Thanks,’ Sean told him. ‘It’s appreciated.’

‘Don’t thank me,’ Damant insisted. ‘Just catch the bastard – before he grabs another one of us.’

The Your View Killer stalked around the white room making sure everything was ready for his next trial. The victim had been selected and his plans for their abduction well prepared and even rehearsed – to a point.

He wore the same black work overalls, black leather gloves and even the ski-mask, even though he was alone and the broadcasting equipment was disconnected. There was no one to recognize him, but he wouldn’t make the mistake of becoming lazy and leaving his fingerprints or a strand of hair carrying his DNA in the wrong place for the police to find once they discovered the white room, as surely one day they would – one day long after he, the Your View Killer, had already disappeared forever. A smile spread across his lips at the irony of the situation – one day soon he’d practically have to give the police the very things that could damn him. And when that day happened it would be a sign that everything was progressing just as he’d planned.

Sean had arrived home late, but early enough to help his wife Kate prepare supper for both of them. They sat at the kitchen table, Kate doing most of the talking and the eating, while Sean pretended to be listening as he concentrated on his wine and thought about the new case. Kate had a lot to get off her chest and talked away happily about the children and her work as a casualty doctor at Guy’s Hospital, but eventually she looked at him long enough to notice he wasn’t truly with her.

‘You OK?’ she asked.

‘Sorry?’ he replied when he realized he was expected to respond.

‘Are you OK?’ Kate repeated.

‘Yeah. Sorry. New case.’

‘A new case?’ she inquired. ‘What is it?’

Sean rubbed his temples and considered his answer, but Kate had already worked it out. ‘Don’t tell me – it’s the one that’s been all over the news – the so-called Your View Killer.’ Sean didn’t reply. ‘It is, isn’t it?’

‘Same as any other murder investigation,’ he lied. ‘Just because it’s on the telly doesn’t make it any more difficult than if no one had heard about it.’

‘Well that’s not true, is it?’ she argued. ‘The more high profile the case the more pressure you’ll be under to solve it, and the more pressure you’re under, the grumpier you’ll get.’

‘I can handle it,’ he tried to reassure her, but he knew he didn’t sound convincing.

‘I know you can handle it,’ she answered, ‘but only if you push everything else away so you can think of nothing but the case – including me. Including the kids.’

‘That’s not true.’

‘Isn’t it? You sure?’

‘I do the best I can. Hopefully we’ll get this sorted quickly and then you won’t have to worry about it.’

‘Until the next high-profile case they dump on you.’

‘We’re Special Investigations only now – they’re all going to be high profile. On the plus side there should be less of them – maybe less than one a year.’

‘You hope, or maybe you don’t.’ He didn’t answer. ‘Anyway, what’s this one about? The people at work seem convinced he’s some latter-day Robin Hood, come to make the rich and corrupt pay for their greed. There’s not a lot of sympathy out there for the victim.’

‘People are quick to judge, but I guess that’s the whole point,’ Sean told her.

‘What d’you mean?’

‘The killer – that’s what he does. Tells people to judge, although they only have a fragment of the facts. And they’re all too willing to go along with it, even if it means a man ends up losing his life.’

‘I don’t think people believed it was for real,’ Kate argued.

‘Did some of the people you work with vote?’ he questioned her.

‘Why?’ she asked, a little suspicious of her husband’s reason for asking. ‘Are they in trouble if they did?’

‘Maybe. Probably not – if they thought it was a hoax. But anyone voting in the future could be guilty of conspiracy to murder.’

‘You can’t arrest everybody,’ Kate said. ‘You can’t arrest tens of thousands of people, maybe hundreds of thousands.’

‘We might have to make a few arrests – scare people away from voting.’

‘I’d better not say anything else,’ she half joked. ‘Wouldn’t want to get anyone at work arrested. We’re short-staffed as it is.’

‘Don’t worry,’ he told her. ‘I promise not to arrest any of your work colleagues, or friends, or whatever you call them.’

Kate rolled her brown eyes, making the golden skin of her forehead wrinkle. ‘Gee, thanks,’ she replied, getting to her feet and beginning to clear the table. ‘Speaking of friends, don’t forget we’re going out for dinner with ours this week.’

‘We are?’

‘Yes. We are. It’s in the calendar on the computer, if you ever bothered to check it.’

He watched her head to the sink, her long, curly black hair tied back in a ponytail. He tried to remember the last time he’d seen her dressed for a night out, but couldn’t. ‘Who we going out with?’

‘James and Kerry, Chris and Sally and Leon and Sophie.’

‘So what you’re saying is we’re going out with your friends?’

Kate looked over her slim shoulder as she paused with a soapy dish in hand. ‘Feel free to arrange a night out with your friends any time you like. I’d love to finally meet some of them – properly.’ She went back to washing the dishes.

‘Not a great idea,’ Sean told her. ‘They’d just get pissed and talk job all night.’

‘Sounds great. I’ll look forward to it.’

‘Ha, ha,’ Sean mocked, getting to his feet and heading for the stairs.

‘Oi,’ Kate called after him. ‘A hand with the cleaning up would be nice.’

‘I’m knackered,’ he complained, ‘and I need to get back to the office super early tomorrow before anyone notices I’m not there.’

‘Fine,’ Kate relented. ‘Just remember – dinner – this week.’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ he answered, but he’d already forgotten about it, too tired to care, his mind blissfully still. The case hadn’t got into him yet – hadn’t taken him over completely. He wondered whether it was because he too lacked empathy with the victim. If it had been a woman or a child killed in the same way but for different reasons he wouldn’t have felt as he did. He would have already been consumed by the overpowering urge to keep going until the killer had been caught – he doubted he would have even come home for the evening. Early days, he told himself as he climbed the stairs to bed. It’ll get to you soon enough.

4

Sean arrived at work the next morning early enough to be the first one in the office and was glad of it. He walked slowly across the main room, casting an eye over the tip that was supposed to be the nerve centre of their investigations. Discarded items of clothing hung on chairs and over computer screens, abandoned polystyrene cups of cold, stale coffee littered almost every work surface, while the wastepaper bins overflowed with crisp packets, chocolate wrappers and plastic sandwich boxes. The large brown paper confidential waste sacks that filled every corner fared no better. He shook his head in displeasure and retreated into the sanctuary of his own reasonably ordered and tidy office.

He slumped in his chair and peeled the lid off the black coffee he’d picked up from a nearby café − the grey filth they sold in the canteen at the Yard was wholly undrinkable. Next he placed his own personal laptop next to the coffee and started it into life. Once it was ready he pulled up the video of Paul Elkins’s murder and began to watch and listen: the victim taped to the chair, confused and terrified while the killer periodically stalked in front of the cameras, not even his eyes visible as he spoke in that eerie electronic voice – preaching more than appealing.

Sean pressed pause for a second, giving his mind time to absorb what he had seen so far, to analyse it, to pick up on some small thing they’d all missed. His eyes seemed to flicker as he studied the screen before pressing play again, only to pause it a few seconds later, the image of the killer staring out at him.

‘Confident bastard, aren’t you?’ he whispered. ‘Is that why you’re doing this, because it makes you feel confident – makes you feel good again? Gives you back the pride that they took away from you?’ He clicked on play and watched for a few more minutes, the killer’s organized and self-assured demeanour never changing as he explained the rules of the ‘trial’ to the watching ‘jury’.

He paused again and stared at the dark figure standing straight and purposeful. ‘What are you like when you’re not being this thing? What are you like when you’re just yourself? Are you meek and mild – a broken man too defeated to even stand up for yourself, your wife, your children? Did they beat the fight out of you – took your business, your house, your job? But when you put the ski-mask on, when you hear yourself speaking in that unrecognizable voice, does it give you your self-esteem back? Does it make you feel powerful? And why kill him the way you did? It was slow and painful. Was it the only way you knew how, or did you want it to be like that? Did you want him to suffer – want to make him pay?’

A knock on his open door shattered his concentration and he looked up to see Donnelly standing there with a small man in his thirties he didn’t recognize. Sean looked him up and down, taking note of his skinny arms and legs and little pot belly, spectacles balancing on the end of his nose, receding blond hair uncombed and unstyled.

‘Who the hell is this?’ he asked Donnelly, never looking away from the man who was now flushed red.

‘This,’ Donnelly explained, ‘is Detective Constable Bob Bishop.’

‘Where the hell did you find him? And more to the point, what are you doing with him?’ Bishop looked from Donnelly to Sean and back again, following the conversation anxiously.

‘I abducted him from the Cyber Crime Unit,’ Donnelly continued. ‘The DI there’s an old friend of mine. He said we could have him.’ Still neither of them bothered to address Bishop. Sean shook his head in mock disbelief. ‘What?’ Donnelly played along. ‘You said get an Internet expert.’

‘Is that what he is?’ Sean continued to stare at the very uncomfortable-looking Bishop. ‘Is that what you are – an Internet expert?’

‘I know my way around the Web as well as anyone from the Cyber Unit,’ Bishop stuttered in his Birmingham accent.

‘See,’ Donnelly jumped in. ‘Like I said – an expert.’

‘You know why you’re here?’ Sean asked.

‘Something about the Your View Killer. DS Donnelly told me.’

‘It’s all about the Your View Killer,’ Sean told him. Bishop visibly swallowed hard. ‘Can he be traced? Can we trace him to wherever he’s broadcasting from?’

‘Yes,’ Bishop answered, ‘but it’s not like on the telly – it can take a while. But why d’you need me? Can’t you use one of your own team?’

‘Sure,’ Sean teased him, ‘because my team’s full of Internet and computer experts. The Commissioner lets me keep them locked in a room for whenever I might need them – along with thousands of pounds’ worth of tracking equipment for the once in a blue moon when I might need that too. Bishop, this is the Metropolitan Police: you don’t get given anything until you absolutely need it and then you beg, steal and borrow it before handing it back to wherever it is you got it from. And right now I need you.’

‘Well then, I guess I’m all yours,’ Bishop gave in.

‘Good. Can we trace it even when it’s not on?’ Sean pressed ahead with his queries.

‘No,’ Bishop told him. ‘We can only trace him when he’s connected to the Internet. Every time he’s connected we inch a little closer to his location, but he has to be connected.’

‘What if he changes computers or changes the location of his broadcasts? Donnelly asked.

‘If we’ve already got a hook into his computer we can trace him even if he changes location – although we’d have to go back a few steps, which would slow us down. But even without a hard modem we can trace his wireless fingerprint via the—’

‘Stop. Stop,’ Sean interrupted. ‘Save the technical jargon for someone who gives a shit. Now try that again in English.’

‘Well, like I said, once we’re into his er … computer, we’ve pretty much got him, but it’ll take time, depending on how long he stays online each time. If he ditches the computer we’re buggered, unless he’s using er … something that sends the signal on that he also used with the original computer.’ Sean and Donnelly looked at each other. ‘It’s like at home, right,’ Bishop explained. ‘Most people have more than one device that can access the Internet, but they’re all getting that access through one modem, right, so even if they ditch the device, we’re still into the source. Get it?’

‘I get it enough,’ Sean told him. ‘Dave, get him a desk in the main office and put him to work.’

‘He can share with me and Sally. There’s enough room. He wouldn’t survive in that shark pool.’

‘Fine,’ Sean agreed.

Bishop’s eyes darted around nervously. ‘Excuse me,’ he began. ‘I know my way around computers and stuff, but I’m not qualified to call myself an expert and you sound like you need an expert.’

Sean looked him in the eyes. ‘Do you know anyone better than you who also happens to be employed by the Metropolitan Police?’

‘Er … well no, but—’

‘I didn’t think so,’ Sean cut him off again. ‘Listen, you can speak to whoever you need to speak to for technical advice, go and see whoever you want to see, spend whatever you have to spend – but I need you to trace the location of where this madman’s broadcasting from. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, but it’s just that I was right in the middle—’

‘You may be our best chance to catch a killer, and if you do, it won’t be forgotten,’ Sean encouraged him. ‘Are you my man?’

Bishop finally straightened as a sparkle came to his eyes. ‘Yeah,’ he answered. ‘Yeah. I’m your man.’

‘Good,’ Sean told him as Donnelly led him away to the next-door office. Sean hadn’t finished shaking his head when he saw Anna enter the main office and start to approach him. He felt a pleasant vibration in his chest and his head became a little light. He pushed the feelings aside and quickly stood, pulling on his coat and gathering his belongings, stuffing them carelessly into his pockets.

Anna entered without knocking. ‘Going somewhere?’

‘Yes,’ was all he said, aiming for the door where he’d have to pass close to her.

‘Mind if I ask where?’

He sighed before answering. ‘If you must know, I’m meeting Dr Canning for the post-mortem.’

‘Can I tag along?’

‘No.’

‘Oh.’

Sean realized he was being unnecessarily blunt and reminded himself it wasn’t her fault he felt the way he did about her. Being close to her made him feel uncomfortable, vulnerable; but he didn’t want to hurt her either.

‘I’m sorry,’ he explained. ‘It’s just Dr Canning doesn’t like additional people coming to his post-mortems. He likes it to be just him and me. Post-mortem’s his call. He’s the pathologist.’

‘That’s OK,’ she told him. ‘I understand. I’d probably be the same.’

‘Look,’ Sean continued. ‘I’ll tell you all about it when I get back. I’d be interested in your opinion.’

‘I’d appreciate that,’ she told him as he slid past. ‘I’ll see you later then.’

He walked quickly through the main office without looking back and was gone.

Georgina Vaughan sat on the corner of her desk on the seventh floor of Glenhope Investments in the City of London. She kept a sharp eye out for her boss who often stalked the floor looking for employees who were engaging in social discourse rather than working. She shared her limited working space with two colleagues, Nick and Oscar, and when they weren’t being spied on there had only been one topic of conversation that morning – the Your View Killer.

She peeked over the top of Nick’s screen. ‘So who do you think he’s going to do next?’ she asked in little more than a whisper.

He checked they weren’t being watched before answering. ‘I don’t know. Could be anyone. Could be you.’

She gave a short laugh. ‘Me? I don’t think so. You heard what he said – he’s only after the big fish.’

‘You’re a senior project manager and a rising star,’ Oscar joined in. ‘Maybe he’ll consider you to be a big fish?’

Again she laughed. ‘I doubt it. Not yet anyway. I reckon he’ll only go for CEOs. Probably doesn’t even know what a project manager is. By the time I’m a CEO he’ll probably be dead of old age.’

‘You’re on the senior management fast-track scheme – what more do you want?’ Nick reminded her in his slightly effeminate voice that matched his petite build and whiskerless complexion.

‘I’m thirty-fucking-three, Nick. Does that sound like fast-track to you? This whole job’s beginning to feel like waiting for dead-man’s shoes.’

‘Then you’ll be happy to see him dispose of a few of them,’ Nick suggested.

‘Ha, ha,’ she mocked him.

‘The higher you climb the less positions there are,’ Oscar chipped in. ‘Besides, with this lunatic running around out there, who’d want to be a CEO of anything?’

‘I would,’ she almost snapped at him in her clipped accent, her long, wavy brown hair falling forwards. ‘I just need him to bump off another couple of hundred and I should be fine.’