The Advent Killer (16 page)

She held her breath and glanced ahead. No traffic. She pulled into the right-hand lane. She was right with him now; just a few more yards and she could turn in.

He must have heard the siren, known it was her intention to intercept, and yet he didn’t break stride or even turn his head.

Milliseconds later, she found out why.

Nemesis had disappeared.

‘No!’ Hawkins gasped, swerving back onto her own side of the road. ‘Mike, he cut into the park. I can’t follow him.’

‘I’m still on him, central path, heading north,’ Mike replied. ‘Go … round. He won’t want to get trapped … in here.’

‘Be careful.’ Hawkins shifted her attention back to the road ahead, bracing for a speed bump. She hit it hard, sending a shockwave through the car as she cursed herself for neglecting to check whether Connor’s gun had been left outside the house.

She shook her head.
Focus.
If it was back in Old Queen Street, the ambulance team would pick it up; if Nemesis had taken it, he was unlikely to draw further attention to himself by discharging the weapon again.

She hoped.

‘He’s going for … the bridge.’ Mike’s voice was a welcome distraction as the Astra crashed over a second speed bump. ‘Where … you?’

‘Nearly at the roundabout now.’ She dropped a couple of gears, allowing the engine to aid her braking. There was only one bridge in St James’ Park: it cut across the park’s central lake, leading to a network of paths on the northern side. It presented Nemesis with an obvious route out of the park – straight ahead.

‘I’ll head for the north exit and try to cut him off,’ she said. ‘Mike, if he turns …’

‘I know,’ he came back. ‘Try not to make an … easy target.’

Up ahead the lights of Buckingham Palace glowed through the snowstorm as Hawkins ignored the no-entry signs at the end of a one-way street, and flung the Astra right along the park’s west perimeter.

She eased off the accelerator only when headlights appeared ahead and an oncoming taxi was forced to brake and swerve as Hawkins cut across the opposite lane of the roundabout as she slewed past onto the northern boundary of St James’ Park.

‘I’m on the Mall.’ She released the radio’s button and waited for a reply. A second later, she caught sight of the main gate a hundred yards ahead.

‘Mike?’ She turned the volume control to maximum, straining to hear anything through the speaker.

Nothing.

Suddenly, a lone figure exited the tall metal gates. It turned and sprinted for the shadows on the opposite side of the street.

It had to be Nemesis.

Hawkins floored the accelerator again, letting out the breath she’d been holding as Mike arrived on the pavement. He pointed along the Mall as he saw her, raising a hand to operate his radio.

‘Go. I’m … right behind you.’

Hawkins set her sights on the figure fifty yards further up the road. Nemesis had cleared the railings, and was heading along the wide footpath set back from the road.

‘Suspect is on the Mall,’ she reported. ‘Heading east. Control, where’s our back-up?’

‘On the way.’ Brian sounded fraught. ‘Four minutes.’

‘And the helicopter?’

‘Observer 2 is en route, but they’re six minutes away.’

Hawkins banged the wheel with the heel of her hand. ‘We need them here faster than that! If he gets near a busy area, we’ll lose him.’

Her heart raced as the gap closed to twenty yards. Fifteen. Then ten. Fortunately, the high walls that skirted the street hemmed him in, leaving only one choice of direction. He had nowhere to hide.

But what the hell was she supposed to do now? The railings prevented her from cutting across directly into his path, and even if she did manage to stop him, he was probably armed with both a Taser and a gun.

Although suddenly she had a new problem.

The Astra lurched to the right and slowed dramatically. Hawkins swore and dragged the wheel across to point the car forwards again. She must have damaged a tyre by hitting the speed bumps so hard moments before.

The steering fought her, and her speed dropped as a grinding sound signalled that the tyre had given up altogether. She was running on the rim.

‘Fuck!’ Hawkins pulled up in the middle of the road, watching Nemesis reopen the gap.

‘Toni,’ Mike’s voice hissed over the radio, ‘what’s wrong?’

‘Flat tyre. I’m going after him on foot.’

‘No, Antonia—’ was all Hawkins heard as she clambered out of the car, flakes of snow immediately settling on her face, cold against her sweating skin. She took off without looking back, reassured by the sound of Mike’s footfalls that he wasn’t too far behind.

She could still see Nemesis up ahead, his silhouette dark against the whiteness now coating the Mall, his pace slowing after the chase through the park.

She was definitely gaining on him.

Her best bet was to maintain pursuit, keeping him in sight for as long as possible without catching up, giving the response teams time to arrive. But her blown tyre had allowed Nemesis to reach the first available exit from the Mall – although that also meant he had to leave the shadows.

Hawkins strained to pick out distinguishing features on her target as he entered the pool of yellow light created by a streetlight. She caught a glimpse of dark blue overalls and baseball cap before he disappeared around the corner that preceded the main steps leading north off the Mall, towards the Duke of York memorial.

Hawkins renewed her efforts and rounded the corner at a sprint. Ahead, Nemesis had scaled the first tier, and was taking the second set two at a time, but his gait was laboured.

At the base, two young men stood transfixed, staring after him.

‘Met Police!’ Hawkins shouted at them as she shot past. ‘Stay … there!’

She reached the steps, attempting to clear three with her first leap. But her toe caught the lip of the third step and she crashed sideways, stifling a cry as her knee smashed against the stone. She scrambled back to her feet and carried on, looking up to see how much ground she had lost.

Nemesis had begun the third tier as Hawkins struggled
upwards against the pain in her knee. Her advantage was gone, but she could make out more detail in the streetlight bathing the steps. On top of the blue overalls Nemesis wore a backpack, and around his head was a dark shape that could have been created either by a hood or long hair.

‘Suspect … heading north … off the Mall,’ she rasped into the radio. ‘Will exit steps near … Waterloo Gardens. Attempting to … maintain visual.’

But she was only halfway up the second tier of the steps when Nemesis disappeared from view.

She heard distant sirens as she limped to the top, managing to run the last fifteen yards. But as she staggered to a halt beyond the gates, Hawkins’ worst fears were confirmed.

Dark, empty streets stretched away in three directions, each lined with trees that had so far kept the snow from reaching the ground. The faint trail of footsteps that might have told them which way Nemesis had gone petered out at the first tree.

Hawkins threw up her arms in desperation, heart pounding as she stared in turn along each of his possible escape routes.

Mike arrived beside her, his breathing also ragged, eyes searching hers. Hawkins said nothing, just let her head drop.

They had lost him.

The sound of sirens faded as he walked casually into the tube station and travelled down on the escalator, keeping his face turned away from the security cameras. And when he lost himself among the crowd of weary celebrants awaiting the final train to run on Christmas morning, the Met’s chances of apprehending Nemesis retreated still further.

Moments later, a rush of air from along the tunnel chilled the sweat on his face, indicating the approach of a train. Only when the lead carriage swept into view did his heightened state of alertness subside.

He queued patiently before boarding the train, and headed for one of the few remaining seats. He sat without removing the rucksack tightly strapped to his back, minimizing the chances of it being seen if the police reviewed the footage. The clock display in the door recess satisfied him that he’d be home before three.

He was eager to see the news. Every channel would be awash with speculation about the night’s events, but he was interested to see this time how much of the truth would be reported.

He took his first chance to savour this latest victory. He’d enjoyed putting an end to Summer Easton, and had given her an extra long Taser burst, mainly because her
delinquency had not been prompted as others’ had by basic fear or incompetence.

Summer Easton had such contempt for people that she was prepared to cheat and lie simply for profit and reputation. So she had paid a fair price.

His original plan had been to spend the next day or two resting, in preparation for his final attack, the culmination of his campaign; the moment when he would finally be released from torment. Except the police had genuinely surprised him tonight. He couldn’t imagine how they had pinpointed Summer Easton so precisely, almost in time to stop him. But they had, which meant his next attack, his definitive strike, would be even more challenging than expected.

Yet he was still free, and had remained so by ensuring that not even the smallest detail was left to chance. He had shown the Metropolitan Police this evening that they were vulnerable. He’d hurt them, and escaped in the face of far greater resources.

Tonight’s second victim was regrettable. He’d opted for a head shot, to ensure the target wouldn’t survive, but it hadn’t been part of the plan, and would adulterate his message. So now he had to go even further.

It was time to reduce the Met’s capability again.

The drawer slid open at waist height, runners silent, plastic-encased cargo ominous. A soft thud marked the end of its travel, and Hawkins fought the urge to turn away, wishing there had been time to do this later.

She took a deep breath of chilled, bleach-infused air, forcing herself to look down at the plastic sheeting as it was folded back to reveal what remained of Connor’s pallid features.

She swallowed hard, determined not to react in front of the Westminster Mortuary employee, Arnold, who had yet to show a flicker of emotion.

Mike stood opposite, his expression a mask of controlled professionalism. He must have felt Hawkins’ eyes on him, however, because his gaze flicked up to meet hers and the veil of stoicism evaporated, to be replaced with one of sadness.

‘
You OK?
’ he mouthed.

She nodded, blinking back tears that would have been justified for so many reasons. And yet, greater than sympathy for those who would suffer more than she from these murders, or frustration following their recently dashed hopes of an arrest, the emotion Hawkins felt most was
loss
.

‘Remember, no touching.’ Arnold’s apathetic tone was a welcome distraction as he moved along the wall,
checking tag numbers with all the nonchalance of a supermarket attendant looking for a certain brand of laundry detergent. He dragged open a second drawer. ‘Here’s the other one.’

Arnold removed his clear latex gloves and fired them catapult-style into a nearby bin. ‘I’ll leave you to it. Shout if you need anything.’ He ambled away.

‘Appreciate it,’ Mike called after him.

Hawkins looked down at Connor again. She managed only a few seconds before she had to look away. In the short time she’d known him, Eddie Connor had become not only a trusted associate, but a friend as well.

‘Not your fault.’ Mike’s voice was soft.

‘Maybe not, but Eddie wasn’t part of his plan. Why kill someone who was already immobilized by a blast from a Taser?’

‘He saw the killer point blank, right? Even if he’s disguised, he isn’t gonna risk letting Connor live. Hunter said it – insane yes, stupid no.’

‘I have to meet his wife later.’

‘I’ll go with you. Seen enough?’

‘Yeah.’ She replaced the bag over Connor’s lifeless form. ‘Of this whole case.’

They moved towards the second drawer, and Hawkins tried not to pay too much attention to her surroundings. The odour in these places was enough to turn your stomach, and it clung to you for hours afterwards.

But this was their only chance to see Summer Easton’s body in the state Nemesis had left it.

Identification had been immediate, thanks to photo ID found at the house. And because there was no uncertainty
surrounding the cause of death, the post-mortem was scheduled for later that morning.

This detailed examination would help to build a picture of the victim’s final hours. When and what she last ate, whether there had been any recent sexual contact, and analysis of traces in or on the body that could be tied to a particular location in the surrounding area. Or a potential suspect.

There was even the possibility that, having disturbed the killer, they might have prevented him from erasing his tracks as effectively as before. For the first time in this case, Hawkins was hopeful that forensics may yet produce something of interest.

She eased open the second body bag, this time to reveal a young woman’s face. It was the first time either of them had seen Nemesis’ latest planned victim. The body had remained at the house in Old Queen Street for the whole of Sunday, only having been moved to the morgue in the early hours, once Scenes of Crime had completed their forensic examination.

Areas around the scene were still being searched for clues, while house-to-house inquiries were carried out with the neighbours. Telephone records were being checked, and a timeline of the victim’s last hours was being mapped backwards from the time of death.

An official statement would be released to cover Sunday morning’s events, combined with an appeal to come forwards for anyone who might have seen the killer in flight.

But all this would take time. As ever, while interviews with acquaintances and work colleagues of the victim
were OK, you had to catch friends and relatives at the right moment, approach them in the right way. Otherwise grief or anger took over, rendering them unwilling or unable to help.

‘Summer Easton.’ Mike unfolded the interview notes made by Todd and Yasir the day before. ‘Thirty-one. Private education and a bunch of jobs she never wanted; jerked around the whole way through, supported by her mom and dad’s heavyweight bank account. Only chilled out when she found spiritualism in her mid-twenties; worked as a medium from then on. According to her mom, Summer was in Brighton till two days ago, with a travelling fair she joined as a psychic seven months back. Caught the train to London late Friday, spent Saturday cleaning the house and catching up with friends. She was due at her folks’ in Surrey for Christmas dinner, but after her mom’s phone call yesterday morning, they were already expecting the Community Support Officers when they arrived at the door.’

‘Pretty girl.’ Hawkins shook her head. ‘What a waste. The research is good, though it doesn’t sound like she’ll have crossed paths with any of the other victims. We’ll have to wait for a full background check. I’m more concerned that she was living outside London.’ She looked at him. ‘How much wider are we going to have to start looking for potential targets now?’

‘She had the house,’ Mike offered, running a finger down the page, ‘and before the circus, she worked for two years at a psychic centre right here in the big smoke.’

Hawkins conceded the point. She eased the plastic
body bag open further and pushed it down, thankful for the surgical gloves she and Mike had been given upon arrival.

Mouth closed, Summer’s face was remarkably undamaged. Beyond that, Hawkins was not keen to see. At one o’clock yesterday morning, jaw muscles debilitated after an extended Taser blast, it must have been easy for the killer to prize open her mouth and slice out her tongue. Then he’d simply taped over her nose and mouth and waited while she choked on her own blood.

The only small comfort Hawkins took from the situation was that Summer’s horrific ordeal could have lasted no more than an hour: between the time when she last talked to her mum on the phone, and the moment Hawkins had knocked at the door.

Although the Taser had ensured that, like her predecessors, she had probably been conscious throughout.

Hawkins winced, thinking about the sister who identified these remains, and the family now spending Boxing Day deciding how to dispose of them. It would almost certainly be cremation. Relatives in these situations often saw it as the only way to cleanse their loved ones’ defiled remains.

Mike went on. ‘Seems the girl liked to party. Wasn’t exactly careful who she hung out with. Family and friends have been concerned for a while. Same old, same old.’ He sighed and refolded the printout. ‘Sorry.’

‘We will be,’ Hawkins said, ‘if we ever repeat yesterday’s fiasco.’

The previous morning, following their not-quite-close-enough encounter with the killer, she and Mike had stayed
out in the field to assist the returning response teams in their search.

Nemesis would almost certainly have gone straight to Leicester Square, where the crowds provided most effective cover. Their initial search party couldn’t have been more than five minutes behind him, but hunting among hundreds of Christmas revellers without even knowing what their quarry looked like, beyond clothing he could have changed, had always been destined to fail.

As more officers had arrived the search had spread, but they’d been forced to concede defeat at 7 a.m., when even the stupidest criminal would have been miles away. After that, she and Mike had returned to the house in Old Queen Street and flashed their badges at the security cordon, only to be stopped and informed that the DCS had left instructions for them.

They were told to return home and get some rest before reporting to Kirby-Jones’ office first thing on Monday morning for debriefing. Neither of them was welcome anywhere near the case until then. Todd and Yasir would oversee things in their absence.

Mike had dropped her home, most of the journey spent in solemn discussion about what they would say to the DCS the following day.

Then they had lapsed into silence. Hawkins avoided mentioning their personal situation, which seemed trivial after what had happened to Connor. Mike must have agreed, because he didn’t raise the subject either, saying as they parted that he’d meet her at Scotland Yard for the debrief.

Hawkins had spent most of Christmas Day at home,
alone, drifting from one half-finished domestic task to another. At midday, despite not feeling like company of any kind, the pressure of opportunity had driven her into a cab. But as soon as formalities at her parents’ house had been observed, she had made her excuses and returned home to solitude.

Although she would have denied it, she kept half an eye on the phone during the remainder of the day. Ultimately, though, she was glad Mike hadn’t tried to contact her. They both had a lot to think about.

The meeting earlier that Monday morning had not been fun.

The chief superintendent had spoken to her and Mike separately, denying them the comfort of being interrogated with each other for support; although Hawkins also suspected that Mike’s trial had been somewhat tamer than her own.

Kirby-Jones certainly hadn’t held back when she admitted to withholding their discovery of Nemesis’ possible chat room method for selecting at least some of his victims. She was surprised he hadn’t fired her on the spot; although he had taken the opportunity to launch into his
How can we expect to beat crime if we don’t work together?
speech.

It seemed that, despite the loss of a team member, Hawkins had just about hung on to her seconded position, and command of the investigation, because they had almost snared the killer. The chief superintendent even advised Mike to maintain his search for Nemesis in the chat rooms. It was made clear, however, that full disclosure was expected from now on. There would be no more warnings.

She was not being held responsible for Connor’s death, but so far the investigation into events leading up to it was inconclusive, and would stay open. Question marks remained over her choice of approach, and the number of personnel she had opted to involve.

But while Hawkins’ career was intact for now, she feared more for her credibility. To the DCS, maintaining public confidence in the Met’s capabilities was everything. An official statement, released yesterday afternoon, sought to minimize embarrassment by reinforcing the Met’s promise that, next time, Nemesis would end up in custody.

If he didn’t, while Mike’s reputation would suffer in the press, Hawkins would be the one clearing her desk.