My Bloody Valentine (Alastair Gunn) (16 page)

They all looked back at Tanner, whose face became suddenly more serious.

‘Good question.’ He used a magnet to clamp a photo of Calano to the investigation board. ‘But one I think I can answer.’

He looked straight at Frank. ‘There were thirty-six fatal attacks last year in London where a hammer was the main murder weapon, but Calano shared something else with Samantha Philips that none of the other victims did.’

There was silence.

Tanner paused, holding each of their stares in turn. ‘Two weeks before she was murdered, Rosa Calano was released from jail.’

27

Hawkins watched the rest of her team file out of the operations room before she hauled the chair around and followed Mike into her office, banging the door closed.

Maguire watched her from across the room. ‘All right, what’s up?’

‘Steve Tanner’s
up
.’ Hawkins propelled herself around behind the desk, symbolically reclaiming territory. ‘Why didn’t we find that link to Calano?’

‘Beats me.’ Mike sat down in Hawkins’ office chair, which she’d reluctantly banished to the visitor’s side of the room so she could roll her wheelchair up to the desk. ‘Frank and Amala were looking at precedents, right?’

Hawkins nodded, still pissed off.

According to Tanner, Rosa Calano had served nearly three years in a young offenders’ institution for manslaughter, convicted of shaking a baby to death while working as an au pair. The term had been short due to Calano’s age – just sixteen at the time of her conviction; nineteen when she was released.

‘Anyway,’ Mike continued, ‘didn’t Steve just help us out?’

‘Yeah, making the whole team look sloppy in the process.’

‘Is this about the team, or about you?’

‘Of course it’s not about
me
.’ Hawkins realized she’d reacted too fast. ‘Apart from the fact he’s obviously being lined up for my job.’

‘
What?
’

‘You heard Vaughn.’ She recited the superintendent’s words in a childish voice. ‘ “Steve’s on the High Potential Development Scheme
.
” It’s a coup.’

Mike rolled his eyes.

Hawkins scowled at him. Clearly, Steve Tanner was in with the right people, expediting his way to the top. A couple of tactical lunches here, some strategic golf there, and he’d be scrubbing the smell of cronyism off his hands in the executive washroom before he was thirty-five. He was the pretender Mike had heard about; the wonder-kid being lined up for big things. Maguire must have realized that, especially after Vaughn had delivered his final piece of bad news, just moments ago, when Hawkins had thanked Tanner for his assistance, saying that they could handle the investigation from there.

Tanner had looked straight at Vaughn.

‘Actually there is something else …’ Their commanding officer’s tone had been far too breezy for comfort. ‘As you can see, DI Tanner is already up to speed with the case, and I know his skills will be useful
in apprehending this killer. So, for the foreseeable future, Steve is joining your team.’

Whether it was done on purpose or not, announcing this in front of everyone had given Hawkins no opportunity to object without looking threatened by what should have been positive news. It had been the spectre of competition, of course, that had brought her rushing back to work in the first place, but since then she’d been hoping that her return to active duty would have diverted reinforcements elsewhere.

No such luck.

Vaughn had even subjected them to some team-building drivel, with round-the-group introductions. Yasir had been typically intense; Sharpe habitually dull. Somehow, Mike had managed to sing her praises. Vaughn was already familiar to everyone, and Todd, who reviled any kind of corporate stroking, said he wished he were dead.

Then Tanner had described his career history, from the mandatory two years in uniform, through stints in organized-crime and commercial-fraud investigation, on to his time helping to develop the National Intelligence Model. An impressive cv for his age, which turned out to be twenty-nine.

Finally, Vaughn had managed to make matters worse by explaining that Tanner’s remit was not to work under her but to
learn the ropes of murder investigation
directly from Hawkins. To shadow her.
Day to day.

Which begged the question: had Tanner gone to Vaughn, peddling his new information with an agenda, thereby earning himself an instant place on the team? Or was it the other way around?

Jobs for the boys.

She dismissed the notion immediately. There was no way Tanner could have known they’d miss the link. But the similarities between the two cases were too strong to ignore. Two former inmates in the London area, both murdered within days of finishing their sentences for murder and manslaughter, with the same weapon and MO. At first, Hawkins had been hopeful of Sam Philips’ murder turning out to be an isolated case. Now, with a second fatality attributed to the same killer, and both women having been released from prison just days before their respective deaths, she might have chosen the Valentine’s Day angle, given the choice. It could still be coincidence, of course, but it looked for all the world as if the attacks on these two victims were connected directly to their crimes, a fact Hawkins’ new competitor had obviously enjoyed being able to expose.

Tanner had handed out copies of the entire Calano file before leaving with Vaughn, probably for a gruelling game of squash followed by whiskey and highbrow conversation.

And she was sure about the coup.

A couple of months ago she’d suspected Lawrence Kirby-Jones of trying to undermine her, while Vaughn had looked like he was at least partially on her side. But
that situation seemed to have been reversed. Kirby-Jones had used his influence to keep her in-post, while it now looked as if Vaughn wanted her out of the way. With his help, Tanner could be made to look like the obvious choice for Hawkins’ role. And if he did it while she was still on secondment, she could be eased back to DI level without any fuss. And without grounds for complaint.

‘Toni …’ Maguire’s voice punctured her thoughts. ‘Stop it.’

She looked at him. ‘Stop what?’

‘I can see the conspiracy cogs turning.’

Hawkins shook her head.

‘He ain’t here to take your job.’

‘Fine.’ She grabbed her laptop and rolled herself away from the desk, feeling the familiar strain in her torso which meant her recuperating body was approaching exhaustion for the day. ‘Let’s get home and eat at a humane hour for once.’ She hauled the door open. ‘We can look at Calano’s file later on.’

What she didn’t say was that she also wanted a decent night’s sleep because Tanner’s arrival made one thing more urgent than ever.

She needed to get out of the chair.

28

Bull slammed his fist into his thigh.

Why couldn’t they leave it alone?

He changed the channel and threw the remote away, sick of bullshit TV news.
Valentine’s Day this, Valentine’s Day that. Another screwed-up killer trying to scare the world.

But they were wrong. There was no
message
.

And Valentine’s Day had fuck all to do with it.

Okay, so he’d killed Sam on the fourteenth.
Hands up; his mistake.
But it hadn’t been planned. If he’d even
thought
about the fucking date, he’d have waited a couple of days.

Then the media wouldn’t be spouting this crap.

He got up and turned the television off, wandering into the kitchen to eat, reminding himself that it would all change soon. The press would have to park their drivel …

… As soon as his next target died.

29

‘
Toni?
’

Hawkins started awake, inhaling hard, the Range Rover’s cabin materializing around her.

‘Whoa!’ Maguire’s hands were up in mock-surrender. ‘Stand down, okay? I give up.’

‘What?’ she asked, only then noticing her hands, left braced against the dashboard, right pressed into Mike’s chest. She retracted both, clearing her throat. ‘Oh. Sorry.’

‘What was it, a nightmare or something?’

‘Yeah.’ Hawkins forced a smile. ‘I was just about to waste someone for interrupting my beauty sleep.’ Her conscience grumbled, reminding her that Mike was the only reason she was here to worry about tiredness, or anything else, at all. But for some reason it still didn’t feel right to discuss her ongoing flashbacks about the night she was stabbed, even with him.

She broke eye contact, glancing at the dark street outside the windscreen, noting that they were home. ‘How long have I been out?’

‘Only the whole way back, snoring like a two-ton walrus. Sure you don’t need a few more days with your feet up?’

‘You know me, I’ll take Chinese water torture over daytime TV. I just need to get back in the routine.’

He didn’t look convinced. ‘Why don’t you stay home tomorrow; get some extra zees? No one was expecting you back yet; the guys can handle things.’

‘That bunch of headless chickens? They can’t solve a Sudoku without me.’

‘Seriously, we got more than a full team.’

‘I told you I’m fine.’ She snapped, immediately relenting. ‘Sorry, it’s these bloody painkillers, they give me a fuse like a gnat’s manhood, and I drop off when I’m not even tired. I’ll see the doctor about getting off them. Really, I’m okay.’

‘Whatever you say.’ Mike withdrew, obviously not in full accord. They sat for a moment, sharing silence, before he changed the subject. ‘So if you’re good to go, what say we let your dad get back to sleeping in his own bed?’

His implication was clear, and he was right. Fit for work or otherwise, she no longer needed her father’s help day to day, while the grin said Mike was looking forward to them having some privacy. Under normal circumstances, she’d have agreed: he’d been fantastic since the attack, helpful and patient, almost to the point where it became annoying. Ultimately, she wanted their relationship back to normal, too, but having the place to themselves would also present opportunities for intimacy between her and Mike, and she simply wasn’t ready for that. Purple scar tissue reared in her mind; something else she needed to broach.

But not now.

‘We might have a job convincing him,’ she countered. ‘He’s been free of my mother for two days.’

Mike touched her arm. ‘I’ve missed you.’

She nodded, trying not to recoil. But when he leaned in for a kiss, she found herself pulling away.

He frowned. ‘What is it?’

‘Nothing.’ She tried to make light. ‘We walruses have terrible morning breath.’

Mike retreated with an expression that said he wasn’t entirely convinced, but he didn’t press the point. She moved on swiftly. ‘Anyway, I’m starving. Let’s get inside and see what dad’s charred for dinner.’

‘Sure.’ Maguire opened his door and climbed out, wearing a kicked-puppy look that would have made any man proud. Hawkins watched him wander round to the boot to retrieve her chair, feeling guiltier than she’d expected to. Having her father around had inadvertently postponed the discussion about how soon she and Mike would resume horizontal relations. But now she’d underlined her recuperation by returning to work, he had every right to raise the subject again. Part of her was thankful, and keen to reciprocate, but until her remaining insecurities were in check, it was a conversation she’d rather not have.

Silently, she promised Mike she’d deal with her anxieties and have the two of them back to normal in the coming days.

Until then, her dad had to stay.

30

The mark appeared just after 2 a.m.

The door at the base of the tower block opened, and Matthew Hayes lurched out on to the street, the glow from inside lighting him from behind.

Hayes steadied himself on the rail beside the steps. Rat-arsed.

Same place Bull would have been by now.

If not for his work.

The guy was fortyish and heavily built, but prison had aged him.

Taking him out wouldn’t be hard.

Bull knew the story. Fifteen-year-old kid from a good home, riding his bike after dark, ploughed down by a drunk driver who’d hardly looked back, leaving him face down with a fractured skull.

Across the road, Hayes turned and staggered away, quick trails of his breath disappearing into the blackened night air. But he moved fast for a pisshead, and Bull had to pick up his heels to stay close, watching his target’s head loll as he walked. Luckily, the street was near straight, with a frost-covered car in every gap, so Bull could track his prey from the far side of the road.
He kept pace, glancing over from time to time, watching Hayes’ head and shoulders floating above the line of car roofs.

It was the third night in a row they’d done this, and Hayes still hadn’t given him a decent chance to strike. He’d appeared each night between midnight and two, already steaming, to stumble along the main road and back, no more than five or six minutes each way. Even at this time of night cars passed now and again and, while the pavements were empty, somebody could see them through a window or walk out of their front door at any time.

Bull needed some luck.

But he wasn’t going to get it; not yet, anyway, as Hayes reached his destination and pushed open the door of the off-licence on Weybridge Road.

Bull watched him through the shop window, behind the chalkboards showing discounts and deals, a good two days’ worth of stubble clear under the lights. Hayes’ mouth moved as he talked to the man at the till. Then he came back out, winding the lid off the bottle as soon as he got outside. He took a long shot of the contents, threw the lid on the ground and turned towards home.

Bull gave him a head start and followed, trying not to let himself get wound up. But if this pattern didn’t change soon, he’d have to find another way. It had to be done outside; striking indoors was too much of a risk. Out here, though, in winter, traces disappeared fast. All
he needed was a chance to attack, and somewhere quiet to do it.

Hayes lurched on, into the darkest part of the road: a stretch where some of the streetlamps were broken and the buildings had no outside lights. They were still in the open, but maybe this was his best shot.