The Advent Killer (9 page)

He stared into the darkness, waiting for his eyes to adjust. It took him a moment to realize he was looking at the ceiling of a room not from his past, but from the present.

Awake.

Feeling now the cold sweat on his skin and the rapid beating in his chest, he lay still, waiting for the dream’s intensity to fade. Somehow, he had been spared the harrowing experience that concluded his recurring nightmare. And, beyond its immediate distress, at least his body felt rested.

He began using logic to calm himself. Psychological trauma was necessary; he had begun this campaign for a reason. No individual’s suffering was too great a sacrifice. And in order to release his mind from its shackled state, it was necessary to complete the entire sequence.

To eliminate
all
his tormentors.

With that thought his strength began to return, the vision of his future becoming clear once more. He held the image until it dissolved, but it left him energized.

Ready for the next stage.

He glanced over as a breeze lifted the blind away from the window, its knife-edge chill stirring the hairs on his arms. The resulting shaft of synthetic streetlight illuminated the far wall. According to the clock, it was 7:32 p.m.

He powered up the laptop and showered while the ageing
technology organized itself. Fifteen minutes later, he typed the name of the place they met into a search engine, and pressed Enter.

The typical mixture of results appeared, and he scanned them before selecting the second entry. He watched as the Nirvana’s Touch Spiritualist Centre website appeared element by element, and he clicked on the ‘Meet Us’ heading.

For a long time the screen remained blank, but eventually the page appeared. The organization’s head clairvoyant, Chris Henderson, enthused at him from the centre of the screen, flanked by photographs of two women; neither the one he was looking for.

The photos were named, and he scrolled down the page, tapping a finger against the table, considering each. The name he remembered, Summer Easton, was not among them; although in her line of work, they probably changed on a regular basis. Instead he studied faces, staring into each set of eyes, past intense make-up and heavy gems, in search of the woman he had not seen for almost a year.

But she wasn’t there.

He sat back and chewed a fingernail, suppressing his irritation.

He spent almost two hours on Facebook and similar sites, viewing hundreds of profiles, none of them hers. Then he sat, thinking about how else she could be traced.

She had referred to herself as a psychometrist, a specific type of spiritual medium who claimed an ability to contact the deceased via possessions they had treasured in life. He’d been sceptical, but Easton’s charisma was compelling. And if
he
had been misled, there would be others who still believed …

He leaned forwards and typed
Psychic Fan Forum Summer Easton.

The list appeared and immediately he selected the first result, which contained matches for every word except Easton. He felt a flicker of anticipation as the page opened to reveal a long text conversation between five users.

Three-quarters of the way down, he read the words, ‘Set free by Psychic Summer’.

He read the whole string, alert for clues to where any of the meetings had taken place. He banged a fist on the desk. Nothing. All these idiots wanted to do was congratulate the counterfeit bitch.

He rested his head in his palms, slow in, fast out breaths warming the heels of his hands. Suddenly a pinging noise from the laptop dragged his attention back to the screen:

2 other users are online now. Do you wish to join Psy-Chat?

He stared at the text.

If he connected, could he be traced?

There were no details or pictures of him on this hard drive, so even in the unlikely scenario that a police hacker hijacked his system, they would find nothing. And this laptop had no web camera, so neither could he be spied upon without his knowledge. He was also using a dial-up modem, which meant download speed was pitiful but there was no traceable IP address, as there would have been on a broadband system.

So there was no risk.

He clicked on the link and completed the basic mem
bership form using one of his unregistered email addresses, and the random initials he used for his online persona.

Welcome JJ. You have joined Psy-Chat live!

A stream of messages started filling the screen as people flung inane jargon at one another. He watched their dialogue, noting phrases and temperament, preparing to enter their world.

He closed his eyes and assumed his psychological disguise. It became more brittle every time he used it, but it was necessary. His eyelids lifted, while a slight pulse in his jaw was the only other physical sign of his intense concentration. His fingers found the keyboard and the first message began to appear.

He spent a further ninety minutes traipsing through conversations with dozens of other users, ever more frustrated at their inability to tell him what he needed to know.

The next time he looked at the clock it was approaching 11 p.m. And still he had no idea where to find Summer Easton.

He grabbed the laptop, about to launch it at the wall. But he stopped himself, aware that without it he had no chance at all of locating his next target. He replaced the computer on the table and eased back in his chair.

And then he saw it.

The top corner of the screen displayed a list of recent users to join the chat room. He had contacted most of them already, but not the one at which he now stared.

Faith Easton.

He clicked on the name. The attached image was of a much older woman than the one he was searching for, but perhaps that was even better.

He refreshed his disguise and typed.

JJ: Hi Faith, from your daughter’s biggest fan!

The message jumped into the conversation window. The cursor blinked, and for a moment he worried that he was being ignored. But then the words he had hoped for appeared:

Faith is typing a reply.

He waited, allowing himself for the first time that day to envisage the terror in Summer Easton’s eyes dissolving as she slipped into oblivion.

But without focus and restraint now, that moment would never come.

FE: Hi JJ. How do you know Summer?

Anticipation tugged at him, but he maintained his composure.

JJ: She helped me contact my wife’s spirit last year. But I have a friend who needs her gift, too. His sister was killed recently and he feels so sad. I know Summer can help him, but she isn’t with the Nirvana’s Touch centre any more. Is there any way I can contact her?

Again he waited. Had he been convincing enough in those two short messages? The seconds stretched.

Then Faith Easton replied:

FE: Of course. Summer’s with a travelling fair called Old Glad Soul’s Roadshow. Here’s their website.

He breathed.

JJ: Thanks Faith, you’ve really made my day. I’ll be sure to let you know how it goes :-) See ya!

He clicked the link attached to her last message and watched as a new webpage appeared.

The low-budget site showed an after-dark photograph of around twenty scattered stands, lights ablaze in each awning. Scrolling down, he saw images of the performers: ‘Miles the Lion Master’ followed ‘Spiritplayer’ and ‘Knifeman Finn’.

He found her three faces from the end.

‘Psychic Summer’ was almost unrecognizable from the woman he had met the previous year. She had slimmed considerably, almost too far, and had obviously embraced the traveller look. Vivid auburn hair had replaced blonde, and she now had a nose ring.

But his search was over.

He returned to the top of the page and clicked the ‘Itinerary’ heading, scanning the list of locations and dates. They were coming to London, but not for another two months, and his eye was drawn to the listing for the current week.

Brighton.

He stood and walked a few paces, thinking it through. An attack outside London would confuse the police even further. He could make it to the coast and back without trouble, although he would need to conduct a preliminary visit to locate the fair and assess the vicinity.

A disguise would be necessary throughout both journeys, as they would undoubtedly trawl the transport network’s CCTV for images of him once Easton was dead.

This new development would also put extra pressure on his schedule. He needed to dust this place down, and pack a bag with some essentials. Yesterday’s unexpected interruption had demonstrated that the need to vanish might arise without warning, and that leaving an apartment full of evidence would be unwise in the extreme. In addition to the disguise, he would wear anti-contamination clothing and gloves whenever he came here once the place was clean. His resulting appearance could be explained as someone carrying out DIY or vermin control should he face another surprise visitor.

Nobody there knew him, of course, so moving on again would be easy. Two homes; two identities. Cash-in-hand lodger status came with many advantages, like the phone line in his landlady’s name.

He returned to the laptop and went to the BBC News website. It was no surprise to see he was still making headlines, and he felt a wave of exhilaration when he pictured everyone’s reaction to yet another perfectly planned execution.

He scanned the various stories connected to his last
victim, his attention alighting on a video file of that morning’s police press conference. He clicked on the link.

After buffering for a long time, the media file opened to show an empty lectern, but the splashy ambient noise suggested every news agency was present in some form. His power was growing: police, press and public; all petrified.

Seconds later, camera flashes accompanied the Met’s latest figurehead to the podium. The spokesman was black and, at well over six feet tall, had commanding physical presence. He’d been mildly intrigued when the Met had initially wheeled out Michael Maguire. Media-friendly and sharper than most, the DI had looked like a threat at first. But while broad shoulders and stark assurances might fool the masses, everyone knew Jessica Anderton’s death was a major coup. And he saw desperation in the detective’s eyes.

His satisfaction grew as Maguire’s promises of proaction and results came under fire from the assembled reporters. Then he smiled, as he contemplated the even greater surprises he had in store for the police.

‘
Antonia, it’s your mother. There are only three days until Christmas and I’m having a complete nightmare with the dinner. No sooner do I finish the nut strudel than Auntie Irene’s on the phone, telling me how last year at Sylvia’s they had homemade Apple Jalousie. So now I have to make some, but your father’s tried every shop in Bushey High Street and none of them has even
heard
of vanilla beans. Anyway, if you could just find somewhere to buy
…’

Hawkins didn’t end the call, but she was no longer listening to her mother’s words.

Because Casanova was coming straight for her.

She’d been trying to ignore his smarmy grin from across Gatwick’s main terminal for almost ten minutes. Fear halted his progress temporarily when a gang of children with potentially suit-ruining ice creams crossed his path, but then he continued undeterred.

Hawkins looked around, frantically searching for a reason to bolt from her seat without looking like she was simply running away. But options were limited by her need to stay within sight of the arrivals gate, through which Charles Anderton was shortly due to appear.

She missed her chance.

‘Hello.’ Casanova’s accent was straight off the Savile Row peg. ‘Mind if I sit down?’

She lowered her phone. ‘Would it make any difference if I did?’

He smiled and arranged himself on the seat beside her. Obviously not.

Casanova produced a silver cigarette case. ‘Sorry to butt in – don’t usually like to – but I’m en route to the smoking area and I seem to have mislaid my lighter. Would you happen to have one?’

‘No!’ She practically had to shout her reply over a deafening tannoy announcement. ‘Sorry.’

‘Oh, no problem, I’ve found mine now,’ he said, without seeming to look. He jabbed a thumb towards the exit. ‘Care to join me for one?’

‘I don’t smoke.’

‘Come now, I know a smoker when I see one.’

‘Well, not any more.’

‘Good for you. Trying to give the horrid things up myself. David Hilton, by the way. And you are?’

‘Antonia.’ Hawkins kept her hands well out of kissing range.

‘So what brings you to Gatwick airport today, Antonia?’

‘I’m waiting for someone.’

‘Right.’ He ran a hand over his slicked-back hair. ‘Business, or pleasure?’

‘Business, sort of.’

‘Me, too. Mega busy, always on the run. No time for any of that homemaking or
romance
nonsense.’ He was well into his stride now, so no answer was required. ‘Eurozone investments are my thing. You know, buy low and all that. Terrible what’s happened to the Europeans, but there are still people out there with money to spend. There’s plenty still to be made, too, if you know how.’

Hawkins nodded, giving an internal eye-roll. Maybe she should have accepted the cigarette.

‘And the perks? Scandalous, really, not that I’m complaining, you understand.’

‘Of course not.’ She watched him not-so-surreptitiously pull his sleeve up to reveal a huge Omega wristwatch.

‘Adaptation’s the key. I assist my investors in every way possible, sometimes ethically, sometimes not quite so much.’ He snorted. ‘But that’s where the
real
money is, and in the midst of chaos, who’s ever going to know?’

‘Well, I’ve got some friends who might be interested, actually.’

‘Really?’ Casanova leaned in close. ‘But are
you
interested, Antonia?’

‘Well, I generally deal with homicide’ – Hawkins produced her badge, watching his face fall – ‘but I could ring the fraud squad. Do you have a business card?’

‘I, er …’ Casanova shot off his chair. ‘I think they just called my flight.’

Hawkins almost laughed out loud as David Hilton took off across the terminal, nearly knocking over John Barclay, who was returning from the service desk.

‘Who was that?’ her trainee asked, coughing wetly as he sat down.

‘Casanova. He thought I’d be impressed by the size of his embezzlement. Turns out I wasn’t his type.’

‘Shame.’ Barclay smiled. ‘I thought you’d scrubbed up pretty well this morning, Ma’am.’

‘Thanks.’ She gave him a sideways glance, gauging the young detective. Some months before, Hawkins had given several lectures to a class Barclay had taken in preparation
for his Detective exams earlier in the year. Always eager to learn, he’d often stayed behind to discuss a variety of subjects. Following her final talk, however, John had made an awkward attempt at asking her to dinner. Unfortunately, her refusal had been just as uncomfortably delivered, and she was glad they hadn’t seen each other for some time afterwards.

Despite this, Barclay had requested assignment to her team immediately after his six-month post-graduation placement. She’d been moderately flattered, but still suspected his motivation had more to do with an adolescent crush than professional esteem, especially considering the regular compliments he paid to her and no one else. He liked her shoes, her necklace, her hair.

Barclay had joined them two months ago, quickly proving himself to be a competent and intelligent trainee. He had never repeated his invitation to dinner, though, and she didn’t want to encourage it.

‘So,’ she said, ‘is Anderton’s flight on time?’

‘No delays, ma’am. Do you think he’ll actually be on the plane?’

‘The intelligent ones hardly ever run, especially if they have a face as recognizable as his. He’ll understand that disappearing would just make him look guilty.’

Despite her statement, Hawkins was still surprised they’d found Charles Anderton so fast: a remarkably modest amount of arm-twisting over the phone to his office the previous afternoon had traced him to a cultural integration seminar in Scotland.

Hawkins had spoken to him personally, and he’d agreed to catch the first flight home. Their conversation had been
short, but Anderton’s tone had suggested he already knew the considerable depth of the shit he was due to land in.

‘So why carry on working?’ Barclay asked with a wry smile. ‘Is he staying at full-pelt to mitigate his grief, or doing overtime to pay the hit man?’

She shrugged. The hired-gun theory would explain the consistent lack of sexual abuse or traces at the scenes. And, certainly, details of the real killer’s MO could have found their way to a Culture Secretary well connected within the police, allowing him to employ someone to reproduce the scene. The other scenario, that Anderton would order two random murders in advance, just to cover his tracks, seemed equally far-fetched. Either way, the politician had withheld information he must have known would be vital to their investigation.

They sat in silence for a moment before Barclay pointed at the nearest news stand. ‘Have you seen the papers, ma’am?’

Hawkins nodded.

Unfortunately, in a rare display of solidarity, almost every front page on the shelves carried the same headline:

The name itself was no surprise: one of the Met’s media team had suggested the same connection after Tess Underwood’s demise, although nobody had taken it too seriously at the time. Upon seeing the headlines first thing that morning, however, Hawkins had hauled the constable in question straight into her office, suspecting him
of being the source of their leak. His whimpering response had just about convinced her he was innocent, but her attention was now firmly on him.

But the nickname’s appearance meant only one thing. With his third murder, the killer had earned sufficient notoriety to merit the consideration of even implausible scenarios, not to mention appellation in the press.

In modern dialect, the word ‘advent’ meant the arrival of something; in this case, a prolific serial killer. Of greater concern was the religious definition. Christianity classified Advent as, ‘The period beginning four Sundays before Christmas, observed in commemoration of the coming of Christ into the world.’

Technically, because Christmas Day this year fell on a Sunday, Advent had actually started a week before the first death. Which raised some worrying questions.

Was there another body, as yet undiscovered? And
still
how did 1 a.m. tie in, when research said it was not significant to Advent? And if the killer had some twisted theological philosophy, were they dealing with a God complex? Or was the Advent thing just media hype?

True to form, most of the papers were pushing the religious angle; a tactic that had only increased their hunger for fresh information.

As a result, Thursday’s papers contained almost full details of the first two murders, along with certain elements of the latest death, all of which could mean only one thing: a Met officer or one of their associates had passed yet more classified information to the media.

In truth, she was more disappointed than shocked. For many people, the spoils of covert self-service far
outweighed any damage that might in the process be done to their conscience, but this time it really grated. This was a massive case, and Hawkins had made damn sure that her team, and anyone else over whom she held sway, understood the dangerous reaction insider information could provoke in the public. But her influence didn’t extend to SOCOs or photographers: people she accepted were underpaid for their constant exposure to the ugliest sides of human nature. Even so, they still had no right to prostitute themselves – typically for a few hundred quid only – to satisfy the equally expedient motives of the tabloid sleaze-merchants.

Internal investigation might identify the culprits, the process for which Hawkins had already set in motion, but it couldn’t reverse damage already sustained. And, despite her lack of surprise, she’d been hoping the story would take longer to appear than it had.

They weren’t exactly close to a breakthrough.

So far, investigation into Hunter’s hypothesis about serial killers’ proclivities for increasing gore had provided a few isolated examples, but there was almost no documented research on this psychology. And even though Hawkins had several officers unearthing every word written on the subject, deep down she doubted it would provide a decisive insight.

The small positive was that, if this killer was intent on increasingly horrific attacks, then maybe his focus on not getting caught would falter to a corresponding degree. So, the more ornate each murder became, perhaps the more likely he was to make a mistake.

So far, the killer’s targets had been home alone when he
struck, at 1 a.m. each Sunday morning. Glenis Ward because her husband had died four years before, and Jess Anderton because her public-serving spouse was away more often than he was at home. The only time the killer had needed to
engineer
the situation was in the case of Tess Underwood, whose partner had been asleep beside her on the night she died. A phone call from a security firm at half-past midnight had informed Terry Underwood that the alarm at his business, an upmarket jewellery shop fifteen miles away, was going off. As key holder, Mr Underwood had gone to turn it off, returning home ninety minutes later to find his wife beaten to an unrecognizable mess. Subsequent investigation had traced the kid who had triggered the alarm, but his only contact with the person who had commissioned this minor infringement had been via the internet: taking instructions and finding out where the £20 note he had earned for his trouble could be found.

Making matters worse was the news Hawkins had received on the way to the airport. One of the sub-teams had traced Glenis Ward’s stepson, or at least the record of his death. For the last three months of his life, Gary Ward had lived rough, until the night six weeks ago when he’d overdosed on crystal meth. His decomposing remains had only just been identified, but the results were conclusive.

Meanwhile, early results from the forensics team working on Jessica Anderton’s murder had yielded no traces yet again, while officers trawling hours of CCTV from the Hampstead area early on Sunday morning had discovered nothing of interest. And even though the list of Tasers
seized by border control had finally come through, it was huge. Uniform was already working through it although, unsurprisingly, a lot of the people who’d ordered the illegal weapons had already moved on.

But, as a fresh wave of people began to spill through the airport’s arrivals gate, something told Hawkins their luck was about to improve.

‘Time to get the car, please, John,’ she said, as Charles Anderton emerged out of the crowd.