The Advent Killer (15 page)

00:00:01

Sunday.

Hawkins watched twenty seconds tick away before she noticed the silence. She waited for something to break it, but nothing did. There was no comment or rustle of transcripts from Mike, no urgent voices over the radio or banging of doors out in the corridor. No cheer to welcome Christmas morning. It was if a minute’s silence was being observed.

She dared to look over at Mike. The expression he returned matched her sentiments exactly.

Shit.

Hawkins opened her mouth but couldn’t think of anything to say. Any comment about the case would serve only to highlight their continued lack of progress, but nor was this the time to be discussing their personal issues. Suddenly, last night’s kiss seemed like a lifetime ago. Her feelings for Mike would have to wait.

Admittedly their timing was abysmal. This was hardly an ideal opportunity to pick through the bones of a relationship neither of them had wanted to end. And, difficult as it might eventually be, that conversation looked easy next to the task they had postponed it for.

Suddenly, her headset hissed into life: one of the teams reporting yet another unproductive lead. Hawkins shook
off fatigue and reached for the next sheet in the pile beside her, her voice cracking from overuse when she replied with the next address.

The team leader repeated it correctly, but his tone was glum.

Were they wasting their time?

She rattled off details of the transcript, glancing at Maguire, only to find him still looking at her. For a moment she thought he was going to offer reassurance, but a ringing sound from her desk ensured that whatever he’d been about to say would have to wait. She brought her mobile to her ear without checking the number. ‘Hawkins.’

‘What’s our status, Detective?’

‘Sir.’ She landed fully back in the present. She’d expected Kirby-Jones to call, but the report she gave hadn’t sounded so lame in her head: ‘No further progress yet. DI Maguire and I are still working through the transcripts.’

‘It’s Sunday, Hawkins.’

‘Yes, sir, I’m aware of that but, as I mentioned earlier, I believe that now swings the odds in our favour.’

‘Why?’

‘We didn’t expect the killer to make an appearance before twelve o’clock, given that committing the murders on a Sunday is one of his signatures. His MO should increase our chances of getting a positive ID on his location in the next hour.’

‘Hmmm.’ He was quiet for a few seconds. ‘What’s our current response time?’

‘Twenty-four minutes, sir.’

‘And percentage of calls attended?’

‘I don’t have an exact figure.’

Silence.

‘Approximately one in thirty,’ she estimated, glancing at Mike, who winced.

There was muffled sound on the line, as if the mouthpiece had been covered.

‘Are you still there, sir?’

‘Of course. I’m trying to organize some extra manpower from Hertfordshire. Stand by for that, but don’t count on it. And, for heaven’s sake, Hawkins, get some help for you and Mike on the transcripts. You can’t afford for this to fail.’ The line went dead.

She replaced her mobile on the desk and slumped in her chair. Suddenly she felt so tired.

‘The man hates me,’ she breathed, half to herself.

‘Hey,’ Mike said. ‘Don’t let it get to you.’

Hawkins almost stood up. She wanted to walk over and collapse in his arms, but before her legs responded, calls came in on both radios.

Thirty minutes later, with any discussion about their relationship dutifully postponed, she and Mike were still at their desks, hunched over respective piles of transcripts, in constant dialogue with their teams. They had adopted similar approaches, with three separate stacks to denote ‘promising’, ‘reasonable’ and ‘unlikely’ leads. Unfortunately, all three piles outweighed the ‘attended’ stacks. There had been no word from the DCS about reinforcements, and their average response time had climbed to more than half an hour.

The clock read 00:41.

Hawkins pressed thumb and forefinger to her temples. Her head ached, and her throat was sore from giving non-
stop direction over the radio. Fantastic – maybe she’d lose her voice
and
her career tonight?

She didn’t want to contemplate failure, but her plan to use the public as radar hadn’t paid off. Yet.

The response teams had arrested three men already tonight, but two of them had been too drunk to harm anyone except themselves, and the third had been picked up for car theft.

Nemesis was still out there.

To hell with it.

She had just reached into her bag for the packet of Marlboros and her lighter, and was drawing breath to lie about nipping to the ladies’, when she was interrupted.

Connor pushed the door open. ‘I’m here regarding the call-centre job. Apparently somebody ordered support.’

Hawkins was glad to see him, having called after her conversation with Kirby-Jones to get the sergeant back, redirecting the response team so they could drop him at the Yard. She filled Connor in on their progress before installing him in her chair.

He and Mike manned the radios while she prioritized the calls.

One o’clock on Sunday morning passed.

Hawkins swallowed hard. That was it; they had entered the crucial period when the killer was most likely to strike again, and yet all she could do was sit here in this office, helpless apart from the pile of paper on her desk. She felt an urge to get up and run into the street, waving her arms and shouting at everyone to be careful. But that wouldn’t help anybody. Her only option was to press on.

Hawkins placed another sheet on the ‘unlikely’ pile and
began reading through the next. She sighed as the scenario began to unfold in depressingly familiar fashion, and by the end of the transcript her mind had shifted focus.

Something took her back six days, to the discovery of Jessica Anderton’s body and the usual series of harrowing interviews with friends and relatives who had never had to deal with murder before.

Hawkins never knew whether to envy or pity people in that position.

She fought the urge to blame herself for their current situation. Could she have taken the investigation in a different direction? Would Nemesis be locked up by now if someone else had been in charge? Had she missed something obvious?

Connor leaned back in his chair, removing his headset to stretch. He looked round at Hawkins. ‘How’s it going, ma’am?’

‘Oh, spectacular,’ she replied. ‘We’re supposed to be one of the best forces in the world, but this guy gives us the time and day he’s going to strike, and we still can’t get near him. Not exactly a resounding endorsement.’

‘Can’t think like that, chief.’ Connor turned his chair to face her. ‘Sometimes it really is down to luck. Remember Geoffrey Evans?’

‘I do, actually.’ Hawkins thought back to her dissertation on serial homicide. ‘Ireland’s most eminent serial killer: went inside in the seventies for multiple rape and murder.’

‘That’s him – pledged to kill a woman a week. Luckily, they got him after just two, but it was the public who
brought him down. He stole a car and painted it himself, then somebody saw it in a petrol station, thought it was weird and reported it. A couple of days later, a Garda patrol passed it in the street, so they picked up the driver. Turned out it was the same guy.’

The same guy
.

Suddenly, every thought process in Hawkins’ mind froze; a split second later, they were discarded as the spark crystallized into a tangible memory.

Mike and Connor looked startled as she bolted from her chair.

It had to be there. If there was any justice, it
had
to be
.

She snatched her bag from the floor and began rifling through it. Connor slid his chair away to give her room as she began dumping files and briefing sheets onto the desk.

Just as she started cursing sod’s law, Hawkins found what she was after. Her fingers gripped the ring binder of her previous, now full, notepad. She wrenched it free, thanking habitual disorganization, and began flipping pages.

Mike arrived beside her. ‘What’s up?’

‘Wait,’ she told him. ‘Just … one … minute.’

Yes, there was the page. She read down until she found the line. Then she laid the notepad down and stared at it, her fingers trailing slowly across her forehead.

‘This is it.’ She tapped the page.

‘This is what?’ Mike asked. ‘Come on, Toni, this is
what
?’

Hawkins realized she wasn’t making much sense. She handed him a transcript only a couple of calls back from
her ‘promising’ pile. ‘This call came in at ten past midnight from someone called Faith Easton. Faith’s daughter, Summer, called her a few hours earlier, at ten forty-five. They talked until after midnight, when the daughter’s doorbell rang. She thought it’d be a friend, and promised to call her mum back. But she didn’t, and now her mum says the line just rings whenever she calls it. At first she assumed Summer had gone out, but then she remembered some random guy contacted her via an internet chat room a few days ago, looking for her daughter, apparently in a professional capacity. So now she’s worried.’

‘Sounds like every other call we’ve had tonight,’ Connor said. ‘What’s so special about this one?’

‘Trouble is’ – Hawkins showed him her notepad – ‘I think she might be right. It reminded me about my interviews with Jessica’s friends. They mentioned some new man who’d been sniffing around. Look at the name on both these sheets.’

She held up the notepad next to the transcript. Mike and Connor stared at the two documents for a moment before they said the name in unison.

‘Jay Jay.’

The lift doors slid shut, sealing them inside. Hawkins hit the button marked ‘B1’ and stepped back. She crossed her arms and chewed her lip.
The descent didn’t usually take this long to begin, did it?
A nightmare scenario flashed through her mind: it wouldn’t look great for them if the Advent Killer escaped because the three detectives leading the charge to apprehend him were trapped in a broken lift.

At last a jolt instigated their drop towards the basement of New Scotland Yard.

Hawkins breathed again, turning to Connor. ‘You’re absolutely sure there’s only one Old Queen Street in London?’

‘Yes, boss.’

‘You’ve checked.’

‘Yes, boss.’

‘And how soon can you get us there?’

‘Three minutes.’ He held up car keys in one hand and waved an
A to Z
map-book with the other.

‘Good.’ She looked at Mike. ‘How long until the first response team arrives?’

‘Team 9’s closest – they’re still fifteen minutes away. Team 12 are four minutes behind that.’

Hawkins checked her watch. Seven minutes past one.

They fell silent as a second jolt was followed by a
pinging sound. The doors opened smoothly, and they moved out into Scotland Yard’s underground car park.

It was a mere five minutes since Hawkins had discovered the link that had started the current chain of events. Since then, while Mike had called the nearest response teams and Connor had located the address, she had sourced two radios locked on a secure channel to Brian in the incident room.

Yet the link itself hadn’t been the biggest shock. More worrying was just how close to New Scotland Yard the potential victim lived. Old Queen Street was less than a mile north of the Met’s headquarters, meaning that she, Connor and Mike could get there well before any of the response teams.

Could this choice of location be intentional? Committing murder on the Met’s doorstep would have been bad enough under normal circumstances, let alone on a night when they had been warned. Or was this a shrewd move by a killer who’d always been one step ahead? It was just after midnight on Christmas morning, and Scotland Yard was practically deserted. Had they had left their posts and gambled everything on a duff lead, leaving Nemesis free to kill again with even
less
chance of being caught? She shuddered. It was too late to turn back now.

At least she’d resisted the temptation to summon all their resources to this one address.

Their rapid footsteps echoed off the concrete walls of the below-street car park, and the Astra’s lights flashed as Connor deactivated the alarm. A moment later, they exited onto Broadway. Connor and Mike sat up front, while Hawkins switched on the two radios in the back.

They resembled miniature walkie-talkies, and were lightweight enough to be clipped to the user’s clothing. The secure channel ensured their messages would not be lost among general radio traffic, and that incoming communication from other units wouldn’t interrupt. A couple of quick tests satisfied her that both were working and that Brian was where she had instructed him to wait – beside the main radio – ready to cancel the alarm or call in the cavalry. She turned the volume down on both and had just stuck them back in her pocket when they were all thrown forwards in their seats.

Connor swore at the car that had forced him to skid to a halt at the crossroads, then they were pinned back as he took off again. Hawkins craned her neck to read the road sign: Carter Street.

She leaned forwards between the seats. ‘How far?’

‘To the end of this street and then right.’ Connor’s eyes didn’t leave the road ahead. ‘Less than a minute. What house number is it?’

‘Thirty-six.’ Hakwins said.

‘Park up short of the house,’ Mike told him. ‘Don’t wanna be signposting our arrival.’ He waited for Connor’s nod before turning to look at Hawkins. His face was blank, but there was reassurance in his eyes.

Or was it exhilaration?

Before she could decide, they lost eye contact as the car jerked violently to the right.

‘Shit, sorry!’ Connor shouted, unheard by the shocked-looking couple crossing the road, who clearly hadn’t expected sixty-mile-an-hour-traffic at one o’clock on Christmas morning.

Hawkins checked her seatbelt was securely fastened as fresh nerves jangled inside her.

Minutes from now, they could be hauling away the biggest arrest of her career, or standing over the body of the killer’s latest victim. Or they might simply be explaining to a confused Londoner why they’d interrupted her first night in bed with a new boyfriend.

Two thoughts flashed through her mind: first, that she’d give almost anything to be the one who actually made the arrest, and; second, if it
had
been exhilaration in Mike’s eyes a moment ago, maybe they had simply mirrored her own.

Outside, the scenery began to pass more slowly.

They were on Old Queen Street.

Mike and Connor took a side each and started checking off house numbers. Hawkins wiped condensation from the window beside her and strained her eyes, trying to pick out any movement in the heavy shadows that might betray a killer leaving a crime scene.

They were only a few hundred yards from the outskirts of London’s beating heart: the Treasury and the Foreign Office were within half a mile; Downing Street itself was two minutes’ walk from there. The street appeared deserted, but an eerie sensation descended on her. But the chill Hawkins felt had nothing to do with the temperature.

For at least another twelve minutes, when back-up would arrive, they were on their own.

‘Fifty-eight,’ Connor said, as he steered into a gap among the cars lining one side of the street. ‘Close enough.’

Hawkins pulled her coat tighter as they stepped out of
the car, her breath condensing in the freezing night air. Large white flakes drifted silently around them, dampening the city’s ambient noise to create an eerie stillness. Positive temperatures and rain earlier in the day meant the snow had only just begun to cover the ground.

Hawkins took the lead as Connor remote-locked the car.

‘OK,’ she said, ‘nice and easy. We still have the element of surprise here.’

‘Small mercies,’ Connor whispered.

As they walked, Hawkins quietly cursed every house whose owner hadn’t bothered to number, or at least sufficiently light, their door. She picked out fifty-two and forty-six, but none in between were visible. They couldn’t afford any mistakes. She also noted the passageways at regular intervals between the houses.

‘These cut-throughs should give us access to the rear.’ She produced the two handsets and passed one to Connor. ‘You take the back. We’ll synchronize using the radios. Keep your voices down.’ She checked her radio was on. ‘And if Nemesis
is
here,’ she continued, ‘I’ll take the heat if you have to shoot him. I want this fucker stopped, OK?’

Connor nodded and clipped the radio on to his lapel while Hawkins did the same.

‘There,’ Mike said, halting their progress and pointing ahead. ‘Thirty-six.’

Their destination had a bright ceramic plaque denoting its number, although the sturdy wooden door made it unlikely they would gain entry by force. The curtains were closed, but a sliver of brightness ran along one edge of the window.

The front room lights were on.

Hawkins looked at Mike. He nodded:
This could be it.

‘We’ll wait until you’re in position,’ she said to Connor. ‘Go.’

Connor produced his gun from its holster and moved towards the nearest passage. Hawkins watched him disappear and turned to Mike. ‘Ready?’ she whispered.

‘As I’ll ever be.’

They moved closer to the door as a quiet burst of static indicated that Connor had pressed the talk button on his radio.

‘Approaching the back now.’ His voice was just above a whisper. ‘There’s a curtain so I can’t see inside, but there’s no garden. It just opens onto the alley.’

Hawkins heard him release the button, and reached up to press her own. ‘Good. Sit tight. Brian, stand by.’

She checked her watch. The response teams would be less than ten minutes away now, but that could be the difference between finding a witness or a corpse. Her eyes locked with Mike’s again as she raised her hand to knock.

She spoke into the radio. ‘Here goes.’

Hawkins rapped twice on the door, heart pounding in her ears. Seconds passed.

She pressed the radio button again. ‘Anything back there?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Trying again.’ She balled her fist to knock a second time.

‘Wait.’ Connor’s voice was tense but in control. ‘I’ve got signs of movement inside the house. I think someone’s coming out at the back.’

There was a sound that could have been a door latch being released.

‘Armed police, don’t m—’ she heard Connor say, then: ‘
Wha
—
?
’

Static invaded the line suddenly before the signal ended with an abrupt click.

‘Shit.’ She looked at Mike. ‘Taser.’

They turned and sprinted for the passageway, Mike leading, both of them fighting for traction in the snow. Hawkins managed to stay close behind him thanks to the training shoes she had worn since the previous afternoon.

As they reached the corner, the unmistakeable sounds of two gunshots shattered the still air.

‘Eddie?’ she yelled.

There was no reply as they flew along the passageway, until Mike suddenly stopped at its end. Hawkins fought every instinct to continue headlong into the alley, and flattened herself against the wall beside him. It was possible their quarry was now armed.

‘Control, we’ve got gunfire,’ she panted into the radio, as she watched Mike take two short breaths and then lean quickly in and out of the alleyway.

‘He’s running.’ Mike disappeared around the corner.

Hawkins’ eyes still hadn’t adjusted to the gloom as she followed his lead into the alleyway. It was murky and narrow, hemmed in on either side by tall, terraced houses.

For a second Mike blocked her view ahead, then she heard running footsteps further along the passage and moved to the side, straining to make out detail in the shadows. Then she saw the figure.

Fifty yards ahead, a silhouette sprinted away from them.

Nemesis.

‘Oh, hell, no.’ Mike pulled up just in front of her. Hawkins tore her eyes away from the retreating figure and glanced down.

The air left her lungs as if she’d been punched.

Connor lay slumped on his side, a crimson halo spreading in the pristine snow. His eyelids were flickering, his throat and one of his temples a gory, gunshot mess.

‘Motherfucker!’ Mike shouted as he grabbed the radio from Connor’s jacket and took off after the retreating figure. ‘Antonia, get the car.’

Hawkins couldn’t respond. She swallowed hard and crouched over the sergeant, pushing him gently onto his back.

‘Eddie,’ she breathed, watching helplessly as Connor’s eyelids twitched one final time and became still. Even in the dim light she could tell he’d gone.

‘Antonia?’

She jerked upright and stared into the eerie stillness, seeing only snowflakes swimming in the black air, exhaling when she remembered the radio. Suddenly, the moment came back to her: she heard the retreating footsteps again, and saw that Mike was approaching the far end of the alley.

‘Antonia? Mike?’ Brian’s voice crackled through the radio. ‘What the fuck’s going on?’

‘Officer down,’ she said, searching Connor’s coat pockets for his keys. ‘Get an ambulance here, and helicopters. It’s Nemesis, and he’s taken off on foot.’

Brian said something she couldn’t make out as she found the keys. She glanced down at Connor once more
before she turned and ran for the car. She didn’t want to leave him, but the response teams were on their way, and this might be their only chance to stop Nemesis.

‘Mike,’ she shouted, ‘I’m nearly at the car. Which way?’

There was a hiss, then Mike’s voice: ‘He went straight across Old Queen Street and … a cut-through.’ His speech was broken as he ran. ‘Must exit out front of … St James’ Park.’

‘Stay with him,’ Hawkins replied, aware that Mike’s directions were also being relayed immediately to the incident room. ‘I’m coming.’

She unlocked the Astra as she approached, clattered into the driver’s seat and fumbled with the key. The engine roared into life and slush spattered the bodywork as she accelerated hard out onto the street, activating the unliveried car’s siren.

‘Heading … west’ – Mike’s breathing had become more laboured – ‘toward Buckingham Palace. Think I’m … catching …’

Hawkins swore under her breath. She was moving in the opposite direction and there wasn’t sufficient space to turn around. She reached the end of Old Queen Street, gunning the engine, slowing just enough to make the corner, perhaps not enough to avoid a collision if there was traffic.

The road was empty in both directions, and she hauled the Astra around another 90-degree left-hander, throwing in opposite lock and skidding onto the road that skirted St James’ Park. She accelerated to a steady speed and leaned forwards, turning on the wipers to clear snow from the screen, scanning ahead.

‘I’m on the same road,’ she shouted over the siren’s wail. ‘Where are you?’

‘Right-hand side.’ Mike’s voice was tinny through the radio speaker. ‘Damn this fucker’s … fast.’

She squinted through the falling snow, trying to pick out any movement against the whiteness beyond the trees lining the pavement. Two cars passed in the opposite direction, their lights blinding her. But as they moved on, she saw Mike, sprinting along the pavement just ahead. And then, about twenty-five yards further ahead, the form of the fleeing killer.

‘I’m right behind you,’ she told Mike. ‘I’ll try to cut him off.’

She changed down a gear and forced her foot to the floor. The wheels span before finding grip, her acceleration propelling her past Maguire.

‘Keep going,’ she shouted. ‘I’ll pin him in.’

She moved up a gear and closed on Nemesis as he flew along in the shadows between the trees and the railings surrounding St James’ Park.

If Hawkins timed her incision correctly, she could create a blockade, maybe slowing their target enough for Mike to catch up … and, considering that Nemesis was probably armed, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to hit him with the car in the process.