The Jackdaw (18 page)

‘Well, well,’ the voice on the other end told him. ‘Finally we get to talk. How’s the shoulder? I heard they didn’t manage to get all the shotgun pellets out. Bet that hurts on a cold day.’

‘Who is this?’ Sean asked impatiently.

‘Geoff Jackson,’ the voice told him. ‘Crime editor for
The World
, Britain’s biggest selling …’

‘Save the advert,’ Sean interrupted him. ‘I know who you work for and what you do.’

‘Of course you do,’ Jackson laughed into the phone. ‘Tell me, Inspector, did you ever get round to reading my book about the Keller investigation? Or what about my latest one on Douglas Allen? How d’you like the title –
The Toy Taker.
Stroke of genius, don’t you think?’

‘Jackson,’ Sean told him, ‘I wouldn’t wipe my arse with one of your books.’

‘A bit harsh, Inspector.’ Jackson laughed again. ‘They were nominated for best true-crime works for their respective years.’

‘Congratulations,’ Sean said sarcastically, ‘but listen to me, Jackson, what the fuck d’you think you’re playing at trying to get this psychopath to contact your paper? You trying to encourage him to abduct somebody else?’

‘Just doing my job, Inspector.’

‘Which is?’

‘Covering the story, of course. Nothing more, nothing less.’

‘Bollocks,’ Sean argued. ‘You’re trying to create the story, not cover it.’

‘Cover – create,’ Jackson replied, ‘what the fuck’s the difference?’

‘Plenty,’ Sean told him. ‘Anything you find out about this son of a bitch you tell me, Jackson.’

‘No can do,’ Jackson answered. ‘Journalistic privilege, Inspector. You can’t make me hand over shit, although I may chuck you a bone from time to time.’

‘We need to talk,’ Sean insisted, snarling into the phone.

‘Isn’t that what we’re doing?’

‘Face-to-face. Now.’

‘Why? So you can beat the crap out of me to scare me off the story?’

The fact Jackson was probably recording their conversation dawned on Sean. ‘You’re still living in the eighties, Jackson. That doesn’t happen any more. Not sure it ever did, but if it makes you feel better you can pick the location.’

‘Errm,’ Jackson mused. ‘How about a nice little café I know in Wapping? Public enough to be safe – private enough so we can talk.’

‘Fine,’ Sean told him. ‘Where?’

‘Café Italia in Pennington Street.’

‘Be there in an hour,’ Sean demanded and hung up before Jackson could argue. Sean knew he’d be there. He grabbed his raincoat and filled his pockets, poking his head around Donnelly’s door. ‘Grab your coat,’ he told him.

‘We going somewhere?’

‘To see a journalist,’ Sean answered.

Donnelly rubbed his hands with enthusiasm. ‘Jackson?’ Sean just nodded. ‘Oh yes,’ Donnelly said excitedly. ‘This I do not want to miss.’

Sally sat opposite Anna in a large comfortable chair, resting a glass of water on her thigh while Anna read through her patient notes, Sally still feeling uncomfortable despite their familiarity. Finally Anna looked up and smiled.

‘Thanks again for seeing me so early,’ Sally told her. ‘I know you must be pretty busy, especially now you’re attached to another case.’

‘No need to thank me, Sally,’ Anna replied. ‘What are friends for?’

‘I suppose,’ Sally answered unconvincingly, ‘but before we start, I was wondering if you think anyone may have put two and two together and come up with four?’

‘You mean do I think anyone has worked out that you’re seeing me – professionally?’

‘Yes. You know, you and I being so close to each other at work – maybe someone’s suspected something. Said something?’

‘No,’ Anna reassured her. ‘No one’s said anything. Why do you ask? Has someone said something to you?’

‘No. No,’ Sally told her. ‘Nothing. It’s nothing. I just get a little paranoid sometimes. Sorry, have we started now, or are we still just talking?’

‘Just talking,’ Anna smiled. ‘Have you confided in anyone that you’re seeing me?’

‘No,’ Sally lied.

‘Not even … Sean?’

Sally sighed before answering. ‘How did you know? Did he tell you?’

‘No,’ It was Anna’s turn to lie. ‘I just guessed you’d trust him. We all need someone to confide in, especially after what you went through. Speaking of which, how have you been? It can’t have been easy watching that young woman being hurt on Your View.’

‘No,’ Sally answered. ‘No it wasn’t, but I did it.’

‘And when you got home – when you were alone?’

‘Fine. Like any other night lately. I’m off the tramadol and the codeine, not drinking to excess and staying off the hard stuff – a glass of wine to unwind with now and then, but nothing over the top.’

‘And the fear?’ Anna asked, the question making Sally flinch.

‘Better,’ she answered. ‘Much better. I still get a little nervous if I get home late, when it’s dark, but once I’m in my flat I’m fine. Any feelings I have of anxiety quickly fade. No tears. No depression. No dreading waking up the next day.’

‘Any dreams?’ Anna asked, making Sally shift a little uncomfortably in her chair.

‘Dreams?’ Sally asked.

‘Yes,’ Anna clarified. ‘Like the ones we’ve discussed before.’ Sally didn’t answer. ‘Often our fears linger longest in our dreams – in our subconscious. They sneak in when our guard is down.’ She smiled at Sally.

‘Well,’ Sally began before stalling to take a sip of water, ‘there is one that doesn’t seem to want to let go – one that seems to get me when I’m particularly tired – when I’m in the deepest of sleeps. Funny, I always thought you only dreamt just before you woke up – when your sleep was at its lightest.’

‘No one really knows for sure,’ Anna explained. ‘The subconscious is still a mysterious place. So what happens in this dream?’

‘I don’t dream it that much,’ Sally tried to explain, fearful of mocking her own proclaimed progress. ‘Only now and then.’

‘I understand,’ Anna told her. ‘It’s best if you tell me about it and then we can discuss it, but only if you feel comfortable with it.’

‘I’m happy to talk about it,’ Sally answered, aware of her own feelings of defensiveness and eager to banish them.

‘Then, whenever you’d like to begin,’ Anna encouraged.

Sally filled her lungs and exhaled before beginning. ‘It’s always the same house, big, with lots of rooms, one leading to another and then another, but there never seem to be any corridors or hallways, just rooms leading to each other. I don’t recognize the house. It’s not familiar to me. If I do know it then I don’t remember it.’ Sally suddenly stopped, as if she was trying to work something out, or place the house of her subconscious in the real world.

‘Go on,’ Anna brought her back.

Sally gave a little shake of her head and continued. ‘The ceilings in the rooms are high and the windows are very tall, but they don’t have glass in them, just a … a blackness … an impenetrable blackness, and the doorways are tall as well, but narrow and difficult to fit through.’ She paused again as she recalled more of the house. ‘And there are no curtains or blinds, in fact there’s no furniture at all of any kind, or carpet, just bare floorboards and a single bulb hanging from the ceiling in each room. And the only colour in the house is …’ Sally stalled again, covering her mouth with one hand as she swallowed hard to stop the tears as a sudden rush of emotions and memories ambushed her.

‘It’s all right,’ Anna comforted her. ‘Take your time.’

After a few seconds Sally recovered enough to continue, battling through the dark demons of the past. ‘The only colour … everything in the house, including the light is … is red.’

She closed her eyes for a second, remembering the night she’d been attacked in her own flat more than two years ago, her would-be killer, Sebastian Gibran, turning the room red by draping a silk scarf over a lamp before burying a knife deep into her chest.

‘And I’m running,’ she eventually continued. ‘Running from room to room, my shoulders hitting the frames of the narrow doorways, and I’m scared. I know someone’s in the house, and that they’re looking for me – searching for me – getting closer and closer as I run aimlessly from room to room, looking for a way out, but there isn’t any, just door after door leading nowhere. I feel him in the house. I can’t see or hear him, but I know he’s there and he wants me. He wants to finish what he began.

‘I’m crying and stumbling, falling down and scrambling back to my feet as I feel his presence growing closer and closer, my fear becoming as real and raw and overwhelming as it’s ever been, and then suddenly he’s there, looming over me, no matter what direction I turn in he’s there, and then I feel …’ She stopped, pretended to sip water from her glass, hiding behind it until she’d composed herself.

‘Can you tell me what happens next?’ Anna asked. ‘If it’s too much then …’

‘No,’ Sally interrupted. ‘I want to tell you. I need to tell you … Christ, I need to tell someone.’

‘Tell me what?’

‘I feel the knife go in, but not like it’s really happening. In the dream I watch the knife point being placed against my chest and then it’s slowly pushed into me, sliding into my chest. There’s no pain, so I just stand there and watch it slide deep into me, the red blood almost too faint to see in the red of the room, but eventually I do look up from the knife – I look up from my chest and I see the face of the man who’s doing this thing to me and …’ Once more Sally paused as she tried to make sense of what she was about to say.

‘And you saw Sebastian Gibran.’ Anna thought she’d answered for her. ‘You saw the face of Sebastian Gibran.’

‘No,’ Sally told her, her face pale and serious. ‘It was …
Sean
. It was Sean holding the knife. It was Sean doing it to me.’ Sally watched as Anna’s jaw fell open. ‘Funny thing is,’ she continued, ‘once I see it’s Sean I’m not afraid any more, or at least I’m not afraid for me any more – I’m afraid for him. What does it all mean?’

Anna cleared her throat before talking. ‘Oh … nothing. It’s just a dream. They’re rarely clear and often confusing. We need to be careful not to overestimate their importance. Both you and Sean have suffered violent traumas in the last couple of years. In your subconscious you probably consider him a kindred spirit, hence he appears in your dreams. A friendly face, perhaps?’

‘A friendly face with a knife?’ Sally questioned, not believing a word of Anna’s explanation.

‘Like I said,’ Anna tried to convince her, ‘dreams can be confusing.’

‘I see,’ Sally lied. ‘Like you said – it’s just a dream.’

Sean and Donnelly found the café Jackson had described in Wapping easily enough. One side of the street was dominated by a long, low, brown brick building where numerous small businesses had made their homes in the archways it provided. The other side was a mish-mash of old and new buildings, some seemingly made out of nothing more than plastic and corrugated iron. The decidedly un-Italian-looking café was nestled in amongst the other ugly buildings.

‘What a fucking dump,’ Donnelly complained as they walked from their car to the café. ‘Was it asking too much to meet in the West End?’

Sean smiled, knowing Donnelly would rather be in a place like this than the West End any day – it was very similar to their old stomping ground in Peckham. ‘He’s a crime journalist,’ he joined in. ‘Hanging round places like this makes him feel the part.’

‘Aye,’ Donnelly reluctantly agreed. ‘Bet you he doesn’t live round here though.’

‘No,’ Sean agreed, opening the door to the café. ‘I don’t suppose he does.’

Once inside he scanned the clientele and soon spotted Jackson sitting in the far corner, back to the wall like a cop, but concentrating on the food on his plate, never looking up between mouthfuls, unlike a cop. He and Donnelly crossed the café and sat at Jackson’s table, Donnelly right next to him and Sean on the other side of the table facing him.

‘Not eating, gentlemen?’ Jackson asked without looking up, loading his fork with food while the other hand typed constantly on his iPhone.

‘I’m particular who I eat with,’ Sean told him.

‘Whatever,’ Jackson replied, finally looking up, ‘but remember, before you get too choosy – if it wasn’t for me you lot would still be fumbling around in the dark trying to find out which celebrities were really paedophiles and which ones weren’t. I handed you that job on a plate. Evil bastards. I hope they get some serious time in some serious prisons.’

‘We weren’t involved in that investigation,’ Donnelly reminded him. ‘Not our sphere of influence, but on behalf of the Metropolitan Police I thank you for the information and your cooperation.’

‘Can we cut the shit,’ Sean impatiently interrupted. ‘Before I decide to tell you what I really think of you.’

‘Careful, Inspector.’ Jackson smiled a warning at him. ‘Every other person in here is a journo, so I’d be careful what you say if I was you.’

‘I’m not here to threaten you, Jackson,’ Sean told him. ‘I’m here to warn you – stay away from this man. He’s dangerous. He’s already killed one person. This isn’t a game.’

‘And if I don’t?’

‘If he doesn’t kill you, which he probably will, I’ll arrest you for interfering in an investigation.’

‘If he decides to talk to me, that’ll hardly amount to interfering in an investigation. And if he does talk then anything he tells me is subject to journalistic privilege and therefore excluded material – material you couldn’t take off me even with a search warrant,’ Jackson argued.

‘Not with a search warrant,’ Sean agreed, ‘but I could take it with a production order.’

‘Only if you can convince a judge it would be of high value to the investigation, which you couldn’t,’ Jackson told him. ‘I know my business, Corrigan. I’m not interested in
evidence –
entertainment’s my field, so good luck with that production order.’

‘Trust me,’ Sean warned him, ‘if I need a production order I’ll get a production order.’

‘We’ll see,’ Jackson smiled, ‘but anyway, this is all pie-in-the-sky. He hasn’t even contacted me yet – he probably never will, but you can’t blame a man for trying. Look,’ he threw his arms open, ‘we seem to have got off on the wrong foot here. I’m not here to work against you guys. I want to work with you. I can help you.’