The Advent Killer (28 page)

Hawkins picked up her mobile from the coffee table and pressed a button to light the display. Still nothing.

Where the hell
was
he?

The on-screen clock said it was after 8 p.m., nearly six hours since Mike had dropped her off.

And he still hadn’t called.

She dumped the phone and sat back, berating herself.

She had almost dialled Maguire’s mobile at several stages during the afternoon, partly to apologize, mostly to find out what was going on with the case. Pride had got the better of her every time.

But she still hated to admit that, without a case to obsess over or a semi-boyfriend to fight, she was basically lost.

She’d tried making plans for things to keep her occupied during the two-week suspension. Obviously she needed to prepare her defence, but what apart from that?

She realized she finally had the opportunity to catch up with long-neglected friends and family – providing that any of them still remembered her. And she could always do some of the hundreds of jobs around the house she’d been putting off for months. It was only natural that she’d need some time to adjust.

Yet all she could think about was work.

She kept catching herself preparing tomorrow’s morning briefing, or making mental notes of people she needed to chase up about this or that. Then she would feel absurd, and chastise herself for being such an idiot.

That anger, in turn, would be redirected towards Lawrence Kirby-Jones.

Finally, after using every derogatory term she knew at high volume, Hawkins ended up reminding herself that daylight was long gone and that really she shouldn’t still be at home. Alone.

She swore, well aware that she should have left for Eric Johnston’s house hours ago. Except that every time she got up to leave, another damn good reason not to go had occurred to her.

Initially, just a plain desire not to go was enough. When that had worn off, she’d spent an hour telling herself there was no point. In her experience, Eric Johnston was a petty bigot who spent most of his time spouting lines from the police ethics handbook. OK, he was harmless, but by this time of night – if their previous encounters were anything to go by – he’d be half-cut. Which made him less than ideal protection.

Anyway, she could handle herself.

And besides, John had gone missing mid-week: Nemesis would be far too busy to deal with the likes of her tonight. If history had taught them anything it was that, as far as he was concerned, Saturday nights and Sunday mornings were reserved for the main event.

In the end, it was her memories of the bloody handprint in Barclay’s flat that convinced her otherwise, and she’d started to pack.

An hour later, a bag containing enough clothes to last her a week dominated the hallway, and Hawkins had promised herself just one cup of tea before leaving. Her final mistake had been to switch on the TV.

She’d flicked through the various news channels, looking for updates on the case she should still have been leading. She’d settled as usual for BBC News, which was currently filled with only two subjects: endless coverage of the lead up to New Year was interspersed sporadically with reports, speculation and punditry about Nemesis.

Normally even the biggest news stories started to bore the public after a month or so but, five weeks into Nemesis’ murderous campaign, its allure remained.

The Advent Killer had everyone’s attention, and nothing made people panic like the national media telling everybody they’d be stupid not to. Now that darkness had fallen, reporters dotted residential areas and town centres around the capital, each highlighting unusually deserted streets and the feeling of unease that permeated every suburb.

Yet even the knowledge that a breakthrough was unlikely hadn’t stopped Hawkins hanging on each new promise of an update or fresh information.

The current loop ended, and a newsreader with cheeks like a hamster’s began reciting other headlines. Hawkins glared at the phone lying on the coffee table.

Still not ringing.

She pictured Mike and the rest of her team gathered around Tristan Vaughn like sycophantic disciples, all aware of her mistakes, none eager to repeat them. And Curtis Rickman, presently a tenant of the holding cells
but who, if no evidence could be found by 11 p.m., would soon be out of their hands.

What if nobody thought to inform the parole board of why Rickman was being held?
Releasing a potential killer into the custody of the usual, unarmed two-officer team would be asking for trouble. She reached instinctively for her mobile, only to groan when she realized there was no point: she had to accept that the others knew what they were doing. Apart from that, any attempt to influence the case now would mean disobeying another of Kirby-Jones’ direct orders. And even
she
wasn’t stupid enough to go there.

‘Idiot.’ She let her head drop back to stare at the ceiling. ‘Idiot, idiot, idiot.’

She stood and walked into the kitchen, opening one or two cupboards, aimlessly looking for comfort food she knew she didn’t have. Anything to take her mind off today. Was it possible to rescue a career that had been flushed so comprehensively down the toilet? And, if so, was that even the right thing to do?

What if it’s a sign,
Mike’s voice repeated in her head,
that it’s time to try something new?

She slammed the cupboard door. Who the fuck was
he
to make her question the part of her life she’d worked harder for than anything else? But if even Mike didn’t understand her, then who the hell did?

Paul?

She thought about it for a moment before walking to her bag and digging out the card he’d given her, feeling its silky finish, admiring the tastefully rounded font. After six
months away, did Paul
really
seem more like what she wanted than Mike did?

She shook her head as she dropped it in the bin, remembering the nuisance calls, and the fact that she wasn’t in the right state of mind to be making decisions about careers – or anything else.

Looking over, she realized that the clock on the microwave she’d been trying to ignore now said 20:16. She sighed in resignation and pulled a small, magnetic card off the fridge door. The cab company’s number was printed in lurid rainbow coloured letters across the top, but even the friendly driver she’d had last time didn’t make her want to call now.

Mike would probably be out all night, and she couldn’t realistically ignore Eric Johnston on her first night of taking advantage of his hospitality. She needed to relax if she was going to survive a night there in her current mood.

Maybe she needed a glass of wine.

Or two.

She could call a cab in the next twenty minutes, sink a couple of glasses and still be in Wood Green by just after nine.

Hawkins reached for the fridge door again, but this time opening it to produce the chilled bottle of white she’d been saving for an evening in with Mike. She took an oversized wine glass from where it had spent a couple of nights on the draining board and set it down on the countertop.

She gripped the cool bottleneck and twisted, anticipating the first sip, expecting to hear a crack as the seal broke.
After a moment’s wasted effort, however, Hawkins realized what was wrong. She banged the bottle down on the work surface and began rifling through the kitchen drawer, her search growing ever more frantic.

In the end she conceded that Paul must have taken the corkscrew.

And she’d managed to buy a bottle without a screw top.

He crouched in the shadows, watching. Alert.

Assessing the scene.

The house itself did not appear protected: there was no evidence of an alarm or other security measures, although he couldn’t take that for granted. Neither was there any way to determine exactly who or how many were inside.

Yet these factors would not deter him.

No one had entered or left since his arrival, while the late hour and plunging temperatures ensured the area was likely to remain deserted.

According to his most reliable police informant,
she
was here. And he would not let such an extraordinary opportunity pass.

He checked the mobile phone again, as he had done regularly since switching it to silent. The signal was strong, but there had been no further messages from any of his sources. Still no news that contradicted his current information.

Not that the informant knew what he had done. There were several Met officers willing to take cash in return for inside information on Operation Charter. But as far as any of them understood, they were simply providing leads for an underhand journalist: ironically, he was responsible for the information regarding the case, strategically leaked to the media throughout. The beauty of the
situation was that, because his police informers had already broken the law by selling classified data, none of them would confess, even if they later came to suspect that their actions had assisted a killer.

His original plans for tonight had been uncertain, fraught with complication. But the Met had inadvertently helped him out.

He placed the handset back in his pocket without switching it off. Despite the fact that phone companies could triangulate the location of a modern digital handset to within a few metres almost instantly, they’d have no reason to investigate this particular signal. It was also a pre-paid voucher system, purchased from a busy supermarket a month ago.

No contract; no trace. Like a single spit of rain against the pattering background of a billion distant others, he remained an enigma to them. Unpredictable. Unstoppable.

One drop in the deluge.

He checked his watch: 11.45 p.m. His pulse quickened in anticipation of coming events. He closed his eyes, resisting the excitement, forcing himself to remain calm.

He studied the gun. It seemed fine, although he was no expert. There were five bullets left in the clip, five more than he hoped he would need, because it was the component in which he had least confidence, despite his recent excursion to test-fire the weapon. That had given him a feel for the firearm, but it had been difficult to assess the absolute accuracy of his aim under volatile conditions.

He adjusted his crouching position, ignoring the
sensation of pins and needles in his right foot. It would soon be time to instigate his final attack.

He could not see inside the house, but he felt her presence.

Suddenly his mind clouded, as if the very thought of her had poisoned his intent. Emotion flared, casting its spectre over his resolution. Ambivalence.
Doubt
.

He shook his head, resisting its onslaught.
No
. He had repelled these sensations; they no longer controlled him. He inhaled deeply, driving out compassion, fortifying his resolve.

He looked out over the undulating cityscape to the south. Dull, charcoal shapes hung in the sullen air, portending rain over London’s blurred, shadowy skyline.

It had to be tonight; otherwise the chain would be broken. And the moment he failed to deliver on his guarantee, those who had come to respect him would lose faith. There were supporters out there, believers. He sensed them growing in number and conviction every day.

He wouldn’t let them down.

Hawkins woke with a start and was sitting bolt upright before she had time to stop herself.

Light seared her retinas, forcing her eyes shut, followed by a tidal wave of nausea that drew her elbows back to the table top and a shuddering breath from her lungs. Her mouth tasted like she’d eaten a whole pack of cigarettes. She groaned and brought her hands to her temples. Had her brain been replaced with a brick?

She fixed her position, massaging closed eyelids, waiting for the sledgehammer to ease its assault on her head. When she felt confident that opening her eyes wouldn’t cause her skull to explode, she looked around, blinking.

Beside her, a well-populated ashtray and the empty wine bottle accounted for a fair percentage of her queasiness. She’d managed to open the bottle around half-eight and had finished it in less than an hour. That, combined with fatigue, had obviously been sufficient to put her to sleep, even here at the kitchen table.

The lights overhead bathed her in stark whiteness, a dramatic contrast to the blackness beyond the kitchen window. Opposite, lit by a sea of shifting colours from the muted television, the doorway framed her sofa – where Hawkins would have been, given possession of any
sense. Instead she was there, inebriated and spot-lit in her kitchen.

She squinted at the clock. 12:08 a.m.

New Year’s Day.

The knocking sound made Hawkins whip round, eyes wide, body taught, to stare at the black sections in the back door where somebody had just tapped on the glass.

She saw nothing.

She stood, suppressing her panic, desperate to see who was in the garden. She edged backwards, eyes locked on the door, groping behind her for the light switch. She had to turn and look before she was able to flick off the light.

She turned back again to the door, staring at the form now becoming visible beyond the glass. Her heart rate began to slow as her eyes adjusted to the darkness, her alarm turning to confusion when she recognized the stooped figure outside.

Could it really be him?

Hawkins let out a huge sigh of relief and crossed to unlock and open the door.

‘Are you OK?’

‘I’m sorry, ma’am.’ John Barclay’s voice wavered as he looked around nervously. ‘I didn’t know where else to go.’

He wore grubby jeans and a torn jumper, and he had what looked like a mixture of dried blood and dirt on his neck.

‘It’s alright,’ Hawkins told him. ‘Come inside.’

She stood back and the trainee detective moved slowly up the step and into the kitchen. Hawkins leaned out and glanced around the garden before she locked the door and switched the light back on.

Barclay was acting like a frightened animal. His eyes darted anxiously and his jaw chattered as Hawkins encouraged him to sit at the table.

‘Wait there,’ she instructed, and ran to get a blanket, stopping briefly to check the front of the house through a crack in the curtains. Everything seemed normal, but she checked the door was secure before returning to the kitchen, where she wrapped the blanket around Barclay’s shoulders.

Physically he seemed OK, but he was clearly traumatised, staring into space as if the wall and the housing estate beyond were invisible. Had he been held captive? She wanted to ask, but the panic in his eyes said he needed some time to settle, first.

‘John?’ She crouched, trying to make eye contact. ‘You’re safe here, OK? All the doors are locked.’

Barclay didn’t respond directly. His gaze alighted on her for a split second, but then slid away, as if in submission. There was clearly something very wrong.

‘Are you injured, John?’ she asked carefully, waiting for a response that didn’t come. ‘Are you hurt?’

His head made the smallest of shakes.
No
.

‘Good. Just sit there and relax. Would you like something to drink?’

Another shake.

‘OK.’ She straightened up, feeling her headache resume its thumping assault. ‘I’m going to make some coffee. Let me know if you change your mind.’

She filled the kettle and set it back on its base, cursing under her breath when she opened the drawer to find no clean teaspoons, and then the cupboard, to
find no cups. She began lifting day-old dishes out of the sink.

Her headache was back to full strength now, and she steadied herself against the worktop.

‘Ma’am?’

She turned her head, but Barclay wasn’t looking at her. He still stared into the distance.

‘I have to tell you something,’ he said quietly, ‘and I need you to understand.’

Hawkins swallowed. She wanted to know what sort of ordeal he’d been subject to, and help if possible. She thought about calling for an ambulance straight away, but he seemed physically okay, so it was probably best to try and calm him down a bit first.

‘What is it?’ She moved towards him. ‘What happened to you?’

‘I … I was confused … trapped.’

‘OK,’ she coaxed. ‘Take your time. Who trapped you?’

He looked up at her suddenly, his expression a mixture of fear and confusion.

‘I was … I came to tell you, but …’ His eyes dropped. ‘
He
was there.’

He was clearly confused, so Hawkins avoided leading him; not offering the name that sprang to mind, ‘
Who
was there, John?’

Barclay stared at the floor for what felt like an eternity before he said the name.

‘Maguire.’

Hawkins frowned, crouching down again. She had to keep the conversation going, get something coherent out of him.

‘Mike? What does
he
have to do with this?’

Barclay’s narrowed eyes focused on her at last. ‘He … took you from me.’

Hawkins just stared, her head thumping. ‘I don’t understand what this has to do with me or Mike, John. Where have you been?’

‘I just needed … space. Time … to think.’

Hawkins tried to repeat her question, but managed only to shake her head, mouth open. Had he disappeared through choice? But what about the flat, the handprint?

‘We can start again, Antonia,’ Barclay said. ‘I can forgive you.’

Hawkins shrank away as his words finally started making sense. She remembered the day Barclay vanished, the same day he’d walked in on her and Maguire in her office. She remembered the look on his face.

She stood, suddenly uncomfortable.

‘Don’t you see?’ Barclay’s words were no longer whispered. ‘We should be together.’

‘Look,’ she said, edging away. ‘I don’t want to sound insensitive, and you’re clearly not … feeling well, but we’ve had this conversation before.’

‘I know.’ He looked directly at her, his expression now more one of frustration than fear. ‘But things are different now.
I’m
different.’

‘John, this is ridiculous, I’m your comm—’ She broke off, remembering that, as of that afternoon, she wasn’t in command of anything at all. ‘It’s just not going to happen, OK? I’m sorry if that sounds harsh.’

Barclay’s head dropped, and Hawkins saw the muscles
in his jaw moving under his skin. He obviously wasn’t thinking straight.

Then his shoulders sagged and he started to sob quietly.

Embarrassed for them both, Hawkins turned her back and clicked on the kettle, trying to think of something conciliatory to say. When she glanced around again, Barclay was composing himself, wiping his eyes. She felt a stab of pity; perhaps he was just lonely. She sighed and turned to face him.

‘Listen, John, you’re a nice enough …’ She didn’t want to say ‘kid’.

Barclay’s head lifted and he stared at her. He was breathing heavily.

‘I was worried about you,’ Hawkins continued. ‘We all were.’

He blinked several times in quick succession, as if he didn’t understand. ‘I didn’t want you to be worried.’ His tone was more indignation than concern.

Behind her, Hawkins heard the kettle coming to the boil. She wanted to turn around, but something in Barclay’s demeanour held her fast. ‘I wanted you to be
afraid
.’

‘Afraid?’ An icy finger suddenly ran down Hawkins’ spine. ‘Why?’ She eyed her mobile six feet away on the countertop, thinking fast.

Barclay was still sitting down as Hawkins began to edge towards the door, but he seemed to notice her movement and stood suddenly.

‘You’re all such fucking idiots,’ he sneered. ‘Don’t you get it? Fear is the only reason people do anything decent these days.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Now she was looking for a weapon.

‘Nobody gives a shit any more. Nobody listens. But everyone’s paying attention now, aren’t they? Thanks to me.’

Something fell in the pit of Hawkins’ stomach as she made the final connection.

‘John,’ she managed to say. ‘Please tell me you’re not responsible for—’

‘Responsible?’ He cut her off. ‘I’m the only one who demonstrates anything
like
responsibility.’

He began to advance on her. His eyes were wide, and Hawkins recognized the same merciless glare she’d seen too many times in her career.

The look of a killer.

In the seconds it took Barclay to cross the room, Hawkins had turned and grabbed the kettle. She released the lid and thrust the open end towards him. A wide arc of boiling water flew across the kitchen.

Barclay raised his hands, wrenching them away as the water made contact with his right forearm. He hissed sharply and stepped back.

Hawkins lunged for the door, but he was too fast.

She felt a hand grip her trailing wrist with alarming strength, and another on her shirt. Her forward motion was pivoted through ninety degrees, and she was thrown towards the kitchen table. She skidded across the smooth surface, scattering objects as she went, before crashing with stunning force head-first into the cupboard doors on the other side of the room.

Her immediate instinct was to get up, but her vision
blurred and her head swam. She slumped face down and closed her eyes, breathing heavily.

‘You burned me, you fucking bitch.’

The voice sounded muffled. It came from the opposite side of the room, as far as she could tell. Then she heard the familiar sound of the back door being unlocked and she forced her eyes open.

Everything was still distorted, but Hawkins saw Barclay open the back door and step outside, closing it behind him.

She blinked hard, attempting to clear her vision, relieved that when she looked again, the room was not only in focus, but empty. She tried to get up; to run, but energy had deserted her.

She lay still, breathing hard. How long did she have? There was no way to tell.

Barclay could return at any second.

Hawkins scanned the kitchen for something she could use to defend herself. The empty wine bottle lay against the wall on the floor under the table, unbroken despite its fall. But it was too far away to reach quickly, and would be relatively ineffective as a weapon. She turned her attention to the cutlery drawer, where there were three or four sharp knives.

She steeled herself and attempted to push up into a crouching position. Pain erupted in her head as if it she’d been hit by a cricket bat. She dropped back to the floor, fighting nausea, looking around for something nearer.

Then she saw the penknife.

It lay beside her on the ground. For a second, Hawkins thought she had imagined it, but then she remembered:
she’d used its corkscrew to open the wine a few hours ago, and must have knocked it onto the floor on her way over the table.

She just had time to reach over and palm it before Barclay re-entered the kitchen and locked the door again, pocketing the key. He let down the window blind and pulled the curtain across the door before turning to leer at her.

He held a black ruck sack.

He set the bag on the table and reached inside to produce what looked like a toy gun. Hawkins’ blood almost froze in her veins when she realized it was a Taser.

‘I’m sorry.’ Barclay levelled the weapon at her. ‘I never wanted it to end like this.’

Hawkins’ mind raced. She had to keep him talking.

‘But what happened to your flat? The handprint in your blood?’

‘What
happened
?’ he repeated. ‘I was angry. Haven’t you ever destroyed something out of anger?’

Suddenly everything started to make sense. Barclay’s flat hadn’t been turned over in a fight; he had simply vented his frustration prior to disappearing. And they had assumed the rest, probably just as he had anticipated.

Her train of thought was broken as he raised the Taser.

‘John, wait … please.’ She struggled to sit up. ‘Maybe I was being unfair. Maybe there is a chance for us.’

Barclay didn’t react immediately. He continued to stare, but after a second the Taser dropped a couple of inches.

‘I was suspended this afternoon.’ Hawkins kept her
voice calm. ‘Which means I’m no longer your boss. So I suppose we could … try, you know – see how it goes.’

Barclay took a step forwards, and the Taser dropped again. ‘Really?’

‘Sure.’ She held his gaze, picking open the largest blade on the knife behind her back. ‘You could … move in with me. I’ll tell Mike it’s over, OK?’

Barclay’s eyes drifted away for a moment. Was he going for it?

‘John.’ She felt the blade click fully open. ‘What do you think?’

He moved closer and crouched right in front of her, his eyes searching hers. He still held the Taser, but it would be difficult to fire at this range.

She kept going. ‘Nobody has to know about what happened here.’

Barclay’s eyes narrowed suddenly. ‘You want to know what I think?’ He leaned closer, his face almost touching hers. ‘I think you’re a
fucking liar
. And I’m here to make you pay.’

He began to move away.

It was now or never.

Hawkins summoned all her strength and kicked out at his wrist, knocking the Taser from his hand. Barclay reached instinctively after the weapon and Hawkins saw her chance. She grabbed a handful of his jumper and launched the penknife at his jugular, putting all of her strength behind the blade.

She felt the knife make contact and puncture skin as Barclay screamed.

Hawkins let go of the penknife handle in an attempt to
push him away. To get to the Taser. But she hadn’t accounted for Barclay’s free hand. What must have been a fist made contact with her jaw so hard that she crashed backwards into the cupboard door, her vision blurring. She tasted blood almost immediately.