The Jackdaw (34 page)

‘Something I can do for you, guv’nor?’ he asked.

‘Yeah,’ Sean told him. ‘How you getting on tracing the source of the signal?’

Bishop looked puzzled for a second. ‘I’ve already traced the source, guv’nor,’ he answered. ‘It’s the
location
of the source that’s the tricky bit.’

Sean’s eyes narrowed. ‘Don’t play with me,’ he warned him.

Bishop nervously cleared his throat. ‘No change since the last broadcast,’ he explained. ‘I can’t get any closer until he’s—’

‘Online,’ Sean interrupted. ‘Yeah, yeah. I get the picture,’ but as Bishop was about to walk away an idea came from nowhere and jumped into the front of Sean’s mind. ‘Hold on a second,’ he stopped him, fishing in his jacket pocket for the card Jackson had given him. ‘Can you track a mobile phone signal, even if it’s on the move?’

‘You should go through technical support for that,’ Bishop reminded him.

‘I know technical support can,’ Sean answered. ‘What I asked is can
you
track a mobile?’

‘So long as it’s turned on and I have the number. All I have to do is triangulate the signal and bingo.’

‘Number’s on there,’ Sean told him, handing him the card.

‘Geoff Jackson?’ Bishop queried. ‘The journalist? I doubt he’s using his own mobile to communicate with the suspect.’

‘He’s not,’ Sean agreed, ‘but he’s a journalist. He’s no more likely to be without his own mobile than we would.’

‘So,’ Bishop surmised, ‘when he goes to meet with the suspect he’ll still have his mobile with him.’

‘Of course he will,’ Sean told him.

‘
If
he goes to meet him again,’ Anna argued.

‘He will,’ Sean assured her.

‘The suspect took the phones from the other victims prior to abducting them,’ Anna reminded him. ‘At the very least I’d expect him to be cautious enough to make Jackson turn his phone off and with it your chance of tracking it.’

‘He probably will,’ Sean agreed, ‘but if the surveillance can stay close enough to the signal before that, it could be too late. Jackson might just lead us straight to him, even if he doesn’t know it himself.’

‘But why not technical support?’ Bishop asked. ‘They’ve got better equipment for this than I can cobble together.’

‘Because I need it now,’ Sean insisted. ‘Jackson isn’t gonna hang around. Technical support will take too long to get themselves sorted. Don’t worry about the authority – I’ll get Addis to sort it ASAP. He won’t argue if he thinks it’ll bring a result.’

‘And the surveillance?’ Bishop asked.

‘Let me worry about the surveillance,’ Sean told him. ‘You just get a fix on Jackson’s phone.’ Bishop shrugged his shoulders and headed off to find people who had access to the equipment he would need and who owed him a favour or two. Sean stood and walked to his door, summoning Sally and Donnelly from the main office. A few seconds later they were all gathered in his office waiting for the news. ‘We’re going to triangulate the signal on Geoff Jackson’s mobile phone and put a surveillance team up his arse. Next time he goes to meet our boy we’ll be there with a welcoming committee.’

‘Sneaky,’ Donnelly observed. ‘Very sneaky.’

‘Dave,’ Sean ordered, ‘get hold of Addis and get me a surveillance team on the hurry up. With Addis ordering it – it’ll happen fast. He has that effect on people.’

‘I’m on it,’ Donnelly told him and immediately headed off to hunt down Addis.

‘What d’you want me to do?’ Sally asked.

‘Stay close,’ Sean told her. ‘If Jackson looks like he’s heading to a meet I want you with me, and Bishop too. If he leads us to our man I want someone with me I can trust – someone to handle Jackson while I handle the suspect.’

‘What if he’s armed?’ Sally questioned. ‘Goldsboro said he was armed with a shotgun.’

‘Then I’ll be careful,’ he answered flippantly.

‘Like you were with Thomas Keller?’ she asked.

‘That was different.’ Sean tried to dodge the subject.

‘Promise me you won’t try and take him on your own,’ Sally insisted. He looked from Sally to Anna and back, unable to decide who looked the most concerned.

‘OK,’ he assured them. ‘If this works and it looks like there’s even a chance he might be armed, then I promise we’ll just box him in and wait for an ARV to take him down.’

‘You’d bloody better,’ Sally warned him. ‘You’d better.’

Zukov and DC Tessa Carlisle turned into Cecil Road – an unattractive dead-end street in Colindale, north London, full of ugly grey houses thrown up after the Second World War.

‘I hate it around here,’ Zukov complained. ‘Gives me the creeps. Reminds me of being at training school.’ He was referring to the nearby Metropolitan Police Training College – a place that held little other than bad memories for him.

‘It wasn’t that bad,’ Carlisle disagreed. ‘I had a pretty good time there.’

Zukov eyed the pretty young detective from behind his sunglasses. He had his own ideas why Carlisle, with her sparkling blue eyes, heavy chest and long blonde hair, had enjoyed her time at training school more than he had, but he kept his thoughts to himself. He found the house he was looking for and parked up.

‘This is it,’ he told her, ‘number fourteen – flat number five.’

‘Can’t be much of a flat in a house that size,’ Carlisle deduced.

‘More like a bedsit, I reckon,’ Zukov agreed. ‘Probably going to be a right shithole too. Don’t know why they make us wear suits all the time when we spend half our lives crawling around dumps like this. Some immigrant carved up his council house with plaster board and now charges other immigrants a fortune to live like pigs.’

‘Let’s not make any judgements just yet,’ Carlisle warned him and climbed out the car before he could reply, waiting for him to join her on the pavement. ‘Shall we?’ She smiled at the grumpy-looking Zukov before heading towards the front door of number fourteen. She pressed the cheap white doorbell that electronically chimed a classical tune she vaguely recognized and waited for sounds of life to come from beyond the frosted double-glazed glass that dominated the white PVC door. A few seconds later she heard footsteps and saw the distorted silhouette of someone approaching. She heard a lock turn and the door was opened by a slim man who looked to be in his mid-sixties, although she guessed he was probably a lot younger – a hard unprivileged life having taken its toll. He wore a grey shirt under a burgundy cardigan, with matching grey trousers and comfortable grey shoes. The smell from inside the house was immediately unpleasant – too many people trying to co-exist in too small a domicile, the cooking smells from at least three continents mixing in the overly warm central heating. Carlisle almost gagged, but recovered quickly enough.

‘Can I help you with something?’ the man asked, friendly enough.

‘Police,’ Zukov told him, holding out his warrant card to prove it. ‘DC Zukov and DC Carlisle from the Special Investigations Unit – New Scotland Yard,’ he added for extra credence. ‘Do you live here?’

‘Yes,’ the man nodded.

‘Is it your house?’ Zukov continued.

‘I own the house, yes,’ he answered, looking increasingly confused.

‘Does anyone else live here?’ Zukov laboured.

‘Yes,’ he admitted without concern. ‘My tenants.’

‘Your tenants?’ Zukov asked as if he’d made a significant discovery.

‘Does a Jason Howard live here, Mr … sorry I didn’t catch your name?’ Carlisle took over.

‘My name is Peter O’Meagher and yes, Jason lives here – has done for a few years now. He’s not in trouble, is he?’

‘Is he in now?’ Carlisle asked as quietly as she could – the thought of calling for back-up going through her head before O’Meagher dispelled it.

‘No,’ he told her. ‘In fact, I haven’t seen him in a good few days. I don’t think any of us have – although he left me an envelope with enough cash in it to pay for several weeks’ rent before he left.’

‘So you’re not expecting him back?’ Zukov asked.

‘Until I hear otherwise I expect him to return. All of his things are still here.’

‘You checked his room?’ Carlisle probed.

‘Just once,’ O’Meagher explained. ‘A couple of days after he first left – just in case.’

‘Just in case what?’ Zukov pushed.

‘Not everybody who stays is happy, Detective,’ O’Meagher pointed out. ‘It’s happened before – sadly. I started thinking maybe the cash in the envelope was more his way of paying for the
inconvenience
rather than rent up-front.’

‘But it wasn’t?’ Carlisle checked.

‘Thankfully not,’ he half smiled.

‘Glad to hear it,’ Carlisle agreed and meant it. ‘Can we come in – can you show us his room?’

O’Meagher looked uncomfortable. ‘Do you have a search warrant?’

‘No, but we could get one,’ Zukov warned him.

Carlisle tried to a softer approach. ‘If we find something important I promise we’ll get a warrant before we seize anything. We don’t want to put you in a compromising position.’

O’Meagher stood aside to let them in. ‘Fair enough,’ he agreed, closing the door behind him, ‘but I doubt you’ll find anything useful. Jason didn’t have much of a life, from what I could see. He had some sort of a job at a local warehouse and didn’t earn very much from what I could tell. Kept himself very much to himself.’

‘Did you ever talk to him at all?’ Carlisle asked.

‘A little – not that he said much,’ O’Meagher explained. ‘I believe he owned a small business before he lost it during the banking crisis – along with his wife and children. She’s left him and now he’s reduced to this.’ Zukov and Carlisle glanced at each other knowingly.

‘Did he ever say anything about getting his own back on the banks?’ Zukov asked as they climbed the threadbare carpet on the narrow staircase.

‘Not to me,’ O’Meagher answered, ‘but, like I said, we really didn’t speak at any length.’

‘I understand,’ Carlisle said as they reached a plain wooden door on the first-floor landing. ‘But about this money in the envelope – Jason handed that to you himself?’

‘No,’ O’Meagher told her. ‘It was just left for me. I found it in amongst the other post.’

‘So although he lives here, he posted it to you?’ Carlisle continued.

‘It hadn’t been through the post,’ O’Meagher explained. ‘It was just an envelope with my name on it – on the floor, in amongst the other mail.’

‘So it came through the letter box?’ Zukov joined in.

‘Possibly,’ O’Meagher considered it, ‘or it could have just got knocked off the sideboard and fell there. I’m afraid not all my tenants are as careful as they should be.’

‘I guess not.’ Carlisle ended the discussion, aware O’Meagher couldn’t pour any more light on how the letter came to be amongst the other mail. ‘Shall we?’ she encouraged him, nodding at the single key he was holding.

‘Sorry. Of course.’ He slid the key into the lock and turned it, pushing the door and allowing it to swing open, revealing the stillness inside. Carlisle could immediately sense no one had been inside the room for some days at least – it felt cold and abandoned. She stepped past O’Meagher and entered the room closely followed by Zukov, who let out a long whistle as he scanned the interior.

‘This was not what I was expecting,’ he admitted, shaking his head.

Carlisle too was surprised, the squalor she was so used to finding replaced by an immaculate space. Even the window had been left slightly open to allow fresh air to circulate. The bed had been made with fresh sheets and blankets, books were stacked neatly on the limited shelving, personal possessions arranged tidily on the sideboards and the mantelpiece over the ancient electric fire. She walked to the cheap wardrobe and pulled the doors open. The few clothes that he had were clean, pressed and either hung or folded neatly.

‘Did you do this?’ she asked O’Meagher.

‘No,’ he insisted. ‘This is how Jason lived.’

‘Did he have a military background?’ Zukov asked.

‘I don’t think so, but I can’t be sure. Like I said – he never talked much.’

Carlisle walked to the alcove that served as the kitchen and examined the small two-hob cooker where she found more of the same cleanliness and order. It was the same in cupboards – everything clean and neatly stacked – as if it had never been touched. Finally she opened the fridge, almost afraid what she might find – a severed hand or head perfectly pickled and left in a spotless but empty space, like a piece of modern art in an exhibit. But there was nothing – nothing but shining cleanliness.

‘Were you ever aware of him cooking in here?’ Carlisle asked.

‘Not really,’ O’Meagher answered. ‘He mainly chose to eat out at the local cafés. I guess cooking wasn’t his thing.’

‘No,’ Carlisle agreed. ‘I guess not. Did he ever have any visitors?’

‘No.’ O’Meagher sounded sure. ‘Never. He was a loner – a quiet loner.’

‘Ever come home the worse for wear and moan about the hand life had dealt him?’ Zukov pried.

‘No,’ O’Meagher shook his head, smiling. ‘I never ever smelt drink on him – morning or night. I have no idea how he spent his private time.’

‘Looks like a social life isn’t the only thing he was missing,’ Zukov added as he pulled open the last drawer to reveal nothing but neatly folded clothes.

‘Meaning?’ Carlisle enquired.

‘Meaning there’s no correspondence in the whole place,’ he told her. ‘Not a letter, not a bill, not a bank statement – nothing.’

‘There must be something,’ Carlisle argued. ‘Everybody has something.’

‘You won’t find any banking documents,’ O’Meagher explained. ‘After what happened Jason didn’t trust banks. As far as I know he dealt in cash only. He was paid in cash and that’s how he paid me.’

‘But he must have had a bank account to pay his bills,’ Carlisle pointed out.

‘He didn’t have any bills, as such,’ O’Meagher continued. ‘I pay for all the heating and water and so on and my tenants give me cash to cover what they use.’

‘What about a car?’ Carlisle probed. ‘Cars create paperwork.’

‘He didn’t have a car.’ O’Meagher dashed their hopes again. ‘I think most of the time he walked to work.’

Carlisle and Zukov looked at each other before scanning the disturbingly ordered room. ‘A difficult man to find,’ Zukov declared. ‘Almost like he was
planning
to disappear.’