The Advent Killer (6 page)

The Yard’s maze of indistinguishable offices was always a headache, but as she read ‘117-c’ on what seemed like the millionth room sign, Hawkins wondered if a subconscious desire not to locate this one had delayed her even further.

She tapped on the open, frosted-glass door. ‘Sorry I’m late, sir. It took me a while to find you.’

‘Have a seat, Hawkins.’ Lawrence Kirby-Jones didn’t turn. Instead he maintained his sentry-like stance, towering over a frightened-looking potted plant as he stared out of the third-floor window.

At least if he kept his back to her, he wouldn’t notice how ridiculously frizzy the hand-dryer in the ladies’ toilets had made her hair.

Copies of all Tuesday’s papers were laid out neatly on the desk in front of her. They looked untouched, but the DCS would already have scrutinized every word related to the case.

‘What did you think of the press welcoming committee, Hawkins?’

‘I think the … speed with which information leaked on this one has taken everybody by surprise, sir.’

‘Perhaps.’ He paused. ‘I saw you arrive. Everyone entering the building has been getting that treatment, although
I must say that nobody else has handled it as badly as you did.’

She glared at his back.

Their working relationship had started so auspiciously several years ago, when he’d been installed as chief superintendent, that it was difficult now to remember where it all had gone wrong. Within three months of reading Hawkins’ prolific arrest statistics, Lawrence Kirby-Jones’ signature had appeared on the certificate of recommendation that propelled her to detective sergeant status; the first in a series of advances he’d overseen. But the higher Hawkins had climbed – ever closer to the glass ceiling designed to keep her from taking his job, perhaps – the further his benevolent-uncle mask had slipped, and the more enthusiastically he had battered her with his rulebook of sanctimony.

Kirby-Jones turned suddenly, breaking her recall. She met his gaze with a penitent smile. At least there was no improvized voodoo doll of
her
at Becke House.

Albeit in Hawkins’ desk drawer.

The DCS practically goose-stepped to the chair opposite her, fastidiously twitching his suit trousers up before he sat.

‘It’s a pity that none of Mike’s media expertise ever rubbed off on you,’ he said.

Mention of the name surprised her.

Mike Maguire. He and Hawkins had worked together as detective inspectors on a number of successful cases under the DCS, but they hadn’t spoken since Mike had been moved to Manchester six months before, on secondment.

The move had also ended their affair.

As far as she knew, nobody in the Met had ever found out, but she still confessed everything to Paul – her now ex-fiancé – soon afterwards. They’d tried to patch things up, but their disparities had thrived, and he had moved out three months ago. For a while afterwards, he had maintained a strict regime of calls and text messages aimed at rubbing her nose in her infidelity.

‘So now even your—’ Kirby-Jones stopped mid-flow, his glare telling Hawkins she had missed a few sentences in between. ‘Did you leave the gas on, Chief Inspector?’

Nice work, Antonia.
‘No, sir. Sorry.’

‘I’ll start again. I’ve spoken to the commander. He’s disappointed this business about Anderton’s wife got out so fast, because the time scale means the press was probably tipped off by someone on the inside. Which means we’re now into damage-limitation. So, until further notice, even your immediate team is on a need-to-know basis. Understand?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Our friends outside are only the beginning.’ He nodded towards the window. ‘They may not have pictures or MO details yet, which counts out copycat killings for now at least, but it won’t take them long.’

He paused, and Hawkins began summoning the courage to ask whether Eddie Connor would be the only additional officer in a murder investigation team still one member short.

Too late.

‘Our ongoing media strategy,’ Kirby-Jones continued, ‘in case you were wondering’ – the subtext ‘and which you
should have asked about’ was obvious – ‘will now be channelled through a dedicated spokesperson within your team. And based on today’s performance, I’m sure it’ll come as no surprise that you’re off the hook for that job.’

A fresh bout of shouting signalled renewed excitement down in the street, and Kirby-Jones turned his head in response.

Hawkins took what felt like her first breath in minutes as he stood and retraced his steps to the window.

‘The one good thing to come out of all
this
’ – he turned back to her as he waved a dismissive hand at the noise below – ‘is that it’s given me some leverage with regard to personnel. Your team is on this full time until you hear otherwise, and I’ve secured you some support. You’ve already met the profiler … Hunter, is it? He comes highly recommended, anyway. But you need some permanent help as well. I’m sure you’ll be pleased with who I’ve chosen.’ Kirby-Jones looked at the crowd outside again. ‘In fact, there he is now.’

Hawkins knew what was coming before she stood and walked over to join him.

Thirty feet below them, just about to wade into the seething crowd of reporters, was the only person who could have made her day any worse.

Mike Maguire.

‘Are you coming, Detective?’ Kirby-Jones hovered in the doorway.

Hawkins nodded. Pretending she’d already forgotten they were going to meet Mike downstairs obviously wasn’t working.

She followed the chief superintendent out of the office and along the corridor, struggling to match his long-legged stride as her mind raced. This whole thing was becoming a bad joke: the case alone was nuisance enough, but now she also had to contend with an ex-lover she hadn’t spoken to in months.

What the hell did you say to someone after months without communication when your last words to him had been,
Text me your address and I’ll post you your underwear
?

She’d picked up a rumour shortly after his move north that Mike wasn’t enjoying life in Manchester, and had wondered if he might have returned to the US, where he grew up; his parents still lived in Philadelphia. But Hawkins had been doubtful. Ever since coming to England on an officer-exchange programme, Mike had loved London, and had decided to stay. He’d worked his way up in the Met, despite taking every opportunity to point out how alien to him this quaint little country remained. Now, it seemed, even Hawkins’ equivocal ways hadn’t managed to put him off coming back.

There was no let-up in Kirby-Jones’ pace as they approached the final door leading to the Yard’s lobby. The doors swung open and they strode out into the foyer.

Her eyes darted from face to face: a group of suited dignitaries signing in; two Biotech scientists she recognized from a previous investigation; the counter-terrorist officers who occupied the inner security gates like furniture.

‘Take note.’ Kirby-Jones pointed past her shoulder.

She turned to look at the bank of security monitors suspended above the main desk. On one of the large flat screens, entitled Main Entrance – Broadway, Hawkins saw a shot of the same group of reporters she had encountered earlier. Before them, a statuesque black man with arms raised, was playing to the crowd like some New-Age evangelist.

Mike.

In contrast to Hawkins’ experience of them, however, the hacks appeared relaxed and compliant. Notes were being taken, and suddenly the group guffawed like a drunken football team at a comedy club.

Maguire always had been able to make even the most banal report sound to journalists like an invitation to open day at the government’s restricted files room.

He’d be crowd-surfing next.

‘Don’t worry.’ Kirby-Jones straightened his tie. ‘I’ve already briefed him.’

A moment later, on-screen Mike moved away from the reporters, who began immediately to disperse. He disappeared from the camera’s view and emerged beside the security officers inside the door.

Hawkins watched him being hand-scanned; swallowed
hard as he saw them and waved. He looked even sharper than she remembered, in a casual suit over a plain, open-necked white shirt.

He exchanged a few words with the duty officer, who reacted by laughing out loud and patting the American hard on the back before waving him through. Mike approached them. His smile was warm, and his brown eyes flicked between them alertly.

‘Mike, good to see you.’ Kirby-Jones’ double-handed shake might as well have been a hug. ‘Thanks for coming at such short notice.’

‘My pleasure, Lawrence. Great to be back. Hey, Antonia.’

Lawrence!?

‘Hi.’ She nodded as her stomach turned over, trying desperately to keep the dismay from showing on her face when she suddenly remembered how awful her hair looked.

‘Well, I must get back to Hendon,’ Kirby-Jones said. ‘Just wanted to say hello, but Hawkins can fill you in. We must play a round when the case is closed.’ He smiled again at Mike and strode off, leaving them in uncomfortable silence.

Hawkins watched him go, wondering how the man always managed to make her feel insignificant. Usually his presence alone was enough; today, however, his exit had achieved the same thing.

And she really didn’t have time to deal with ex-lovers, incensed or otherwise.

‘Well, then …’ she looked at Mike, removing the hand that had drifted up to her dishevelled hair, trying to think of something else to say.

Mike studied her before he spoke again, in the melodic Philadelphia accent she’d always found so irresistible. ‘How’s it going?’

‘I’m … good.’

‘And Paul?’ There was no hint of sarcasm.

‘He’s fine.’

‘That’s great. You know I heard some rumour that you guys broke up?’

‘Oh.’ She didn’t know where to look. ‘We did.’

‘For real? Damn, Antonia, I’m sorry …’ He held up his hands. ‘Look, you want to get some coffee?’

Hawkins nodded. Her only regret was when she realized he meant together.

‘After you, ma’am.’

Mike held the door of Café Noir for an elderly woman dressed head to foot in tweed before he followed Hawkins in.

They were the first words either of them had spoken since she’d suggested the four-minute walk from Scotland Yard.

There was a Starbucks on the corner, both nearer and less pretentious, but this place made reporters far easier to spot: the combination of discreet atmosphere and sound-absorbent décor attracted everyone from perjurers to mafia bosses. Not to mention higher-ranking cops.

They were shown to an enclosed booth with green velvet curtains and no hint of Christmas decoration, where they were given leather-bound menus.

‘Just two strong coffees, thanks.’ Hawkins handed her menu straight back to their waiter, who looked more Greek than French.

‘Certainly.’ The man’s expression clouded for a second before he collected Mike’s menu, whirled and left. Obviously coffee-only tables weren’t big tippers.

‘You went brunette,’ Mike said without warning. ‘That’s fresh. Better, I mean.’

‘Er, thanks.’
He wanted to talk about hair?

He grimaced. ‘That sounded a lot smoother in my head.’

‘It’s OK. I certainly wasn’t expecting compliments.’

‘You know what?’ He sighed. ‘I messed up, Toni – should’ve called. I just figured you and Paul deserved a chance.’

She studied him. He appeared genuine enough; maybe it was best to get this out of the way.

‘Two coffees.’ The waiter broke their eye contact as he leaned across to set out serviettes.

On the other hand, if Mike didn’t care enough to be even
token
angry, then why should she?

She took the opportunity to dig in her bag for the investigation file. They’d have plenty of time to discuss their situation later, and not diving into a guaranteed argument now would give her time to think.

The waiter made a fuss of placing their coffees, milk and sugar bowl just so, and checked they had everything they required. His face creased again before he left. Perhaps it was a tic.

She handed Mike the folder. ‘So how much has the DCS told you?’

He paused before reaching for the file. ‘I got highlights, but I saw the news, too. Those guys are all over this.’

‘Yep, they know everything except the MOs, and some finer details we’ve managed to hang on to.’

‘So we’re in trouble?’

She exhaled. ‘Well, you’re here, aren’t you? Things have to get pretty desperate before they start dragging people in from all over the country. We’re holding the next weekly brief in the canteen because there are too many of us to fit in the meeting room. Half of them I don’t even know.’ She dropped three sugar cubes into her coffee. ‘As for the
killer, all we’ve got is some rough CCTV footage of him leaving the first house, and a few witnesses who saw a man at the scene of the third murder in the right sort of timeframe. We aren’t even sure how he’s moving around.’

Mike began flicking through the case file.

‘It’s all the usual stuff,’ she volunteered. ‘But you should focus on the interview write-ups and the profiles of exes and family members with form. One possibility is that the killer could be Glenis Ward’s dropout stepson – Glenis was the first victim, by the way. Gary Ward was the product of her late husband’s previous marriage, and probably well past his approach-by date, given his lifestyle. Dad died three years ago, after which Gary lived with her, through necessity rather than choice, mind, thanks to his fondness for short-term loans and amphetamines. He and Glenis never gelled.’

‘Could he be the guy seen at the Anderton’s place?’

‘No; wrong appearance. Witnesses consistently say that man was of Mediterranean descent. We don’t have pictures, but neither of Gary’s parents had roots outside the UK.’

‘So you know where Gary is?’

‘That’s the thing. Nobody’s heard from Gary since before Glenis died. The neighbours say he hadn’t stayed at the house in weeks, after a series of late-night rows, but maybe he fancied the place to himself? He returns to facilitate stepmother’s trip to the bottom of her bathtub, intending to frame it as suicide and inherit the kingdom as only surviving benefactor in her will. But in the process of knocking her off, he discovers a taste for homicide.’

Mike took over. ‘Then he Houdinis his way outta there and starts looking for number two at random. It’s neat, right? But you don’t think that any more than I do. And it means you guys can’t link him to the other victims.’

‘It’s early days with Jess,’ Hawkins countered, ‘but, yes, you’d struggle to find three less connected lives. As for area, the crime scenes just about qualify as south-east London, but they’re spread out, and two of the three victims came originally from outside London.’ She counted off on her fingers: ‘Former-model turned socialite; ex-care worker now comfortable jeweller’s wife; retired dinner lady stroke school sports supervisor, all of different generations. It’s no surprise their paths didn’t cross. Until they all got murdered by the same person, of course.’

Mike nodded. ‘Any other suspects?’

As they drank their coffees, Hawkins explained about the remaining potentials, like ex-boyfriends or previous work colleagues – they were still trying to trace.

They were just beginning to knock around ideas about how to move forwards when her mobile rang.

‘Hello?’

‘Antonia, it’s Connor. Do you want the good news, or the really shitty news?’

‘Good first.’

‘It’s about the man seen leaving the Andertons’ place.’

‘Go on.’

‘I’m standing in his front garden.’