My Bloody Valentine (Alastair Gunn) (19 page)

At least this time there might be something to tie the victims together, and pacify the masses as well. If the killer
was
targeting ex-cons, they still had a shot at convincing the rest of London there was no reason for alarm. What worried Hawkins, though, was the increasing pace of events.

After finding out about Rosa Calano, she’d accepted
the possibility of further attacks, just perhaps not quite so soon. The gap between the first and second victims had been four months, but Samantha Philips had barely been cold when Matthew Hayes joined her on the list of casualties. So why the variation?

And how long till he did it again?

Hawkins made a mental note to call Simon Hunter. The respected psychological profiler had provided valuable insight into the mind of Hawkins’ last psychopath-shaped problem. If the three murders were linked, there was no harm in getting an early opinion. But first she needed to know if Hayes had done time.

Hawkins dug out her mobile and selected Frank Todd’s desk number. It was approaching one thirty, so he’d likely be at his desk, tucking into the contents of his first Tupperware box. Monday was tuna salad day; part of a diet that everyone suspected was an effort to slim. Frank had been a bachelor for years, ever since the first Mrs Todd had packed his bags for him. A daily hint of Old Spice backed up Amala’s recent suggestion that their Geordie detective was back on the romantic prowl. But, as the number started to ring, Steve Tanner reappeared through the gates, carrying three packaged crime scene overalls and nitrile gloves in one hand, his mobile in the other. He waved at them, suggesting that he had new information.

Hawkins sighed; ended her call.

Tanner arrived beside them. ‘I just called a contact back at HQ …’

‘And?’ Hawkins asked, mentally kicking herself for being beaten to the next logical move yet again.

Tanner’s mouth twitched, as if a satisfied grin was trying to break free. ‘Matthew Hayes just got out of Pentonville Prison. He killed a kid.’

34

They pulled up at the crossroads, both of them leaning forwards to stare out through the Land Rover’s dirty windscreen. Dark streets stretched away either side of the T-junction, disappearing into the blackness beyond the headlights.

‘Which way?’ Jim asked from the driver’s seat.

Jim Wilson was a newbie. Barely eighteen and greener than a golf course, he had a lot to learn. For a start, he was too skinny, needed building up, but he got stuck in, which counted for a lot, and the kid was permanently smiling. That’s why Trunks, who chose everyone’s nicknames around here, had straight away started calling him Cheshire.

Like the cat.

‘Hold on.’ Bull struggled with the map in the narrow cabin. He tried to fold it over, bashing his elbow on the passenger door, dropping the torch. It hit the centre console and disappeared. ‘Fuck.’

Bull shoved the map out of his way and bent forwards, digging under the seat. He could see the light leaking out from under him, but it wasn’t full beam, so the torch must have jammed itself in a corner. He groped in the darkness, finding nothing but sharp edges, brackets, bolts.

‘Don’t worry, man,’ Cheshire started. ‘Take your time, yeah?’

‘Screw this.’ Bull slid off the seat and jammed himself into the foot well, grit crunching under his boots, going at the torch a new way.

The driver carried on. ‘It’s only 3 a.m., plenty of time.’

‘Fuck you.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Cheshire gave a piss-take salute.

‘Listen, dick brain.’ Bull found the torch at last. He wrenched it free and shone it straight in the kid’s face. ‘I’m in charge of directions. You’re in charge of shutting the fuck up.’

Cheshire squinted, stuck a hand over the beam. ‘Whatever you say, boss man. Let’s get going, though, yeah?’

They grinned at each other as Bull swung himself back into the seat. Backchat was sometimes all that kept them sane.

He grabbed the crumpled paper and smoothed it across his legs, griping at its lack of detail. This place wasn’t like home at all. Not the scenery, not the people, and definitely not the directions.

Bull stared at the scrawled arrow pointing to where their targets had been seen the previous day, squinting up to see if he could find any of the landmarks circled on the map. But there were no markers outside.

He took a punt. ‘Go right.’

Cheshire grinned, bashed the truck into gear and gunned the engine, bumping the heavy vehicle over the lip and on to the other street. ‘Where next?’

‘Stay on this road,’ Bull told him. ‘I’ll tell you where to turn off.’ He went back to the map, torchlight jumping as they picked up speed, still trying to find the junction they’d just left. He glanced over at the kid. But Cheshire didn’t seem to be aware of any problems, which was good, considering that Bull had lost track of their position thirty minutes ago.

Bull checked the wing mirror, seeing the dark outline of a second Land Rover following them closely, headlights off. Tailgating, they called it: a tactic used to avoid unwanted attention.

Whenever vehicles travelled together at night, only the lead truck used its lights, taking responsibility for the others, which followed blindly behind. Up close it was obvious there were multiple trucks, but if anyone was watching from a distance all they saw was one set of headlights. In other words: less cause for alarm.

The trick worked even with large numbers of vehicles, although tonight there were only two in their train. There were five guys in total: Bull and Cheshire ahead; Trey, Collins and Ginger behind.

Bull stared out at the road as they rattled on, still seeing nothing that told him where they were. Low houses slogged past in the gloom, the gaps between them closing the further they drove into whatever fucking town this was. He’d pretty much given up on the map. Between the bumpy ride, the dim light and their makeshift directions, he’d have had trouble keeping them on the M25
,
let alone some half-arsed track, trampled into the dirt. He’d taken his best guess at the four-way junction that hadn’t been marked on the map fifteen miles ago, but after that it had all been guesswork. And he had no idea how to get back.

He glanced over at Cheshire, realizing the kid hadn’t said anything for about five minutes, whereas normally you couldn’t shut the guy up. Which meant he was nervous. That was no surprise, though; they all were.

‘What the hell is that?’ Cheshire asked suddenly.

Bull clicked off the torch and leaned closer to the screen, staring up at the huge shape looming out of the darkness ahead. Cheshire put the headlamps on full, lighting a set of spindly grey legs that rose out of the earth to a massive metal cylinder thirty feet above the road. His guess had paid off.

‘Water tower.’ He switched the torch back on, searching their map for the marker. After a few seconds, he found it.

Bang on the route to their goal.

‘Keep going for a quarter-mile,’ he instructed. ‘Take a left when I say.’

They rode the rutted track until Bull saw the turning, then joined another street. The pavements were unlit, the windows dark.

When they got within two hundred yards of the point marked on the map, Bull told Cheshire to stop. The kid pulled over and shut the engine off. In the mirror, Bull saw the other truck parking up behind. He dumped the map and torch, reaching on top of the dash for his binoculars. He switched to night vision and brought them up. Forty yards ahead, three linked houses sat in darkness.

Just like the informant had said.

Bull checked their position. They were parked on the other side of the street, down a slight incline. The Land Rovers would be visible from any one of the three houses, although they were a fair distance away. But other vehicles were dotted here and there, giving them cover, and it was dark tonight, really fucking dark. Which meant whoever lived there was unlikely to notice them – unless they’d been tipped off.

Or if it was a trap.

That was the thing: you had to be smart. Things looked quiet one minute and turned to carnage the next. You never knew anyone’s loyalties around here, until they tried to kill you.

But, for the moment, they had calm.

Bull switched the binoculars off and rested them in his lap. His eyes soon adjusted to the darkness, allowing him to see the front doors of the houses up ahead. Now it was just a case of waiting. It was nearly 3 a.m., and they were due back by eight, so they’d be here no more than four hours.

He pulled out his Marlboros and offered Cheshire the pack.

The kid took one. ‘Cheers.’

They wound down the windows and sat, smoking in silence. They all knew the drill. No card games or dicking about; nothing that took their eyes off the street.

They waited for an hour, talking quietly about the usual stuff: old girlfriends, the craziness of this place, things they missed about home. By four o’clock, without having seen anyone on the street, Bull had given up the idea of action, and his eyelids had started to drop. He forced himself to concentrate. The slightest smudge had broken the horizon, lifting the deepest blackness from the sky. And still the houses up ahead remained still.

Then he caught sight of movement.

A group of men had appeared near the far end of the street, most in jeans and T-shirts. They walked in a pack, staying close to the walls.

‘There.’ He pointed, grabbing the binoculars from his lap and clicking them on, picking up detail in the green glow of night vision. There were six of them, all around Bull’s age. Some of them looked up and down the street as they went, though none of them stared directly at the trucks. Either it was still too dark, or they weren’t bothered about being seen. But was that because they had nothing to hide, or because they already knew Bull and the others were there?

The men crossed the road, heading for the house.

Bull kept the binoculars trained. He checked out the first five men one by one, seeing nothing of interest. But the sixth guy made him pause. The kid was skinny and small but he moved like he was in charge, and the others seemed to be matching his pace.

Shielding him.

The men stopped outside the house and started filing in through the door. The skinny guy went in last, disappearing from view. But Bull had already seen what he needed to see. The kid was missing a hand.

Their informant had been telling the truth.

Bull kept the binoculars pointed at the door as he picked up the radio, ignoring Cheshire’s question about what was going on, and called in the alert.

35

Tanner’s statement about Matthew Hayes having served time wasn’t a surprise but, as she exchanged glances with Maguire in the windswept courtyard, Hawkins realized that Sod’s Law was punishing her. Habitual impatience, combined with insecurity regarding her seconded post, had seen her trample right over everyone else’s better judgement on her impulsive return to work.

She’d come back before she was ready, hoping for a simple common-or-garden murder investigation of the type they saw week after week, something that would allow her to start gradually rebuilding both her confidence and her recently blemished reputation.

Instead, here she was, still recovering from near-fatal wounds inflicted by one serial psychopath, only to sprawl on the tracks in front of another. The body lying ten feet away on the far side of the yard was the new killer’s third, and the same media that had facilitated her previous brush with ignominy were about to become interested all over again. Now she had pressure from below, too, in the form of a zealous upstart with superintendent sponsorship, who was consistently beating
her to every development in this case. Granted, her physical condition wasn’t helping her concentration, and more often than not there had been just seconds in it, but the score was already three–nil.

Basic chivalry said he should have let her have one, at least.

She hid her anxiety, responding to Tanner’s statement. ‘What did Hayes go down for?’

‘Hit and run,’ he said. ‘That’s all I know, but my contact’s digging the file up now. He’ll send it to my smartphone in a bit.’

‘Good work,’ Hawkins accepted, beginning to wonder who was teaching whom.

But something inside her rallied, salvaging her flagging confidence, when she realized she was automatically taking charge again. ‘Right, three bodies may not seem like a great start to our week, but at least it gives us something to work with. All the victims were released from prison shortly before they were killed, which means we’re looking at two main possibilities. Either these three became connected in some way before or during their sentences, or they were targeted
because
they’d been inside, perhaps, more specifically, because they all did time for murder or manslaughter.’ She looked at Tanner. ‘So, in the interests of your development, what’s our next move?’

‘Well’ – he paused, but only for a beat – ‘I’d start by working up Hayes’ past and cross-referencing it with
the previous victims’, looking for any historical links. Then I’d contact Pentonville to check his detention record; see if anything stands out.’

‘Good,’ Hawkins said. ‘Do you want some support?’

Tanner shook his head. ‘I’ll be fine; I’ve got a few contacts stored away from my stint in organized crime. If I need a hand, I’ll shout.’

She allowed herself to be impressed. ‘In that case, Mike and I will start looking at whether these people were targeted purely for their type of crime. If we check out other recently released convicts and those due for parole, we might even be able to work out where this guy will strike next.’