The Advent Killer (11 page)

The Central Line train shuddered to a halt at the buffers, and Hawkins inhaled the chill air as she stepped onto the platform at Ealing Broadway station. She had only managed to get a seat a few stops back, but the train had emptied so dramatically since then that human traffic now exiting with her was negligible. She was soon heading north out of Haven Green.

It had been dark for several hours already, although the rain that had seemed entrenched earlier in the week had gone, replaced by cloudless grey skies and arctic temperatures. As a result, the wide pavements were empty and, after unsuccessfully searching her bag for gloves, Hawkins decided to get home before calling Mike about the day’s progress.

Five minutes later, she closed the front door behind her and pressed Play on the flashing answer machine.

‘
Antonia, it’s your mother. I need to know what time you’ll be here on Christmas Day. I’ve put you in the corner next to Uncle Pat for dinner, because you have the strongest constitution and won’t need to be in and out to the loo. You know what he’s like – won’t move until the end of the meal. Anyway, we’re sitting down around two, so you’ll need to be here at one for mulled wine. Call me back to confirm. Ciao!
’

Hawkins shed her coat and walked through into the
kitchen, trying to ignore the feeling that she visited home these days only to clean dusty laminate.

She had chosen her new kitchen from a brochure two months ago, in an attempt to spruce up her waning social life by creating a house in which she’d be proud to host. Since then, her secondment and the case still burgeoning around her had ensured that only she and the fitter had admired her sensor taps.

She made a cup of tea before walking back into the living room, fishing her mobile out of her handbag. It felt strange to be selecting Mike’s number again, and she stood for a minute, lost in memories of illicit moments spent snogging like teenagers in the storage room at Becke House. Somehow those encounters had never felt sordid.

Then she frightened herself by sitting down on the right-hand side of the sofa. Paul’s seat. She shifted to the armchair, sipping her tea and trying to focus on the phone call she was about to make.

It’s just work
.

He answered after a few rings. ‘Maguire.’

‘It’s me.’

‘Antonia.’ His voice was warm. ‘How’s it going?’

‘Not bad. We’ve got some results from Jessica’s laptop.’

‘I meant how’s it going with
you
?’

‘Oh, I’m … fine, I guess.’

‘You sound beat.’

‘Thanks. You sound disgustingly well.’

He laughed. ‘You eaten yet?’

‘Why?’

‘Ever since I quit London I’ve been dreaming about that Chinese takeout near your place. How about I pick
up our usual? I can get to you in thirty. We can go over the case.’

She gazed into the kitchen, at the anodized sink that took half an hour to clean and the sculpted fridge that was too small to put food in. Half an hour would give her time to shower, change and tidy up a bit. Plus she wouldn’t have to cook. But it was still probably wise to say no.

‘Don’t forget the spring rolls,’ she said.

While they ate, Hawkins outlined her clandestine meeting with Charles Anderton, having decided that the DCS’ instruction regarding internal confidentiality didn’t extend to Mike.

Maguire endorsed her decision to accommodate the politician’s demands, and agreed that even if Anderton
were
somehow involved, he was best kept as an ally until they had some convincing evidence against him.

Hawkins also explained about Jessica’s two ex-lovers, and the technology team’s progress with her laptop. They had the addresses of several chat rooms Jessica had frequented.

Results from Tess Underwood’s home PC had been less positive. The ageing computer had occupied a spare room, vacant since the youngest Underwood daughter had moved out, and was clogged with so many years of the family’s web activity that interrogating it would occupy the technology team for the best part of three days.

Isolating the sites used by Tess herself, even during the last few months, presented a challenge. But according to Barclay, her husband and friends had been so shocked at the suggestion she was using chat rooms at all that Hawkins hadn’t even broached the prospect of infidelity.

That could wait until they had some evidence to justify such an awkward conversation.

‘Geez,’ Mike said, when she had finished. ‘A psychopath for the digital age. Technology to hunt and technology to kill. At least that gives us our next move.’

‘It does?’

‘Oh, I forgot; computers scare the hell out of you.’ Mike grinned. ‘I sure hope this killer doesn’t turn out to be Bill Gates.’

‘Oh, really?’ Hawkins watched him clearing the foil trays. ‘It didn’t stop me ending up as your boss, though, did it?’

Mike meowed and walked into the kitchen, whistling at the makeover it had received since his last visit, ‘All right,
chief
, I’ll tell this one nice and slow, just for you. First things first, though. Where’s the coffee?’

‘Middle cupboard on the left.’ Hawkins flopped back on the sofa. ‘I’ll have tea.’

‘
Tea?
’ He mimicked her accent. ‘What is it with you Brits and this stuff? You go insane if it’s not the perfect shade of beige, but you don’t mind it comes in a thimble or that you gotta pay for refills?’

‘You want me to explain sophistication,’ she shot back, ‘to a country that can’t handle steering and changing gear at the same time, and that still makes houses out of wood?’

‘Sophistication.’ He flicked the switch on the kettle. ‘Still taking three sugars?’

A few minutes later, he handed her a mug and returned to the armchair. ‘So you figure our murderer hooks up with his victims online?’

‘Yes.’

‘Ever used a chat room?’

Hawkins cocked her head and shot him a condescending smile.

‘Guess not.’ Mike scratched his temple. ‘OK, these things are like a … digital masquerade party, and nobody’s checking credentials at the door. So you got three-hundred-pound truckers with an eye for the kids passing themselves off as twelve-year-old girls. That’s grooming heaven, right there. Upside is, if he can do it, then so can we.’

She nodded slowly. ‘Catch him with his own net.’

‘Right. We magic up a few potential targets and we go fish. Arrange a few dates and take a look at who turns up. Gotta be worth a shot, right?’

‘That could work,’ Hawkins said, ‘but we can’t go public. It’s the only lead we’ve got, and if the press gets hold of this and splashes it all over the papers, he’ll just find another way of meeting them.’

‘I’ll do it.’ Mike drained his coffee and winked. ‘No lady friend to occupy my evenings, anyway.’

An hour later they stood together at the front door. Mike slipped on his long woollen overcoat and Hawkins passed him the list they had created. It contained the profiles of the four fictitious women they would use as bait. ‘Just between us, remember?’

‘The list, or being here tonight?’

‘Both, since you ask.’ Hawkins smiled, realizing how narrow her hallway felt with two people in it.

‘Just like old times.’

‘Yeah,’ she said, trying to think of any reason they shouldn’t be together. ‘Thanks for the meal.’

‘Sure thing.’ His smile, always so disarming, appeared as he opened the front door.

Cold air rushed in as the
Do we kiss?
moment began. Mike’s smile faded. How could he be so calm when her stomach was doing somersaults?

‘See you, chief.’

Their eyes met for a few seconds before he turned and walked away down the path.

‘Goodnight,’ Hawkins called, as he disappeared around the corner.

She closed the door and stood in the hallway, waiting for the distant sound of Mike’s car. But she heard nothing. Had he parked too far away for her to hear, or was he sitting out there debating whether to come back? And was she actually about to go after him? There was no real reason why she shouldn’t, yet something held her back.

She turned and trudged through into the front room.

‘So,’ she asked the room. ‘Bedtime, or brandy?’

She opted for bed, and had just turned out the lights when the phone rang. Her heart leapt as she stumbled across the room and grabbed the handset. ‘Hello?’

Silence.

‘Hello?’ she repeated. Maybe he had a bad signal.

Still nothing.

Hawkins’ fantasy stalled as she realized what was happening. She should have checked the caller ID.

‘Paul, is that you?’ she said, knowing there would be no response. Silent calls had recently replaced their regular shouting matches. ‘Please stop calling me, Paul, it’s getting really old.’

She ended the call and unplugged the line from the wall, then stood in the darkness, feeling like an emotional punch bag.

After a moment she replaced the handset, sneering at the soulless chirp indicating it was back on charge, and eased the curtains open. It was best to be sure.

Thankfully, Paul wasn’t standing in the garden.

Unfortunately, neither was Mike.

He watched the house from a safe distance as the lights went on and off in sequence, heading for the bedroom. Moments later, the final light went out.

He waited a further ten minutes before moving out of the shadows, keeping his head down. He needed to stay abreast of developments among his opposition’s ranks, but his surveillance of the police was becoming harder as time progressed. There seemed to be more officers assigned to the case every day, although that merely verified how intimidated they were. Each new face seemed less experienced, and more reluctant to be involved, than the last.

He reached the end of the road and turned left towards the tube station, from where it would take around forty minutes to get home. Now that the Met’s finest were off-duty, he needed to get some rest, too. It had been a long day, and at some point during the next forty-eight hours, the excitement would begin anew.

The station loomed, its dreary brick reminiscent of everywhere else in this shitty town. He paid for a ticket at the machine and walked down onto the platform. It was empty, but only at first.

A woman emerged from the shadows of a seating area and wandered towards him. Her demeanour suggested she had been waiting for a while.

Actually, that wasn’t it; her slovenly progress wasn’t a sign of boredom. She was a whore.

‘All right, darling,’ she said. ‘Know when the next train’s due?’

He shook his head.

‘Nah, me, neither. Fucking display’s been broken for ages.’ She moved closer. ‘Cold tonight.’

‘Uh huh.’

She leaned back and studied him. ‘You’re a quiet one, aren’t you? They say they’re the ones you have to watch.’ She cackled.

She was close. Her black miniskirt was heavily worn, and under her tights there were carpet burns on her knees. He wanted to vomit.

‘What’s your name, then?’

He didn’t respond, but his eyes locked on her hands: she was no more than thirty, yet they belonged on a pensioner. The skin was leathery and tired, but he could still make out the indentation left by a recently removed ring. A
wedding
ring.

Hatred flared. He wanted to rip her throat open with his bare hands. Society would probably thank him for it, if they were honest. This slut was probably a Noah’s Ark for every STI there was.

‘Come on, love, I’m a cheap date. Well, good value anyway, if you know what I mean.’ She shifted position, trying to catch his eye.

He scanned the platform; they were almost certainly on camera. He could pretend to accept her offer and take her somewhere more private, but he hadn’t come prepared. He’d end up leaving traces, increasing the Met’s chances
of discovering his identity. And the moment her body was found, the police would certainly begin checking the area’s CCTV footage. The risk was too great.

‘What are you,’ she asked. ‘Bent?’

He turned and headed for the stairs.

‘Fucking weirdo,’ she said to his back. But as he reached the corner he was smiling. He could walk away.

He was still in control.

She stood by the window, staring at the restless outlines of the trees in Walpole Park.

This part of Ealing usually looked so peaceful in the middle of the night, a fact Hawkins knew because, increasingly, she was awake to witness it. But tonight tranquillity was sporadic at best.

As if to emphasize the point, a tuneless verse of ‘Driving Home for Christmas’ became audible in the distance, its chorus repeated several times before the five men staggered into view. Yet it wasn’t their stewed overtones or the rousing effect they were having on the neighbourhood’s resident canines that was keeping Hawkins awake.

Somewhere out there was a psychopath with her name on.

Even when she did sleep, she had nightmares about anonymous calls from the killer, giving the location of his next target. Hawkins would arrive just in time to watch him murder another victim and escape. She had woken in a cold sweat fifteen minutes before; a nightly occurrence since Jessica Anderton’s death.

So far she’d avoided the sleeping tablets, but she couldn’t go on like this for long. Her heart rate had dropped at last, though, and she took a sip of water before replacing the glass on her bedside table, carefully avoiding her necklace.

As usual it stirred memories of her Grandfather. Hawkins had been too young when he died to remember many details, but her mother’s father had always been her favourite relative, and had left her the necklace in his will. The pretty emerald stone was small and chipped in places, but it went everywhere with her.

She closed the curtains and bashed her pillow back into shape before lying down again. After a few moments she found a comfortable position, but it left her facing the bright red figures on her alarm clock. 3.45 a.m.

It was Friday.

Hawkins groaned. In less than seventy-two hours it would be Christmas Day and, at the moment that millions of people were opening their presents, Antonia Hawkins would be opening yet another unfamiliar front door to find yet another maimed body.

She swore, realizing how badly she wanted a cigarette. Perhaps it was a good thing she’d left them in the Vauxhall Barclay had taken home. So far that night she’d resisted biting her nails, a habit that seemed to resurface at times of stress. Not that there was much of them left to save.

She stuck the most painful one in her mouth.