My Bloody Valentine (Alastair Gunn) (27 page)

Her frustration dropped away as the electronic woman was proved correct. The doors parted and a familiar scene began to appear in the widening gap: the serious incident suite at Hendon, headquarters for Metropolitan Police investigations into homicide and serious crime.

Hawkins watched the space opening out before her. Desks were scattered here and there, some lost beneath piles of unfiled paperwork from cases unexpectedly solved and discarded, while others held dirty cups and half-eaten packs of fossilized Belgian buns. As rooms went, there were few more soulless, but Hawkins wasn’t interested in its character. Her focus was on the staff.

Fewer
than six occupants were visible, less than average for this time of day, partly because, apart from Hawkins’ own investigation, there were no large cases on. Plus, it was 7 a.m., well before most self-respecting detectives had rolled out of bed and looked in the mirror, wondering what possessed them to perform such thankless work. Doing a job where the public’s
merest
expectation of you was to catch the bad guy every single time was inexorably skewed towards a perception of failure. Which was probably why the room contained a skeleton crew of those holding the proverbial short straws, designated by their respective teams to hand over to the oncoming shift; an event that would happen at some point in the next thirty minutes, and one that Hawkins had timed her arrival to avoid. If she was going to end up on her backside in modern policing’s most gossip-ridden office, she was going to make sure there were as few witnesses as possible.

She edged out of the lift, focused on the door to the operations room on the far side of the area and set off, ignoring the tortured chorus from her abdominal muscles, visualizing elegant progress across the floor.

A few officers glanced up, exchanging pleasantries as she passed. She kept her head up, opting for grace over less majestic speed, trying to keep her mind off the strain on her stomach wall by thinking as she moved.

It was Sunday morning, and she had endured three days in St Thomas’ Hospital, although her unease at being there had probably accelerated her recovery. The
unplanned dip in the Thames had set her body back, re-straining part-recovered muscles and tearing some internal stitches. Mercifully, the doctors hadn’t opened her up again, but they said she needed to go back in the chair, at least until fresh improvement was seen. She’d ignored them completely, of course, and had been lurching around on crutches by Friday afternoon, completely unaided by Saturday morning, determined not to resort to four wheels. Three fourteen-hour sleeps had paid dividends, too, doubtless expediting her return to upright mobility.

But there was only so far you could wander inside a hospital, and she had to admit the extra period of enforced recuperation had done wonders. The doctors recommended more rest, but they also needed the bed, and three days was all Hawkins could take.

No one in possession of their proverbial marbles pined for a messy room full of underpaid public servants, but as Hawkins ended her second sabbatical in as many months from just such a place, she couldn’t have been more relieved.

More than that, she refused to give Tanner any more time to undermine her. Mike had kept his word on updating her on the case every few hours. There had been a few developments, but no further deaths, while the pressure from above to make inroads into other cases had already started to grow. Although that hadn’t stopped Tanner from nurturing the gaps in her team. Maguire had tried again to reassure her that fretting
was unjustified, but she could read between the lines. Tanner, the plotting weasel, had used his unexpected freedom to create a sub-team, not so coincidentally comprising the two members of Hawkins’ team with whom she’d never gelled.

Frank Todd, the self-declared enemy of management flannel, was experienced and shrewd, and had probably jumped at the chance to assist Hawkins’ nemesis, while Aaron Sharpe, limp-wristed underachiever that he’d shown himself to be, no doubt welcomed the opportunity for change.

According to Mike, Tanner’s Angels had worked solidly for the last three days, obviously making the most of her forced absence. Perhaps it showed a degree of respect, but it would only take some overdue luck for Tanner’s team to stumble across a breakthrough, possibly even a critical arrest. And, if that happened, Hawkins was going to have trouble convincing
herself
that he didn’t deserve her job.

She walked on, still not confident that her body wouldn’t crumple without notice under her. But it had to be this way. Returning to work in the chair was not an option she had entertained. Seeing off the challenge from her aspiring usurper would be possible only if she exuded strength. And, in the pugilistic world of homicide investigation, demonstrating your potency from a wheelchair with your head barely rising above your opponent’s crotch was a big ask. She needed to face Tanner on equal terms: eye to eye.

Hence
the heels.

She made good progress until she was halfway across the floor, still twenty feet from the operations room, when she caught herself trying not to wince, and slowing down. She spurred herself on, trying to maintain her pace, but her frayed muscles burned. She’d managed short distances on foot at hospital and last night at home without any trouble, although on those practice runs she’d paid scant attention to her appearance, often arriving at her destination uncomfortably hunched. But she’d made it every time, and her posture had improved dramatically, even in the short interim.

In contrast, driving her dad’s Rover from Ealing to Hendon and then making it from car park to lift with a vertical demeanour had proved decidedly more difficult than she’d expected. Seven weeks of near-inactivity had left her physically weak, ill-equipped to deal with even the lightest exercise. The chair had been a pain. But, she now realized, a more bearable type of pain than this. Except it was too late for compunction.

Turning back would be worse.

An hour after getting to work, Hawkins eased back in her posture-supporting leather seat, frustration coursing through her. She tipped her plastic cup to find the remains of cold vending-machine coffee and pushed it away. It was a relief to be back in touch with the case, but she had also hoped that the intervening period of
relaxation, sleep and contemplation would allow her to return with a fresh perspective on the case.

Not a chance.

Her laptop sat on the desk, displaying Samantha Philips’ file. The surface around it was hidden under printouts of the case histories of the victims, but progress remained painfully slow. Hawkins rubbed her eyes, feeling the sting of excessive close work. She tried some eye exercises, switching her focus from near objects to far and back, a method suggested by the last health-related magazine she’d read with any semblance of attention. In 1996.

Her gaze drifted to the window separating her office from the main operations room, and to the view beyond, where two banks of cloverleaf desks were now populated by some of her team. By design, the operations room was at odds with twenty-first-century policing, because it provided a self-contained space for her people, rather than the more modern approach that favoured meetings in corridors and hot desks. Even Hawkins, as DCI, was lucky to have her own office these days, bucking the trend for ‘accessible leadership’.

Through the half-open blinds, Hawkins watched Aaron Sharpe cleaning his keyboard and Amala Yasir on the phone, their contrasting approaches to the first hour of the working day a microcosm for similarly opposing attitudes to the remaining seven. Both were supposed to be working loose ends from recent cases,
in the absence of fresh impetus in Operation Appeal. Developments had dropped off in the six and a bit days since Matthew Hayes had died, as the number of promising leads wore frustratingly away like the heels on your favourite shoes.

It was no surprise that the investigative fragments had been snapped up by Steve Tanner and his doe-eyed disciple, Frank Todd, who had it seemed pledged allegiance to a man he thought would soon be leading their team. According to a note left on her desk by Tanner the previous day, the two men were now researching the finer branches of the victims’ family trees, still attempting to find some sort of connection beyond being bashed to death by the same assailant. Even so, Hawkins hadn’t attempted to recall the pair, mostly because Tanner was doing as she’d asked. Ultimately, she had confidence that the answer to this case wouldn’t come from mining minuscule gaps ignored for good reason first time around, but experience said they needed a new direction, something unconsidered as yet.

But, without fresh developments, there were no new leads to pursue. The e-fit picture of the man seen following Matt Hayes prior to his death had appeared in the local and national news, in print and on TV. The response, as so often was the case, had been flaccid at best.

Three deaths in such a short space of time had secured decent media coverage at first, but interest had
waned when the chain of successive murders broke. And the fact that the victims were all ex-cons might have reignited the wider debate on capital punishment but it also meant that the public felt a lot safer than they had during Hawkins’ previous investigation, less than two months ago, when every resident of London had been under potential threat. All of which meant the decisive question was still to be asked. They just needed to work out what that question should be.

She sat, turning things over in her mind, but suddenly her brain stuttered. She tried to hold her thoughts together, but it was like bailing water with a sieve, the old ideas spilling out as new ones came in.

Hawkins shook her head, finally accepting that a visit to the Met’s counsellor was long overdue. She elbowed the memories of her attacker’s face away and reached for the phone, but her hand froze when she realized catharsis would have to go on waiting for now. Because Mike had entered the operations room.

Her senses primed themselves as she noticed the stern expression on his face, and she bristled when he glanced in her direction through the glass. She looked away, unsure whether he could see her through the blinds, or if a reflection on the outside of her office windows would obscure his view.

The atmosphere between them had been strained since Mike’s outburst at the hospital on Thursday
morning. He’d still visited her daily, and driven her home the previous night, plus they’d continued to communicate, albeit in stoic tones. Conversation had been civil, but neither had forgiven the other sufficiently to attempt reconciliation, and the air between them crackled with weighty things left unsaid.

He was back on the settee.

She watched him cross the room, swap a few words with Sharpe and Yasir, and check his workstation for notes. He stood for a few seconds beside the desk, facing away. Hawkins could almost hear his decision-making process. Then he turned.

She took a deep breath as he moved towards her, resolving not to be the one to kick off. Mike knocked politely before opening the door. ‘Okay to come in?’

She nodded. ‘Of course.’

Mike stepped inside. He looked as tired as she felt, except
he
had the excuse of a poor night’s sleep on a sofa three inches too short for him, having been kicked out of Hawkins’ bed when she’d returned to it the previous night, although she hoped the reason for his lack of rest was the same as her own: lying awake, regretting their fight.

He attempted a smile. ‘You shoulda said you were coming in early. I’d have driven you.’

‘It’s all right.’ She smiled back. ‘Dad didn’t mind me using his car, and the doctors said I should get back to normal activities right away. So I don’t go to seed.’

The doctors hadn’t said anything of the sort, but he didn’t know that.

‘Great.’ He made a decent stab at breeziness. ‘So how do you feel?’

‘Fine, actually.’ She stood as quickly as she dared, demonstrating renewed mobility. ‘The chair’s in the car, but I don’t think I’ll need it.’

Conversation faltered briefly, and the unaddressed tension between them quickly turned into an awkward hush.

Mike broke it first. ‘Maybe we should talk over what happened.’

‘You’re right. But can we do it later?’ She waved dismissively at the laptop. ‘I’m kind of preoccupied.’

‘Sure.’ He seemed happy to postpone. ‘What’s new?’

‘Nothing, unfortunately. I’m going over the files, trying to Sherlock a new perspective on this bloody case, but so far I’m blanking.’

There was a pause, which Hawkins almost filled. Part of her wanted to tell him about her lack of sleep, her inability to focus, the flashbacks. But the rest of her said no. If Mike found out she was struggling she’d probably end up lashed to her sofa, pleading with her dad to throw the television away.

At last Mike took a step forward. ‘Want some help?’

‘Why not?’

He pulled up a chair and joined her at the desk, where they started working through previously explored avenues, ensuring that nothing obvious had been
overlooked. Hawkins was relieved to find common purpose precluding any sustained negativity between them, but everything they discussed seemed like old ground. The same questions kept coming up.

First: how was the Judge establishing each convict’s exact crime? It was possible he’d identified his targets before their sentences began, perhaps by following local news reports of each conviction and simply waiting for them to do their time. But that would have involved the kind of patience most serial killers didn’t have in spades. It also led back to the original unanswered question:
why these particular three?

And, second: how had he known when his targets were coming out? Mercifully, that answer seemed less obscure, because Yasir had managed to dig up myriad articles from the local media in each case. All three victims were sufficiently controversial to have received substantial coverage, both when they were incarcerated and again when they were released, while most reports included specific dates and photos of them leaving court. Unfortunately, the more outrage each case had sparked, the more prospective vigilantes there were likely to be.