A Killing Mind, page 33
part #5 of DI Sean Corrigan Series
‘Then perhaps it’s a gift,’ the priest suggested, ‘given to you by things we don’t understand?’
‘A gift,’ Sean smiled ironically. ‘Feels more like a curse.’
‘Some gifts do feel that way,’ the priest assured him as he looked up at Christ crucified on the cross. ‘The point is, no matter how disturbing these feelings are, you use them for good. To save lives.’
‘It’s how I exorcise my demons,’ Sean explained, ‘stop myself from having dark thoughts.’
‘And do you have dark thoughts?’
‘No,’ he shook his head. ‘Not when I’m awake, anyway. When I’m asleep the bad dreams come.’
‘Bad dreams?’
‘I see the victims,’ he admitted. ‘Sometimes they talk to me.’
‘What do they say?’
‘They ask me why I didn’t save them,’ he answered without emotion as he got to his feet.
‘And what do you tell them?’
‘It’s late,’ Sean said. ‘I need to go home.’
‘Of course,’ the priest replied.
‘Another time.’ Sean was already heading for the door.
‘Another time,’ the priest agreed, but Sean stopped after a few steps and turned back to face him.
‘These killers I chase,’ he told him, ‘most were abused themselves when they were children. It’s why they do what they do as adults. It’s why they think the way they do. Goodnight, Father.’ He turned to walk away, but the priest’s words stopped him.
‘So what was it with you?’ he asked. ‘When you were a child.’
Sean looked him up and down for a few seconds before answering. ‘My father.’
‘I see,’ the priest nodded. ‘Was it just violence or was it something else?’
‘Something else,’ Sean found himself admitting, ‘although there was plenty of violence too.’
‘How old were you?’
‘It started young,’ Sean told him, aware that he was telling the priest more than he’d ever told anyone but Kate. Not even Anna knew. ‘I can’t remember exactly how young, but young. He used to take me to his bedroom. The bedroom he shared with my mother. She knew what was happening, but she was too scared to stop it. He could be a dangerous man. She was as much a victim as me. While he was … while he was doing things, I could hear my brothers and sisters laughing and talking downstairs, but I could never hear my mother. I’ve since learnt she used to lock herself in the toilet downstairs and cry until it was over. He used to go straight out to the pub to get drunk, and I remember she used to just hold me. Hold me and cry.’
‘I suppose he was drinking to help deal with the shame,’ the priest offered a spiritual reconciliation with his father. ‘Perhaps he was a weak man with his own unfortunate cross to bear.’
‘Maybe,’ Sean replied, but his voice was thick with the hate he still felt for his father. A hate that he believed would never fade.
‘Where is he now?’ the priest asked.
‘Dead,’ Sean spat. ‘He died a drunk. None of the family went to his funeral.’
‘I see,’ was all the priest said as Sean turned and walked towards the exit. Again he stopped and turned to face the priest.
‘A part of me wishes he was still alive,’ Sean called back to him.
‘Oh?’ the priest asked. ‘Why’s that?’
‘So I could kill him,’ Sean said, and with that he walked out of the church.
Outside the freezing air hit him, revitalizing him for a second until it combined with his exhaustion and made him desperate to be somewhere warm where he could find rest. He began to trudge towards his car, but even in his beaten state his cop instinct alerted him to something that didn’t look right – a car parked at the side of the road about thirty metres away, at a slight angle, like it was ready for a quick getaway. Its lights were on and its engine running. Sean’s tired eyes squinted into the darkness until he could make out the shape of someone’s head and shoulders leaning out of the window, pointing something black in his direction. He realized it was a camera – and that could mean only one thing. ‘Jackson,’ he said through gritted teeth as he broke into a run, his tiredness forgotten now.
Instantly the figure disappeared inside and the car pulled away, its tyres squealing, trying to find purchase, then the car lurched forward. ‘Police,’ he shouted after it. ‘Stop!’ But the car accelerated away. ‘Jackson, you son of a bitch,’ he yelled. ‘Stop the car,’ but it was too far away now, and his aching lungs told him it was a lost cause. With the last of his breath, he repeated the make, model and registration number of the car to ensure it was burnt into his memory, then jotted it down in the CID notebook he carried in his pocket: Red Vauxhall Vectra, index no. AF16NDX. He slid the notebook back into his coat and headed towards his own car. ‘Jackson,’ he hissed under his breath. ‘Fucking Jackson.’
14
Sean stormed across the main office to his own room and immediately started ransacking his drawers like a man possessed. Donnelly saw the commotion, pushed himself out of his chair and casually made his way to Sean’s doorway.
‘Everything all right?’ he asked.
‘Jackson!’ Sean spat the name out.
‘Oh.’ Donnelly stepped further into the office. ‘What’s our friendly neighbourhood journalist gone and done now?’
‘Son of a bitch followed me home, or had one of his team follow me. Snapped some photographs of me when I— when I stopped off last night. Bastard’s gone too far.’
‘Following a cop home,’ Donnelly winced, ‘not good. Breaks all the rules of engagement.’ His eyes returned to Sean’s hands, still frantically searching in his drawer. ‘Looking for something?’
‘Jackson’s card,’ he answered. ‘It’s in here somewhere.’
‘His number not in your phone?’
‘You think I’d violate my phone with his number?’
‘Clearly not,’ Donnelly said, as Sean’s hand appeared with a business card pinched in his fingertips.
‘Time to deal with this prick once and for all,’ Sean muttered as he punched the numbers into his desk phone, pushed the speaker button and stood hunched over it waiting for an answer, looking like a cat waiting to pounce on a mouse. After an age the phone was answered by a sleepy-sounding Jackson.
‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Who is this?’
‘Jackson,’ Sean barked at him. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
‘Ah,’ he instantly became more alert. ‘DI Corrigan. To what do I owe the pleasure? Changed your mind about doing the interview? You won’t regret it.’
‘Who the hell do you think you are, following me?’ Sean launched into him. ‘Next time I see you anywhere near me, I swear I’ll arrest you and lock you up for—’
‘Wait,’ Jackson told him. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’
‘You know what I’m talking about,’ Sean insisted. ‘You or someone working for you followed me and took my photograph.’
‘Oh,’ Jackson seemed to relax. ‘That. Look, I didn’t follow you – there was no need, I knew you’d turn up eventually. But that was days ago. You only just found out?’
‘What do you mean, days ago?’ Sean asked, exasperated. ‘I’m talking about last night. I saw you.’
‘Last night?’ Jackson sounded genuinely confused. ‘I didn’t follow you last night. I didn’t follow you ever. Like I said, I knew it was only a matter of time before you’d turn up at Tanya Richards’ address, so I waited for you. No big deal. It made a nice little side piece, was all. Lead detective visits crime scene – you know the score.’
‘Are you sure?’ Sean asked, his mind now on fire with unpleasant possibilities. ‘You didn’t follow me or have me followed last night?’
‘No,’ Jackson laughed nervously. ‘Why would I follow you home? I know where the line’s drawn with cops’ personal lives, Corrigan.’
‘Then if it wasn’t you, who the …’ He fell silent as the realization sank in.
‘Jesus Christ,’ Jackson said before Sean could hang up. ‘It was him, wasn’t it? He’s not just talking to you – he’s following you as well.’
‘My mistake.’ Sean slammed the phone down.
‘How does he know you’ve been talking to him?’ Donnelly asked.
‘What?’ Sean snapped – his mind still trying to comprehend the fact he’d only been metres away from the man he was hunting and had let him slip away.
‘Jackson,’ Donnelly clarified. ‘How does he know you’re speaking with the suspect?’
‘Fuck knows.’ He pushed the problem of a potential leak on his team to the back of his mind. ‘It’s not important right now.’ He paused, staring at the phone, collecting his thoughts before looking up at Donnelly. ‘Son of a bitch followed me,’ he said. ‘Bastard might know where I live. If Kate finds out, I’m dead – especially after last time. Shit.’
‘Did you get all the way home?’ Donnelly asked, trying to be logical and calm.
‘No,’ Sean answered, sounding relieved.
‘Then there’s no reason to assume he knows where you live,’ he tried to reassure him.
‘But it might not have been the first time he’s followed me,’ Sean pointed out.
‘Just think about it,’ Donnelly slowed things down. ‘He’s obsessed with Gibran, not you. If he’d followed you before, he’d have told you, gloated over it. You said he took photographs of you?’
‘I think so,’ Sean answered.
‘Aye,’ Donnelly assured him. ‘To show you. To show you how clever he is. Think about everything we know about him. He wouldn’t have been able to resist showing you the photographs. This has to be the first time he’s followed you.’
‘Maybe,’ he replied. He could see the logic in it. ‘But what better way to impress Gibran than to come after me – or my family.’
‘OK,’ Donnelly nodded. ‘What d’you want to do?’
‘Kate’s at work today …’ Sean thought out loud. ‘And the kids are at school. Shit!’ he cursed and shook his head, thinking of the conversation he’d have to have with Kate the next time he saw her. ‘Get close protection teams on them, but tell them to be discreet. Keep as much distance as they can without compromising their safety. Shit,’ he cursed again.
‘You don’t think we should tell them?’ Donnelly checked.
‘Tell them what?’ he raised his voice. ‘That I’ve put them in harm’s way again. Fuck.’
‘Stated case, boss,’ Donnelly reminded them. ‘R v Brindle. We have a duty to tell someone if there’s a credible threat to their—’
‘I know the fucking law,’ Sean cut him off. ‘Jesus Christ, Dave. She’s my wife. They’re my children. No one says anything to them until I’ve spoken with them.’
‘It’s your call,’ Donnelly told him.
‘Yes it is,’ Sean ended it. ‘You still PNC authorized?’
‘Of course,’ Donnelly shrugged. ‘Why?’
‘Because I took the index number,’ Sean revealed. ‘If he’s half as smart as I think he is, the car would have been stolen or false-plated, but we need to check.’
‘You never know your luck,’ Donnelly replied, already placing himself in front of the nearest computer screen to begin logging on to the Police National Computer. ‘What’s the number?’ he asked, as soon as he was in.
‘Alpha, foxtrot, one, six, November, Delta, X-ray,’ Sean read from his CID notebook. ‘Should come back to a red Vauxhall Vectra.’
Donnelly typed fast and within seconds he had the result. ‘Aye,’ he said, sounding almost surprised. ‘It does come back to a red Vauxhall Vectra – not reported stolen either. No interest reports. The current keeper is shown as John Redmayne – home address in Battersea.’
‘Put that name in,’ Sean told him. ‘Don’t worry about a date of birth.’
‘It’s a fairly unusual name,’ Donnelly said as he typed. Sure enough, the list of possible matches was short. ‘One here born Brixton. The others are a bit further afield.’
‘What’s the form for the one from Brixton?’ Sean asked, excitement stirring in his stomach. If Redmayne had previous convictions, he couldn’t be their man else they’d have his DNA and fingerprints, but just maybe something would show in his history that would make him a viable suspect.
‘Not much,’ Donnelly answered. ‘No insurance convictions, just a caution for common assault that’s well and truly expired. Nothing we’d still have his DNA or prints for.’
‘So we can’t rule him out then?’ Sean pointed out.
‘No,’ Donnelly agreed. ‘We can’t.’
Sean suddenly sprang into action, grabbing his coat from its hook and filling his pockets with everything he’d need.
‘Going somewhere?’ Donnelly asked.
‘Yeah,’ Sean answered, ‘and you are too.’
‘Don’t tell me,’ Donnelly replied, getting to his feet. ‘Battersea?’
David Langley sat in his office reading that morning’s edition of The World. He’d turned straight to the centre pages hoping his latest act had spurred the journalist on to visit Gibran to seek his opinion. He wasn’t disappointed, but once he started reading his optimism and excitement faded fast, replaced first with a sense of disillusion and then fury. How dare he dismiss his importance? How dare he lie to the world and tell everyone he was created by an abusive childhood and not born a man-god? His parents loved him, in their own separate ways. He was born in his newfound greatness – not created by human failings. He scrunched the pages of the newspaper into a ball then frantically ripped it to pieces and stuffed it into his wastepaper basket. If it hadn’t been for the smoke alarm, he would have set it on fire and watched Gibran burn.
He turned his back on the overflowing bin and logged on to the internet, searching and finding articles and pictures of Gibran. He needed to see his tormentor, although what he really wanted was to stand in front of him and slice open his throat. He pictured himself, lifting Gibran with one arm, his fingers wrapped around his neck, holding him high, watching his kicking legs growing weaker and weaker as the blood seeped through his fingers and flowed down his arm and across his body. Once he was sure Gibran was dead, he threw him to the floor as if he was nothing. Never again would he mock his importance. His teeth and nails would make a fine addition to his collection.
Thoughts of killing Gibran finally brought him the calm he needed to think clearly. It was obvious to him now that Gibran felt safe locked in his brick and steel cage, but even the mighty Gibran couldn’t possibly imagine the plan that he’d set in motion. A plan that would see him reach inside and pluck the bastard creature from his sanctuary. If he could do that, the world would never forget his name. His eyes darted from side to side as he imagined executing his plan – how, when and where. His fingers danced on the keyboard and the pictures of Gibran were replaced by the mandatory list of internet sites all professionals felt they needed to belong to – Facebook, LinkedIn, Twitter, Instagram. She was on them all – small neat pictures of a smiling and undeniably beautiful woman attached to each profile.
‘Yes,’ he whispered, reaching out to touch the images on the screen – her radiance making her all the more perfect. He leaned back, smiling. ‘Once I have her, you’ll give me what I want, won’t you, Sean? You’ll have no choice. Then the world will see my genius.’
Sean and Donnelly pulled up opposite the small terraced house in Battersea. The red Vectra was parked outside.
‘Looks like our man’s home,’ Donnelly said, nodding towards the car.
‘Yeah,’ Sean answered distractedly as he studied the neat, well maintained, but sterile-looking house with its clean white walls and freshly painted grey front door, white blinds in the windows instead of curtains. The small front garden had been turned into a parking space. Could this be a place where a monster lived? Yes, he decided as he imagined the killer arriving home late and stepping from the car wearing his hood, clutching the rucksack that contained his precious trophies. He saw him putting the key in the lock and opening the door before disappearing inside to examine his haul – the outside world oblivious to the horrors he was responsible for.
‘What do you think?’ Donnelly asked.
‘I can’t tell anything from out here,’ he lied.
‘I thought maybe …’ Donnelly began, then stopped himself. ‘Perhaps we should get some back-up, now we know he’s home?’
Sean shook his head. ‘Let’s take a look at him first. Then, if we like him for it, we’ll say nothing, make our excuses and leave, and put a surveillance team on him until we work out our next move.’
‘OK,’ Donnelly reluctantly agreed. ‘You’re the boss.’
‘It’ll be fine,’ Sean assured him, climbing out of the car.
‘Here we go again,’ Donnelly sighed, trying to gear himself up as he too left the warmth of the car and followed Sean across the road between passing vehicles. Once they were both standing by the front door, Sean rang the doorbell and they took a step back while they waited for it to be answered. A minute later the door was opened by a tall athletic man in his early forties, his short, neat blond hair matching his overall clean-cut appearance. He looked uneasily from Sean to Donnelly, but there was no flicker of real concern or fear. Sean felt he was either ice cool or they had the wrong man.
‘Hi,’ he greeted them in a deep, accentless voice. ‘Can I help you with something?’
‘Police,’ Donnelly told him, holding up his warrant card and hoping for an immediate reaction. ‘DS Donnelly from the Metropolitan Police Special Investigations Unit.’
Sean casually held up his own ID. ‘DI Corrigan – from the same.’
‘Is there a problem?’ the man asked.
‘We need to speak with a John Redmayne,’ Donnelly answered.
‘You’re speaking to him,’ Redmayne confirmed, looking more worried.
‘Can we talk inside?’ Sean asked quietly. He needed to see how Redmayne lived behind closed doors.
‘Yeah, sure,’ Redmayne replied with a shrug and stepped aside to allow them to enter, closing the door behind them once they were inside. ‘Come through to the kitchen,’ he said cheerfully, leading the way. Sean and Donnelly glanced at each other before following. If he was the man they were looking for, the last place they wanted to be in was his kitchen with the knives and boiling water, but they didn’t want to spook him by ordering him around in his own home.
