Copyright

Harper

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First published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2015

Copyright © Luke Delaney 2015

Luke Delaney asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2015

Photographs © Henry Steadman

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This is entirely a work of fiction. Any references to real people, living or dead, real events, businesses, organizations and localities are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. All names, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and their resemblance, if any, to real-life counterparts is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780007585717

Ebook Edition © MARCH 2015 ISBN: 9780007585700

Version: 2017-07-14

Dedication

I dedicate this book to my three kids – DJ, JJ and NB.

To DJ, an inspiration to us all, who has already overcome so many obstacles in such a short life and proved to us all what we can achieve when we show some real grit and determination. A personality the size of the Empire State Building – funny, sometimes a handful, great company, a magnet for other children and always in the centre of the action, DJ’s a genuinely unstoppable force of nature. If anyone can make all their dreams come true it’ll be this kid.

To JJ, a beautiful and gentle child – the polar opposite of their older sibling. Clever and resourceful, but shy and thoughtful. Bright and independent, but never boastful or bragging – JJ continues to develop into a wonderful young person, doing things their own way, blissfully untouched by convention and the need to be like everyone else, seemingly unaware of their Hollywood good looks and million-dollar smile. JJ grows and grows as a person – happier and happier with each passing day. A very special child.

To NB, known to my wife and I as our little gift. Super smart and fiercely independent, but very cuddly and funny too. Their thirst for knowledge is like something I’ve never seen and long may it last, although everything has to be done their way and watch out anyone who tries to stop them. There’s no point in telling NB ‘it’s the taking part that matters’ – this kid’s in it to win it. NB is the definition of steely-eyed determination. We already know NB will be anything they want to be.

In many ways my kids are like a flock of jackdaws – intelligent and chatty, brave and loyal to each other – mischievous and inventive – not to mention sometimes troublesome. But we’d have it no other way. You are our everything. So thank you, guys, for all of your awesomeness.

All our love,

Mum and Dad

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also By Luke Delaney

About the Publisher

1

The thick hood was pulled from his head and Paul Elkins squeezed his eyes closed tightly against the bright, white light that tried to penetrate his pain and fear, but the agony of the duck-tape being ripped off his mouth fired them open as wide as if he was being electrocuted. As the shock of the pain receded, his eyes blinked the room into focus, his chest heaving with panic as the sweat poured down the sides of his face and back. His arms and legs were bound with more duck-tape to a heavy, old wooden chair that creaked as he struggled, but didn’t move. He bucked and kicked in the chair until the futility of his efforts overwhelmed him and drained him of his strength and determination, the desperation of his situation becoming increasingly undeniable.

The details of the room that was now his prison seeped into his consciousness. It was painted entirely white, with portable lamps providing too much light. Sheets of black plastic hung from the walls where he assumed there were windows, so no natural light penetrated the room. In front of him the man who’d abducted him from the London street in broad daylight stood straight and strong – confident and in control, his face concealed by his black ski-mask and wraparound sunglasses, his hands in black leather gloves, the rest of his clothes also all black. Only his mouth was partially visible, slightly obscured by a tiny microphone held in place by a head-strap and connected to two black boxes attached to his chest – one about the size of a hardback book, the other the size of a cigarette packet. The man didn’t speak. Behind him a foldable table stretched out – upon it a collection of laptops, cameras, phones and other equipment Elkins didn’t recognize, all of which were connected to a portable electricity generator.

Elkins stared at the man through his brown eyes for what seemed an eternity, waiting for him to speak and explain his motivation – to tell him why he’d been brought to this intimidating place. But the man said nothing. In all his fifty-one years Elkins had never been treated with anything other than respect and sometimes fear, but now that counted for nothing. Again his slim, fit body writhed in the chair before once more surrendering to futility. He forced some saliva into his dry mouth, moving it around with his tongue before speaking.

‘Do you know who I am?’ he demanded, but his voice trembled so much he hardly recognized it himself. The man said nothing. Did nothing. ‘I know a lot of powerful people. The people I work for will happily pay you whatever you want, if that’s what this is about.’ The man slowly turned his back on Elkins and began to switch on the various computers and cameras on the table, all of which Elkins noticed were pointing directly at him. ‘What are you doing? What’s this about? Are you sending a ransom demand?’

The man turned to him and finally spoke. ‘No,’ he answered, his voice warped by the voice distorter that hung around his neck, electronic and distant – unhuman. ‘No ransom demand. I’m summoning your jury.’

‘What?’

‘Your jury, Mr Elkins.’

Elkins blinked in confusion. ‘You know who I am?’

‘Of course.’

‘Then what do you want?’

‘Justice, Mr Elkins. All I want is justice.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘You will,’ the man told him before turning his back to examine a computer screen, speaking without looking. ‘It appears we’re attracting some attention. Just a few hundred people, but this is only the beginning. You are the first, but you will not be the last. In the future thousands will log in as jurors. Thousands will see justice being done. Justice for the people, where money and power can’t corrupt the system. Where your influence means nothing. Are you ready to be judged, Mr Elkins?’

‘I haven’t committed any crime.’

‘Is that what you really believe? Why don’t we let the people decide?’

The man spun quickly on his heels and walked to Elkins’s side, filling his chest with air before beginning to speak in that unearthly voice. He addressed the hundreds who watched from their homes and offices, bus stops and trains – all of whom had stumbled across the live-stream of Elkins taped to the chair while searching the Internet for cheap holidays, news updates, amusing homemade videos and God knows what else. He spoke directly into the camera connected to the computer.

‘All of you should know this man you see here is a criminal,’ he accused. Elkins bucked in his chair, a look of disbelief spreading across his face.

‘I’m no criminal. I’ve never even been arrested.’

‘No. No you haven’t, because your type never do get arrested, do they, Mr Elkins? They never get brought to justice, are never punished for their crimes. They are above the law. Not any more. It’s time for the people of this country to judge you.’

‘I’ve never done anything to anyone,’ Elkins pleaded, his words stuttering and desperate. ‘Why are you recording this?’

‘I’m not just recording it,’ the man explained. ‘This is being transmitted live, so people like me can finally see justice being done.’

‘I haven’t done anything. You’re not the police. This isn’t a court.’

‘Haven’t done anything?’ the man asked, his electronic voice calm. ‘Then let me explain your crimes – your crimes against honest, hard-working people who lost their jobs, had their houses taken away from them, lost their wives, husbands and their families while you grew richer and fatter on their misery. You paid yourselves millions in bonuses despite your incompetence, leaving the people to pay for your mistakes and your greed.’

‘What?’

‘But as your banks came close to collapsing was it you who financed their survival? No. It was us. The people. And when the government was emptying our bank accounts and stealing our jobs, did you or any of the other pigs at the trough stop gorging yourselves? No. The feeding frenzy continued whilst we suffered. Some of us lost everything. Many others took their own lives to escape the pain and misery you caused. You continued to not only protect your wealth, but grow it, while we could barely feed our children.’

‘Christ. Is this what this is about – the banking crisis? For God’s sake, that was years ago.’

‘And still we suffer and still the bankers grow fat refusing even to loan us our own money – investing it in houses across London that most of us could only dream about, stealing our money just as surely as if they’d robbed us in the street – and you dare to ask what your crimes are, dare to say you’re no criminal.’

Elkins tried to defend himself, but the man talked over him, resting a gloved hand on his shoulder. ‘You are Paul Elkins, correct?’

‘Yes.’

‘You are the CEO of Fairfield’s Bank, correct?’

‘So?’

‘A bank that lost billions because of its failure to properly supervise its own staff – a staff who were knowingly selling mortgages to people who couldn’t afford them?’

‘We made mistakes, yes, but …’

‘Because they’d been promised bonuses of tens of thousands of pounds if they met their greed-driven targets?’

‘No one was forced to take out one of our mortgages.’

‘Weren’t they?’ Elkins didn’t answer. ‘Decent people sold into poverty, homelessness and bankruptcy by you.’

‘I didn’t sell anyone a mortgage.’

‘You were the CEO,’ the electronic voice snapped at him. ‘You were responsible. You were supposed to prevent it from happening, but you didn’t, because the money kept rolling in – right into your pockets. And when it went wrong, when the walls of your bank almost came tumbling down and you had to be saved by the government, by money that rightly belonged to the people, did you lose your job like we would have? No. You kept your two-million-pounds-a-year salary and even had so much contempt for the rest of us that you paid yourself a three-million-pound bonus. A three-million-pound bonus for failure.’

The man stepped closer to the camera, his hand pointing back to Elkins as he spoke. ‘Members of the jury, this man is not just a criminal and a thief – he’s a murderer. Every life taken, every suicide committed because of the crimes of the greedy few – this man and others like him are responsible. But have any of them been punished for their crimes? No. It’s time to change all that. It’s time for justice. My brothers and sisters – it’s time to judge.’

Mark Hudson, seventeen years old, sat in the bedroom of his family’s council flat in Birmingham hypnotized by the masked man preaching in his electronic voice on the screen of his laptop. His friends, Danny and Zach, messed around in the background, not nearly as interested.

‘Shut the fuck up, you two,’ he demanded. ‘I can’t hear what he’s saying.’

‘It’s all just bullshit,’ Danny argued. ‘It ain’t real. Just a couple of clowns looking for publicity.’

‘No,’ Hudson snapped. ‘Listen to what the man’s saying. That bloke in the chair’s one of them banker bastards.’

‘So?’ Zach joined in. ‘What the fuck’s that got to do with us?’

‘Just shut up and listen,’ Hudson insisted, silencing his friends who had no intention of crossing him further, well aware of his reputation on the estate that had earned him the nickname ‘Psycho Mark’.

‘Time to judge this man for his crimes against the people of this country,’ the man on the screen told them. ‘Your job is merely to pass judgement. Once his guilt has been established I will determine his sentence, which I must warn you now – could be death.’

‘Fucking hell,’ Hudson declared, his eyes wide with excitement – a grin appearing on his lips. ‘He’s gonna kill him.’

Gabriel Westbrook leaned in closer to his computer screen when the masked man mentioned death. He didn’t know the victim, but they had plenty in common – high-paid careers in the City, beautiful homes, expensive habits − although he was much younger than Elkins at only thirty-four. He considered summoning his wife to watch with him, but decided that was probably a bad idea.

‘Is this for real?’ he whispered to himself as he listened to the man’s words, rendered all the more disturbing by the warped voice.

‘If there was another way I would not be doing what I have now been forced to do. But it is the only way these people will ever listen to us. Only through fear and terror will they take notice. I have no choice but to do what I have to do.’

‘Christ,’ Westbrook told the empty room. ‘Is this a hoax? Please let this be a hoax.’

‘Come and have a look at this, love,’ Phil Taylor called out to his wife Cathy in their small home in Hull. She sensed the excitement in his voice and walked the short distance from the kitchen to the cramped office. Her husband was sitting in front of a computer screen that displayed a masked figure next to a man taped to a chair.

‘For God’s sake, what are you watching?’ she asked, shocked that he’d want to share it with her. ‘This isn’t pornography, is it?’

‘Don’t be stupid,’ he told her. ‘This bloke’s kidnapped one of them bankers.’

‘Not this again,’ she moaned, rolling her eyes in disapproval.

‘Hey,’ he warned her. ‘Those bastards cost me my business and our home. We wouldn’t be living in this shit house and I wouldn’t be doing my shit job if it wasn’t for their bloody greed and incompetence.’

‘We overstretched,’ she reminded him. ‘That’s why we lost the business and house.’

‘You can believe that if you want,’ he told her with a snarl, ‘but I know the truth. Now it looks like someone else has finally had enough too.’

‘It’s important I make a statement here and now. It’s important we show the rich and the greedy this is their new reality. No more can they steal from us and fear no retribution. From this day on, they will be punished for their crimes.’

‘What’s he gonna do to him?’ Cathy asked.

‘I don’t know,’ he answered. ‘Said he might kill him.’

‘Jesus Christ, turn it off,’ she told him.

‘No,’ he insisted, never looking away from the screen. ‘I want to see what he does to him. I want to see the bastard squirm.’

Father Alex Jones sat in the small office in St Thomas More Catholic Church, Dulwich, watching and listening to the continuing monologue of the masked man. Instinct told him that this was no stunt − the man was deadly serious. His original reason for searching the Internet long forgotten, he pressed his hands tightly together and began to whisper prayers for both the victim and masked man – salvation for both and forgiveness for one.

‘Now I need you – my brothers and my sisters − to play your part. It’s time to judge. If you believe this man is guilty of crimes against the people then simply click on the like icon. If you believe he is innocent then click on the dislike icon. Once the judgement is made, the sentence will be carried out accordingly. One click, one vote. Don’t waste your time trying to make multiple votes. The Your View system only allows one vote per user.’

‘God forgive you,’ the priest whispered as he clicked on the dislike icon, leaning away to watch how other viewers were voting. The like and dislike numbers were growing rapidly – but one far quicker than the other.

Mark Hudson watched the voting just as closely as the priest, but he was praying for a different outcome.

‘What’s happening?’ Danny asked.

‘Shut the fuck up,’ was Hudson’s only reply.

‘The people have voted and they have overwhelmingly found you guilty. Have you anything you want to say?’

‘This has gone far enough,’ Elkins shouted as the masked man momentarily disappeared from the screen. ‘You need to let me go now.’ His face twisted with terror. ‘You’ve made your point.’

There was the noise of metal on metal before the man reappeared with a length of rope – a noose tied at one end while the other looked to go straight to the ceiling, out of shot. The masked man looped the noose over the struggling Elkins, ignoring his writhing and bucking – ignoring his pleas.

‘Please don’t do this. Please. I haven’t done anything wrong. I can give the money back. You can have it. I just want to see my wife and children again. I’m a family man.’ But the man ignored him as he reached for another rope that seemed to hang from the ceiling.

‘The people have judged you, Mr Elkins. Now I must pass sentence. Your punishment shall be … death.’ Before Elkins could speak again, the man pulled the rope he was holding towards the floor, the rope attached to the noose around Elkins’s neck instantly growing taut, vibrating with tension as it lifted him, chair and all, from the floor. Terrible sounds came from behind Elkins’s gritted teeth as he fought desperately for his life.

‘Fucking hell,’ Hudson exclaimed, unaware that his two friends were backing away from the screen, their faces serious and pale while his beamed and glowed. ‘He’s hanging the fucker. He’s really doing it. Ha. This is fucking brilliant.’

Westbrook watched on as the older version of himself hung from the rope, still taped to the chair – the man’s eyes growing increasingly bulbous and grotesque – his mouth now open with his tongue protruding and writhing around like a dying lizard. He felt sick and scared all in the same moment. Someone wanted revenge – revenge against him and all his type. Which one of them would be next? He felt a shiver run up his spine.

‘I can’t watch this any more,’ Cathy told her husband. ‘I think I’m going to be sick. Turn it off.’ She reached for the computer’s power switch, but her husband pushed her hand away, eyes full of hate – although not for her.

‘Leave it,’ he ordered.

‘Please tell me you don’t want to watch this,’ she pleaded. ‘A man’s being killed. Murdered. Why the hell do you want to watch it?’

‘Maybe he had it coming. Maybe he deserved it. Maybe they all do.’

‘Jesus, Phil,’ she told him. ‘No one deserves that.’

‘Don’t they?’ he asked. ‘And what about me? Did I deserve what happened to me? Did I deserve to lose everything?’

‘You just lost money, Phil. This is a man’s life.’ She turned and walked from the room. ‘I won’t be in the same room as this. I hope they catch the bastard and hang him.’ She left him sitting staring at the screen – a thin smile spreading across his face as he watched Elkins’s body finally go limp.

The priest closed his eyes and drew an imaginary cross over his heart, summoning the courage to once again look at the scene of barbarity he’d just witnessed on his computer screen. Being a priest in modern London was not what the public imagined it to be. He regularly had to deal with abused youngsters and battered women who for whatever reason were too scared or unwilling to go to the police, although he’d always encourage them to do so. And then there was the missionary work he’d done in Africa – teaching men and women who’d had their arms hacked off with machetes how to somehow survive after yet another civil war in the Congo, as well as many other terrible things he’d seen that he never talked about. But this was as repellent as anything he’d ever witnessed. When he finally opened his eyes the masked man was standing in front of the still swaying body and chair.

‘Justice has been done. The first of the guilty has been punished. Rest assured, my friends – my brothers and sisters – there will be more.’ The man released the rope and allowed the body and chair to crash to the floor before walking towards the camera. A few seconds later the screen went blank.

Father Alex clasped his hands together and began to pray, but found it difficult to focus – his mind still trapped in more earthly matters. The terrible crime he’d just witnessed would no doubt have to be investigated by the police – by detectives. The thought brought to mind the troubled policeman who occasionally came to see him – DI Sean Corrigan. Would he be the man who’d have to try to catch this remorseless killer?

‘Our Father who art in heaven – protect us from this new evil in our lives and forgive him who has done the unforgivable.’

2

Detective Inspector Sean Corrigan sat in his office on the seventh floor of New Scotland Yard reading through the latest batch of CPS memos about the soon-to-begin trial of Douglas Allen – a man the media had aptly named ‘The Toy Taker’. Allen had been declared mentally fit to stand trial at a previous Pleas and Directions hearing and now it was full steam ahead for the trial. The investigation had been Sean’s first as head of the Special Investigations Team and now he waited for the next, praying it wouldn’t come until after Allen’s trial and the conviction it was sure to bring. The last thing he wanted was to be dashing backwards and forwards to the Old Bailey whilst trying to run a new investigation. DC Paulo Zukov appeared at his door and tapped more times that was needed on the frame, breaking Sean’s concentration and making him look up.

‘What is it, Paulo?’

Zukov smiled smugly before answering, sure he was for once one step ahead of Sean. ‘Just wondering what you thought about that online murder thing that’s all over the news?’

‘What are you talking about?’ Sean asked, not interested in Zukov’s games.

‘The online murder, boss. Haven’t you seen it yet?’

‘No I haven’t,’ Sean told him. ‘I’ve been a little too busy to be staring at the news all day.’

‘This happened last night, boss.’

‘Paulo, I haven’t read a newspaper or watched TV for days, and one day, God forbid, if you’re in my position, plus two young kids and a wife who works, you’ll know what I mean.’

‘Just thought you might have had a call from someone.’

‘Like who?’

‘Superintendent Featherstone. Mr Addis.’

‘Why would I?’

‘Well, we are Special Investigations, aren’t we?’

‘Paulo,’ Sean asked, losing his limited patience, ‘is there something I should know about?’

‘The online murder, boss. Just thought it was the sort of thing we might pick up.’

The look on Zukov’s face told Sean he needed to find out more. ‘Get in here,’ Sean told him. ‘Go on then. Tell me about it, but keep it succinct.’

‘Some bloke from the City gets grabbed from the street in broad daylight,’ Zukov began, ‘and the next thing he’s on Your View strapped to a chair with some nutter going on about how he and all his banker buddies are criminals and how he’s going to teach them all a lesson. Keeps a hood on all the time and uses some sort of electronic device to alter his voice.’

Sean stared at him disbelievingly for a while before speaking. ‘And then?’

Zukov shrugged his shoulders. ‘And then he killed him.’

‘How?’

‘Looks like he used some sort of pulley system to hang him. Pulled the chair up and everything.’

‘And this is genuine?’ Sean asked, still unconvinced.

‘Apparently. Bloke’s family’s already been in touch with the local CID. He went missing some time yesterday and hasn’t been seen since.’

‘Could he be in on it – some kind of prank or publicity stunt?’

‘Doesn’t look like it. Not the type, apparently.’

‘Where you getting all this from?’ Sean asked. ‘How come you know so much about it?’

‘Like I said – it’s all over the news, boss. All over the Internet.’

Sean looked him up and down before pushing his laptop across his desk and indicating for Zukov to take a seat in front of it. ‘Show me.’

Zukov sat and quickly logged onto the Internet and began to navigate his way around. He soon had what he was looking for and spun the laptop back towards Sean. ‘Here you go, boss – the whole thing available to watch on Your View. It’s been the most watched video since word got out.’

‘Jesus,’ Sean muttered as he concentrated on the screen. ‘That says a lot about our society. Who the hell would want to watch a man being killed?’

‘Thousands,’ Zukov answered. ‘Maybe even millions.’

Sean didn’t answer, the video of the masked man and his victim taking over his world. He watched the entire ‘show’, until finally the masked preacher drew a curtain of darkness across the screen.

‘What the hell is this?’ Sean asked himself.

‘Dunno, boss,’ Zukov said, mistaking it as a question directed at him. ‘But some in the media reckon maybe he thinks he’s some sort of avenging angel.’

‘What?’

‘You know – man of the people sticking up for the little guys, striking back at the rich bankers.’

‘You’ve got to be joking,’ Sean told him. ‘Avenging angel? More like another bloody psychopath looking to make a name for himself. This is all we need.’

‘Maybe,’ Zukov added.

Sean leaned back in his chair and fixed him with look Zukov knew all too well. ‘You don’t sound convinced.’

‘It’s just a lot of people seem to agree with him. Not necessarily the murder, but that it’s about time something was done to the bankers.’

‘What people?’

‘People on Facebook and Twitter. They’re all saying it.’

‘Facebook? Twitter?’ Sean asked. ‘It’s a wonder anyone gets any work done any more. Get hold of Donnelly and Sally for me. Get them back here for a briefing. They’ll need to know what’s happening. Shit!’

‘You reckon we’ll get this one then, boss?’

‘Does this look like a run-of-the-mill murder to you? Does this look like someone who intends to stop any time soon? Yeah. This one’s coming our way. I can feel it.’

Zukov knew he’d used up his usefulness. ‘I’ll go track them down for you, boss.’

‘You do that,’ Sean told him, watching him leave just as Detective Superintendent Featherstone entered the main office and headed his way carrying a pink cardboard folder – the colour indicating the contents were confidential. Featherstone appeared to be his jovial self, despite the bad news Sean knew he carried tucked under his armpit. He knocked once on Sean’s doorframe before entering and taking a seat without being asked.

‘Morning,’ he began. ‘How’s it going?’

‘Fine so far, but I’m guessing it’s about to change.’

‘How’s the prep for the Allen case going?’

‘Pretty much done,’ Sean told him, his eyes never leaving the pink folder. ‘Down to the jury as to whether they believe he intended to kill the boy or whether they think it was an accident. Nothing more we can do now. The abductions and false imprisonments are beyond doubt.’

‘Good,’ Featherstone answered, although he hadn’t really been listening.

Sean nodded at the folder. ‘Let me guess – the banker who was murdered live on the Internet yesterday?’

‘You heard then?’

‘Only recently.’

Featherstone tossed the folder across the desk. ‘Courtesy of Mr Addis. Felt this was right up your street.’

‘Thanks,’ Sean said without meaning it, pulling the file towards him and flipping it open to be greeted by a professional-looking photograph of the smiling victim. ‘Not the usual holiday snap-shot. Someone important?’

‘Paul Elkins,’ Featherstone explained. ‘CEO of Fairfield’s Bank based in the City, so yes, he’s both important and wealthy, or at least he was. If it hadn’t been for the video on Your View and the rantings of the suspect I would have assumed it was a professional hit – some Colombians or Russians making an example of him.’

‘You have reason to believe he was laundering money for somebody he shouldn’t have been messing with?’

‘No, not yet, but it’ll need to be eliminated as a possible motive.’

‘Of course, but …’

‘But what?’

‘You’ve seen the video – looks more personal than professional.’

‘There you go,’ Featherstone told him. ‘I knew you were the right man for the job – you’re making inroads already.’ Featherstone’s smile was not returned. ‘Anyway, he finishes work late yesterday afternoon and takes the tube home, shunning the use of a company chauffeur, as usual. He’s walking along the street where he lives in Chelsea when he’s attacked from behind, apparently hit over the head several times and then dragged into a white van that’s parked up next to the abduction site. The van takes off and not long after that he’s live on Your View. As they say, the rest is history.’

‘How do we know all this?’

‘We have two witnesses who saw pretty much the whole thing – a housekeeper on her way home and a neighbour who happened to be looking out of her window.’

Sean scanned through the file, noting the details of the witnesses and the fact the victim had been hit over the head several times with something the neighbour described as a small, black bat. ‘Looks like he used a cosh.’

‘I reckon,’ Featherstone agreed.

‘Then he’s definitely no professional.’

‘How so?’

‘Because a professional would have taken him out with one hit. This guy’s not done this before. He’s learning as he goes.’

‘Which all fits with him being a disgruntled citizen with an axe to grind with bankers.’

‘Well that narrows it down to just a few million suspects.’

‘Indeed.’ Featherstone shrugged his shoulders and heaved himself out of the uncomfortable chair. ‘It’s all in the file – what we know so far. I’ll leave it with you and good luck. The Assistant Commissioner would of course appreciate a quick result – media’s already all over this one.’ He headed for the door before turning back. ‘One more thing.’ Sean looked at him with suspicion. ‘Mr Addis has decided he’d like an old friend of yours on this one. Anna Ravenni-Ceron will be joining you shortly. Try to get on with her this time.’

Sean swallowed hard, the excitement in his stomach unwelcome, but it was already too late. As much as he might object to the criminologist and psychiatrist being attached to his investigation, he could never deny his attraction to her − or hers to him. He could almost smell her long dark hair and her soft skin, just as surely as if she was standing in the office next to him.

‘I’ll try.’

Assistant Commissioner Addis looked over the top of his spectacles at Anna, who sat on the opposite side of his oversized desk in his larger than normal office on the top floor of New Scotland Yard, his stare making her feel uncomfortable and disloyal.

‘You understand what I need you to do, yes?’ he asked her.

‘I understand.’

‘Same as before. Watch him, study him, speak to him as much as you can without showing your hand and report directly back to me. In exchange you get unrestricted access to the investigation, including the chance to assist with any interviews with the suspect once he’s apprehended, which I’m sure with DI Corrigan in charge won’t take too long.’

‘I’ll get as close as I can,’ she told him, ‘but it won’t be without the risk of DI Corrigan working out what’s happening. He’s clever and instinctive. It won’t be easy.’

‘You’ll find a way,’ Addis leered at her. ‘I have every confidence in you.’

She wondered if he knew – somehow knew about that afternoon when Sean had visited her in her office in Swiss Cottage and they’d come so close to giving in to their desires and attraction for one another. But how could he? Then again, how did he know half the things he seemed to know?

‘I’ll do what I can,’ she finally answered.

She felt him studying her for a while, searching for a weakness. ‘You think I’m being … underhand in wanting him watched by someone from your profession?’ She said nothing. ‘You see, Anna, Corrigan is an asset. No matter what you may think, I value him as such. But let’s be honest with each other, he’s not exactly … conventional. I’ve seen his type before – the ones who need to be right on the edge all the time to get the best out of themselves. Trouble with being on the edge is you’re more likely to fall. I want to see that coming before it happens with DI Corrigan. I have his best interests at heart here, which is why I value your professional opinion as a psychiatrist.’

‘Of course. I understand.’ Anna didn’t believe a word Addis was saying.

‘One thing about Corrigan that does concern me,’ Addis told her, ‘is his compulsion to confront the suspects, once he has them cornered, so to speak. He seems determined to challenge them face-to-face, and alone. Any ideas as to why that could be?’

Anna moved uncomfortably in her chair and cleared her throat. Was this Addis gathering evidence against Sean for some reason, or was he concerned Sean would do something to damage the reputation of the Metropolitan Police? The possibility that the Assistant Commissioner could be concerned for his officer’s welfare never crossed her mind.

‘It’s a part of him he can’t control. A recklessness that manifests itself in other ways too.’ She stopped, realizing she’d probably said too much.

‘Other ways?’ Addis seized on it. ‘Such as?’

‘Such as he takes risks that others probably wouldn’t, and he can be a little clumsy, socially. Can say things he immediately regrets or sometimes doesn’t.’ She hoped Addis had bought it.

Addis said nothing for a while before grunting and shrugging his shoulders. ‘Indeed. But why does he have this reckless need to be alone with the suspects at all? He was damn lucky Thomas Keller didn’t blow his head off.’

‘I think he needs it,’ Anna told him, trying to tell him the truth while also protecting Sean. ‘To have a chance to talk alone with them, before the lawyers and procedure take over – to speak with them in an undiluted way. So for a while he can observe and absorb everything about them while they’re still their true selves.’

‘And why would he want to do that?’

‘So next time, if he has to, he can become like them. You have to think like a criminal to catch a criminal. Isn’t that what you police say?’

‘Maybe twenty years ago,’ Addis scoffed.

Anna ignored him. ‘Only with DI Corrigan the criminals are murderers. Psychopaths, sociopaths and sometimes just the mentally ill. It can’t be easy, having to think like them. It must be a very dark and lonely place to be – don’t you think?’

More silence from Addis before he spoke. ‘Quite. And this time alone he craves with the suspects is an important part of him being able to think like them?’

‘I believe so. He clearly learns from the encounters. I can’t see him stopping, unless he’s made to.’

‘There’s no need for that just yet,’ Addis jumped in. ‘Like I said – he’s a valuable asset to me. I wouldn’t want to do anything to upset his … modus operandi.’

‘No,’ Anna agreed. ‘I don’t suppose you would.’

Geoff Jackson sat on his swivel chair with his feet on his desk while he chewed his pen and twizzled an unlit cigarette in the other hand. He’d been staring at his screen all morning watching the footage of Paul Elkins’s murder on Your View over and over again, oblivious to the constant clatter of voices and the ringing of phones in the huge office he sat at the centre of. As the crime editor for The World, the UK’s bestselling newspaper, he could have had a private side office, but he liked to be in the middle of it – it helped him think. He was forty-eight now and had been a journalist all his adult life. The silence of a private office would have driven him mad and he knew it. He also knew that the Your View murder was the biggest story out there and he was determined to make it his. He could smell the paperback already, maybe even a TV documentary. But first he needed to make his name and face synonymous with this murder and the other killings he was sure would follow.

Jackson sensed the editor close by before he saw her, leaping to his feet, his tallish body kept slim by smoking as often and as much as he could in this new non-smoking world, his accent-less voice made increasingly gravelly by the same addiction. ‘Sue,’ he stopped her. ‘Can I have a word?’

Sue Dempsey rolled her blue eyes before speaking. ‘What is it, Geoff?’ At five foot nine she was almost as tall as Jackson, with the same lithe body, her hair dyed ash blonde to hide the grey. At fifty-one she still turned heads.

‘The Your View murder – I need you to hold the front page for me. Tomorrow and the days after that.’

‘What?’ She almost laughed, walking away with Jackson in pursuit. ‘You must be crazy.’

‘I need this, Sue,’ Jackson all but pleaded, thinking of his above-average flat in Soho and the expensive thirty-two-year-old girlfriend he shared it with.

‘You know the score, Geoff. Everything has to be discussed and agreed in the editors’ meeting. I can’t sanction anything alone, not in this day and age.’

‘But you can back me up.’

‘And why would I do that?’

‘Because this story is the biggest thing out there. It’s fucking huge.’

‘Bigger than the terrorist attack in LA?’

‘If it doesn’t happen on our shores the readers soon lose interest – you know that. This Your View thing could run and run. We need to make this story ours. This story needs to belong to The World.’ Dempsey stopped and turned to him. He felt her resolve weakening. ‘The LA story will be dead news in a couple of days. I still have my contacts at the Yard. We could get the inside track. People are already talking about this guy as being some kind of avenging angel. We could even run our own public polls – “Do you agree with what the Your View Killer is doing or not?” It’s a winner, Sue. I’m telling you, this is gonna be big. Remember no one believed me when I started digging up the dirt on our celebrity paedophile friends. Look how big that story got. Surely I’m still owed a few favours.’

‘I have to admit that was good work,’ Dempsey agreed.

‘It was better than good,’ Jackson argued. ‘The cops didn’t have a clue what was going on – didn’t believe what the parents of the children were telling them until I blew the lid off the whole ring.’ His expression of self-congratulation suddenly faded to something more serious, as if he was recalling a sad moment from his own life. ‘I saved a lot of kids from suffering the same fate as the ones those bastards had already got their hands on.’

‘Yes you did,’ Dempsey admitted. ‘It was good work all around. All right, Geoff. All right, but no funny business. Keep it clean or it might be a journalist this madman comes after next.’

‘And exclusivity,’ he almost talked over her. ‘I get exclusivity. No other journos on the story. Just me.’

‘Thinking ahead, Geoff?’

‘I just want what’s best for the paper.’

‘Of course you do,’ she answered. ‘That’s what we all want. OK. You have your exclusivity, but you better bring home the meat.’

‘When have I ever not?’ he asked with a broadening smile.

‘Don’t ask,’ she told him and began walk away before turning back to him. ‘I noticed you still haven’t written the paperback about the celebrity paedophile ring. You usually turn the paperback around in a few weeks – strike while the iron is hot and all that bollocks.’

‘Not this time,’ he answered. ‘As much as I’d like to expose those slimy bastard celebs for everything they are, some things are still sacred. I wouldn’t write about abused kids for money. Not my style.’

‘Not going soft on me, are you, Geoff?’ Dempsey smiled and turned on her heels before he could answer.

Jackson made his way back to his desk whistling a happy little tune and wondering whether he should call his publishers now, whet their appetites, or wait until things had really brewed up. Until it was the only thing anyone was talking about.

Sean and Donnelly pulled up on the south side of Barnes Bridge in southwest London. The Marine Policing Unit had found a body floating in the Thames underneath the bridge, trapped by the whirlpool created by the current trying to find a way around. They climbed from their car and made their way to the small gathering of both uniformed and CID officers next to the bridge watching the police launch still trying to recover the forlorn body from behind the sanctuary of a small taped-off area of the pavement. Sean and Donnelly flashed their warrant cards to the uniformed officer guarding the small cordon and headed for the two men in suits.

Sean offered his hand. ‘DI Corrigan – Special Investigations Unit.’ Donnelly followed suit.

‘DS Rob Evans,’ the older, shorter, stockier man offered, speaking in a mild Yorkshire accent.

‘DC Nathan Mead,’ the young, lean, tall one introduced himself in his London accent.

Evans looked back down at the launch struggling in the swell of the river below. The stiff body, arms stretched to the side, face down, swirled in the dark brown water of the Thames by the bridge foundation as another train crashed over above.

‘They’re still struggling to get the poor bastard out,’ he explained. ‘Every time they almost have him they nearly get smashed against the side of the bridge, but the current’s calming down now. They should be able to get a hook into him soon.’ Sean and Donnelly just nodded as they watched the grim spectacle. Bodies fished from the Thames were always tough to deal with – the cold of the water intensifying rigor mortis, while the marine life also took a quick toll.

‘Reckon he’s your man, do you?’ Evans asked.

‘Could be,’ Sean answered. ‘He looks to be suited and booted. Can’t be too many men in suits floating in the Thames today.’

‘I bloody hope not,’ Evans told him. ‘That’s the trouble with being posted to Wandsworth – we cover the Thames all the way from bloody Barnes to Battersea. We get more floaters than most. At least this one’s still in one piece.’ Sean didn’t answer, watching the launch inching closer and closer to the body until finally one of the crew managed to hook the dead man’s clothing with a grappling pole.

‘About time,’ Evans moaned. ‘We can’t get on the boat here. I’ve told them we’ll meet them down by the local rowing club. There’s a small pier there, or mooring, or whatever you want to call it. Anyway, I’ve said we’ll meet them there once they fished him out. You coming?’ he asked Sean, who barely heard him, transfixed by the macabre scene of the unyielding body being heaved on board the launch by the crew. The man’s head was raised by the rigor mortis in his neck muscles, his eyes and mouth wide open as if staring straight at Sean. ‘I said, are you coming?’ Evans repeated.

Sean snapped out of his reverie and spun to face him. ‘What? Yeah. Sure. We’re coming. Where to?’

Evans rolled his eyes. ‘Just follow us.’

‘Fine,’ Sean answered and followed the other detectives back to the waiting cars. Donnelly spoke first as they pulled away from the kerb.

‘Think it’s our man?’

‘Looks like it. Has to be really, doesn’t it,’ Sean answered.

‘Aye. I reckon so. First thoughts?’

‘To be honest, I’m trying not to have any.’

‘Not like you,’ Donnelly pointed out. ‘You all right?’

‘I’m fine,’ Sean lied, the man’s staring eyes mixing with images of Anna in his troubled mind – a sense of fear and excitement at the thought of being with her day-to-day distracting him from where he needed to be – preventing him from being able to fully immerse himself in the abduction and murder of the man who now lay dead on the floor of a police launch.

‘Well, I don’t suppose he dumped him in the river around here,’ Donnelly offered. ‘Too busy – unless he chucked him off the bridge in the middle of the night.’

‘No,’ Sean dismissed the possibility. ‘Tide brought him here. The Marine Unit might be able to tell us where from.’

‘Aye,’ was all Donnelly replied and they finished the rest of the short journey in silence, parking up and following the Wandsworth detectives to the small pier of the rowing club where the police launch was already moored.

‘We’ll wait here for you,’ Evans told them, standing at the beginning of the pier. ‘Not a lot of room on those things,’ he explained, nodding towards the launch. ‘If he’s not your man you can always kick it back to us, but if it is …’

‘Fair enough,’ Sean agreed and headed off along the short pier.

Donnelly waited until they were out of earshot before speaking quietly. ‘I guess he’s had his fill of floaters.’

‘He could always get a posting to Catford,’ Sean told him before pulling his warrant card from his coat pocket and flashing it to the wary launch crew. ‘DI Corrigan. Special Investigations Unit. I think this body belongs to us.’

‘Come on board,’ the sergeant replied. The three white stripes on his lifejacket singled him out as the boat’s leader. ‘Mind your step though. Deck’s a little slippery. Never ceases to amaze me how much water comes out of a dead body – especially when it’s fully clothed.’ Donnelly rolled his eyes while Sean ignored the comment as they stepped on board.

The river police had already managed to manhandle the body into a black zip-up body-bag, although the victim’s arms still protruded somewhat out to his side. They’d left the bag open for the detectives.

‘Gonna have a hell of a job getting that zipped up,’ the sergeant explained.

‘You’ll manage,’ Sean told him before moving closer to the body and crouching down, the movement of the boat adding to his rising nausea. ‘How long d’you reckon he’s been in the water for?’

‘Hard to say,’ the sergeant replied. ‘A good few hours at least.’

‘Was he dumped close by?’ Sean asked.

The sergeant pulled an expression of indifference. ‘I shouldn’t think so. Tide’s been going out for a good while now. Probably somewhere between Teddington and Richmond.’

‘Great,’ Donnelly complained, aware of the size of area they would now have to consider.

Sean studied the remains of Paul Elkins, the cause of death and exposure to the water making his face appear bloated and grotesque, his eyes bulbous and red – mouth open with a swollen, grey tongue protruding from within. Sean tried not to think of the small marine creatures that would have already found their way into the man’s mouth, making his body their temporary home as well as a food supply. The burn marks and bruising left around his neck by the rope used to kill him left no doubt as to the cause of death, although the mandatory post-mortem would still have to officially confirm it.

‘When we’re done,’ Sean told the sergeant, ‘I want you to ensure the body is taken to the mortuary at Guy’s Hospital. Understand?’

The sergeant drew a sharp intake of breath. ‘Tricky. Bodies from this area are supposed to be taken to Charing Cross. Coroner’s Courts are very twitchy about jurisdiction.’

‘My call,’ he snapped at him slightly. ‘He goes to Dr Canning at Guy’s. No one else.’

‘So he is the man you’re looking for, then?’ the sergeant deduced.

‘Yeah,’ Sean answered mournfully. ‘He’s our victim.’ He stood and turned to Donnelly.

‘Anything catch your eye?’ Donnelly asked.

‘Nothing particular, although …’

‘Although what?’

‘Although there’s only two reasons a killer removes a body from the scene of the murder,’ Sean explained. ‘One is because the scene links them in some way to the victim, so they have to move it, or …’

‘Or?’ Donnelly pushed, impatient to hear the answer.

‘Or because they need to continue using the scene – to live in, to run a business from, although in this case neither of those seem likely.’

‘What then?’ Donnelly asked.

‘He needs it,’ Sean explained. ‘He needs to use it again for other victims and there will be more. He’s as good as told us there will.’

‘I was afraid you were gonna say that,’ Donnelly told him. ‘Why is it with us there’s always going to be more?’

‘Welcome to Special Investigations,’ Sean answered.

‘So what we dealing with here? Just another fucking lunatic, or could this one really be some sort of self-proclaimed avenging angel – a normal guy pushed too far?’

‘It doesn’t really matter right now,’ Sean explained. ‘What does matter is that he’s organized, motivated, clever and dangerous. And we need to find him and stop him, before this whole thing gets completely out of control.’

‘Fair enough,’ Donnelly agreed. ‘D’you want me to sort out a Family Liaison Officer?’

‘Yeah, sure.’ Sean tried not to think of the pain he was about to put the family through. ‘But I need to see them first – let them know what to expect, maybe get some early answers.’

‘Want some company?’ Donnelly asked.

‘Why not,’ he answered. ‘You can keep me on the right path.’

‘Meaning?’ Donnelly asked.

‘Meaning,’ Sean explained, ‘this isn’t exactly what we’ve become used to – is it? Not like he’s a young woman abducted from her own home or a young child snatched from his bed. They were … vulnerable. This man had no vulnerabilities – or so he thought. Male, in his fifties, rich, powerful. Can’t see the public shedding too many tears over him.’

‘Aye, well,’ Donnelly reminded him, ‘the man’s still been killed and anyone who gets murdered in a strange and interesting way on our patch relies on us to find their killer – no matter what their background.’

‘I know that,’ he agreed, ‘but don’t expect an avalanche of information if we end up relying on the public to help us solve this one.’

‘Sometimes, boss,’ Donnelly told him, ‘you have a very bleak view of mankind.’

‘We’ll see,’ he warned him more than told him. ‘We’ll see.’

DS Sally Jones was in her side office ploughing through the huge number of reports the investigation had already generated. She’d spent a good part of the day speaking on the phone with people from Your View, all of whom who were deeply upset and shocked that their ‘medium’ had been used for such a mindless act of violence, but were powerless to stop it happening again, unless they closed down their entire operation, which of course they were not prepared to do. They were sure the police and public would understand. She sensed a disturbance in the main office and looked up to see Anna standing in the middle of a small group of detectives chatting cheerfully, explaining her sudden, unannounced arrival.

Sally felt the colour drain from her face and an old, familiar sick feeling spreading in her stomach. Her private sessions with Anna had been held in complete secrecy, without the knowledge of anyone connected to the police, but now her psychiatrist was standing in her office talking to her work colleagues.

She practically jumped from her chair and paced into the main office, weaving her way through the small group and seizing Anna by the arm. ‘Anna. So nice to see you. What are you doing here?’ she faked and began to steer her towards the relative privacy of her own office.

‘No one knows, Sally, if that’s what you look so worried about,’ Anna tried to calm her concerns, ‘and no one’s going to know. I’m only here to advise on the Your View investigation – that’s all.’

‘Advise on the investigation?’ Sally questioned. ‘I seem to remember the last time you did that things didn’t work out too well. Not for Sean, anyway.’

‘Sally,’ Anna explained, looking around to make sure they were out of earshot. ‘If me being here is going to cause hostility between us – if it’s going to adversely affect our patient-doctor relationship, then I promise you, I’ll tell the Assistant Commissioner I can’t help with the case.’ There was a silent pause. ‘You’re more important to me than this investigation.’

Sally studied her for a good while, this woman she’d grown to trust with her deepest secrets – secrets she kept even from Sean. ‘Jesus, Anna. I’m really sorry. I just didn’t expect to see you standing in here, in my office. It threw me a bit.’

‘My fault,’ Anna admitted. ‘I should have spoken to you first. Warned you.’

‘You don’t have to check with me. Your work is your work. Outside of our relationship you owe me nothing.’ There was a silent truce between them for a moment before Sally spoke again. ‘So, here we are again. You. Me. Sean. A murder investigation.’

‘Looks that way. Speaking of which, how is Sean?’

Sally tried to hide her suspicion about the true nature of Sean and Anna’s relationship. She barely knew Sean’s wife Kate, and didn’t particularly like the little she did know, if she was honest, but still she felt strangely compelled to protect Sean’s marriage – some deep instinct in her warning he could be lost into a world of turmoil without her and their two young daughters. In Anna, she sensed a threat.

‘Sean’s Sean,’ she answered. ‘He’s fine, as usual. Bull in a china shop, all guns blazing, shooting from the hip and God help anyone who gets in the way.’

‘Hasn’t changed then,’ Anna joked.

Sally forced a smile. ‘Same old, same old.’

‘Well,’ Anna told her, getting to her feet. ‘I’d better get on with what I’m being paid for. Do you think Sean would mind if I borrowed his office?’

‘No,’ Sally said and immediately regretted it. ‘Or you could share with me.’

Anna looked around. ‘Looks like you’re already sharing the rent.’

‘Ah. Yeah. DS Donnelly,’ Sally admitted.

‘I think Sean might tolerate me a little better.’

‘I take your point. Is there anything you need?’

‘No,’ Anna told her. ‘I already have the file and the video. That’s all I need for now. I’ll see you later for coffee perhaps?’

‘Yeah, sure,’ Sally replied, trying to sound a lot friendlier than she felt, watching Anna float from the office and into Sean’s. ‘This is not good,’ she whispered to herself. ‘This is not good at all.’

‘Are you sure this isn’t a professional hit made to look like something else?’ Donnelly asked as they approached Elm Park Road in Chelsea – the victim’s home street and the place he was abducted from.

‘I’m not sure of anything yet,’ Sean admitted, ‘but if he got caught with his hand in the cookie jar while laundering someone’s money, especially if they’re Eastern European or South American, they wouldn’t want to hide what they’d done. They like to make public statements – keep everyone else in line. And the abduction too doesn’t feel right. If it had been organized crime they would have lured him somewhere – somewhere quiet and out of sight. But I’m not ruling anything out until we know more.’

Donnelly parked as close as he could to Elkins’s home. Sean was out the car before he’d had time to kill the engine, looking up and down the upmarket street – looking for ghosts. Donnelly soon joined him.

‘Hell of a place to abduct somebody from,’ he offered.

‘And in daylight,’ Sean added.

‘A confident customer.’

‘Or insane.’

‘Either way the whole thing was seen by a couple of witnesses – both saying the suspect’s white van was parked in the street already, waiting for Elkins. So he wasn’t followed.’

‘Not yesterday anyway,’ Sean explained, ‘but he was followed at some point, otherwise how could the suspect know where he lived and the fact he regularly walked from the tube station to his home? Unless he already knew him – knew his habits.’

‘Someone who worked for him in the past?’ Donnelly suggested.

‘In the City?’

‘No. These people have a lot of hired help. I was thinking more a disgruntled gardener, or maintenance man, or even a husband of a cleaner his missus sacked.’

‘Possibly,’ Sean agreed. ‘It’ll all need to be checked out. It’ll be nice if it’s that easy.’

‘Shall we do the witnesses first or the family?’

‘The family,’ Sean replied. ‘Get it over with.’

‘If you don’t want to see them you don’t have to,’ Donnelly offered. ‘I can always come back later with Sally.’

‘No,’ he insisted. ‘I want to see them, or his wife at least.’

‘Fair enough.’ Donnelly didn’t argue. ‘After you.’

Sean walked the short distance along the immaculate street and climbed the short flight of steps to the shining black door of number twelve. He imagined Paul Elkins coming home to this door, day after day, content and confident, untouched by the problems normal people had – unable to imagine something like this could ever happen to him. Was that what the killer wanted – to drag the wealthy and privileged into a world where they could feel the pain of everyday life? Had the killer felt too much pain to bear? He took a deep breath and rang the doorbell – avoiding the heavy-looking metal door knocker in the shape of a lion’s head that looked like it would wake the dead. The last thing he wanted to do was advertise their presence. It was only a matter of time before the media discovered the victim’s home address and came crawling around, but he wanted to keep things quiet for as long as he could.

After a few seconds the door was opened by a short, stocky man in his late twenties wearing spectacles and dressed in an inexpensive-looking dark suit. He eyed them suspiciously. ‘Can I help you?’ he asked with a slight London accent.

Sean knew immediately he was a fellow detective as he showed him his warrant card. ‘DI Sean Corrigan from the Special Investigations Unit.’

‘DS Donnelly,’ Donnelly told him without producing his identification, ‘from the same.’

The other detective seemed to immediately relax. ‘Am I glad to see you,’ he whispered. ‘I was told you’d be taking this one over. Babysitting the family of a murder victim isn’t exactly my thing. DC Jonnie Mendham, by the way. You’d better come in.’ He stepped aside and allowed them to enter before closing the door and continuing to talk in a whisper. ‘They’re all gathered in the living room,’ Mendham explained. ‘Mrs Elkins and her two kids, Jack and Evie. There’s also a friend of Mrs Elkins here too, Trudy Bevens – a shoulder to cry on and all that.’

‘Fine,’ Sean acknowledged as he and Donnelly followed Mendham towards the living room and the desperate sadness he knew he’d find inside.

‘Any idea how long it’ll be before you send someone to take over from me?’ Mendham’s voice held a slight pleading note. ‘I’m not trained for this family liaison stuff.’

‘Soon enough,’ Sean answered carelessly. ‘Until then just keep a watch out for reporters and make sure they don’t speak to anyone they don’t know on the phone. Remind them details of the investigations are confidential and not to be shared even with family and close friends until I say it’s OK.’

‘No problem,’ Mendham agreed in a whisper. ‘Just get me out of this mausoleum.’ He opened the living-room door before Sean could reply and raised his voice to its normal volume. ‘Mrs Elkins,’ he addressed the attractive woman in her late forties who remained seated as she looked up at them – her appearance still immaculate despite the circumstances, her ash blonde hair framing her tanned face and piercing blue eyes that had reddened somewhat with crying.

‘Yes,’ she answered as strongly as she could, her voice wavering somewhat.

‘This is Detective Inspector Corrigan and Detective Sergeant Donnelly from our Special Investigations Unit,’ Mendham explained. ‘They’ll be taking over the investigation.’

‘Why?’ she asked in a slightly clipped accent.

‘It’s the way things work,’ Sean spoke to her for the first time as he scanned the other faces in the room – a weeping girl of no more than eleven or twelve who sat close to her mother wrapped in a protective arm, a stoical-looking boy probably about fourteen and Mrs Elkins’s tearful friend. ‘Most serious and unusual cases get passed on to us. We have a certain amount of experience in dealing with investigations like this.’

‘I wasn’t aware that anything like this had ever happened before,’ she questioned him.

‘It hasn’t,’ he agreed. ‘I meant experience in dealing with things that are a little out of the ordinary.’

‘A little out of the ordinary,’ she repeated, looking at him blankly. ‘My husband’s dead. Murdered by some lunatic.’

‘And we’re very sorry for your loss,’ Donnelly intervened. ‘We’re here because we’re best equipped to find whoever did this and bring them to justice, but we need to ask some questions. Maybe it would be better if the children weren’t here for that.’

‘No,’ she snapped back. ‘We stay together. I’m not about to let them out of my sight. Not until you’ve caught this madman.’

‘Fair enough.’ Donnelly didn’t argue. ‘I reckon I’d be the same. Do you mind if we sit down?’

‘Sorry,’ she apologized. ‘Of course not. Please.’

They both sat on the same large sofa opposite Mrs Elkins and her daughter, Sean glad of the large size of the room – just the thought of being trapped in a small room with this many grieving people was enough to make him feel claustrophobic.

‘I appreciate this must be very difficult,’ Sean tried to say the things she no doubt expected him to say, ‘but our questions really can’t wait.’

‘I understand,’ she assured him. ‘Ask what you need to. Let’s just get it over with.’

‘What time did your husband leave for work yesterday?’ Sean asked.

‘Not long after seven,’ she answered. ‘His usual time.’

‘A hard-working man.’ Donnelly tried to ease the tension.

‘You don’t get to where Paul was working nine to five,’ she told them. ‘It takes dedication and sacrifice.’

‘Yet he was abducted at about five pm – in the street outside,’ Sean reminded her. ‘So he didn’t always work late?’

‘No,’ she agreed, slightly defensively. ‘Not always, but most days. Does it matter?’

Did you know he’d finished work early? Sean asked the killer silent questions. Did you somehow know?

‘Did he call you at all during the day?’ he asked, more to try to establish a rhythm of questions and answers than hoping to discover anything useful, ‘or contact you somehow?’

‘He called me a couple of times,’ she answered. ‘Once in the morning and again early afternoon – to let me know he was about to leave work.’ She suddenly choked up, her tears contagious amongst the other women while the boy looked on blankly. Was the boy somehow involved? Sean asked himself, before deciding he was most likely still in shock. The tears would come later. ‘It was the last time I ever got to speak to him,’ she managed to say.

‘Why call twice?’ Sean asked, trying to remember the last time he’d called his wife Kate more than once a day just for the sake of it. ‘Was something troubling him?’

‘No,’ she answered tearfully. ‘He usually called me twice or more a day just to say hello. No particular reason. I think he worried I’d get bored if he didn’t.’

‘But he didn’t seem worried about anything?’ Sean persisted.

‘No,’ she insisted.

‘Didn’t mention anything at all?’

‘No,’ she repeated. ‘What could he be worried about?’

‘He was the CEO of Fairfield’s Bank, yes?’ Sean asked.

‘So?’

‘Not exactly the most popular people in the world right now – bankers,’ he reminded her.

‘I understand that,’ she assured him, ‘and I know this madman used that as some type of twisted justification to commit murder, but Paul was a good man. He believed in responsible banking. He was as interested in making extra pounds and pennies for ordinary people as he was millions for multinationals.’

Sean couldn’t help but roll his eyes around his salubrious surroundings. ‘I’m sure that’s true,’ he said as tactfully as he knew how, ‘but from the outside he would have looked like just another wealthy banker.’

‘From the outside,’ she pointed out. ‘This monster knew nothing about Paul. He gave away thousands to charity. I used to joke that he’d give away everything we had if I’d allow him – make us homeless.’

‘Why?’ Sean asked, not sure where his questions would take him, but asking anyway. ‘Did he feel guilty about his wealth for some reason?’

‘No,’ she bit. ‘Why should he? Why should we? We’ve worked hard for everything we have. We both have. But there’ll always be jealous people who would rather just take what we have than earn it for themselves.’

Sean imagined her and her dead husband’s backgrounds – wealthy families sending them to the best schools and the best universities, feeding them in to the network of the privileged to ensure they’d be groomed for the top jobs. He swallowed his resentment.

‘So you think your husband was killed by someone who is jealous of him?’ he asked.

‘Of course he was,’ Mrs Elkins insisted. ‘What else could it be?’

‘Do you have someone in mind?’ he encouraged her. ‘Someone you know was jealous of your husband?’

‘No.’ She shook her head and pulled her daughter closer. ‘We don’t know anyone who could possibly do anything like this. Paul was killed by a stranger – a bitter, jealous stranger.’

‘And work?’ Sean persisted. ‘Was there anyone he’d been having trouble with at work?’

‘Look.’ She closed her eyes and tried to compose herself. ‘Paul was a very senior executive. It would be unrealistic to think there wasn’t a degree of professional jealousy, but nothing that would lead to this.’

‘You’d be surprised,’ Sean told her. ‘Jealously can make people do terrible things.’

‘And it has,’ she agreed, ‘but not by someone we know. Paul was liked. He was a good man. He cared about other people – including the people he worked with. No one would have hurt him. My God,’ Mrs Elkins suddenly said as she began to sob heavily. Her friend quickly took some tissues from a box on the table in front of her and handed them to her. ‘I’m already talking about him in the past tense.’ Her daughter’s sobbing also intensified as Sean looked on; the need to escape to the sanctuary of the street was beginning to overwhelm him. He breathed in deeply and steadied himself.

‘What about someone else?’ he asked. ‘Someone who worked at the house maybe?’

‘No,’ she insisted, shaking her head again. ‘We only have the cleaners, and Rosemary who helps out with the children, and Simon the gardener, but no one else and they all loved Paul. He looked after them well.’

‘Was he having any trouble at work,’ he pressed, ‘from an unhappy customer – any threatening phone calls or letters – emails?’

‘Not that he told me of,’ she assured him. ‘I mean, when things were at their worst, when the banking crisis thing first started, there were threats to the bank, but nothing Paul seemed worried about. He didn’t mention anything specific. But he never talked about work at home. Maybe the bank can tell you more – I’m not sure, but this all seems a bit pointless. He was taken by an insane murdering animal, not a jealous colleague or bitter employee, and if you don’t catch him he’ll do it again,’ she warned them. ‘He’s as good as said he will.’

Sean and Donnelly looked at each other for a long few seconds before looking back at Mrs Elkins.

‘I think we have everything we need for now,’ Donnelly intervened. ‘A Family Liaison Officer from Special Investigations will come to see you later, and rest assured we’ll be in touch as soon as we find out anything. In the meantime, if you think of anything, anything at all, just tell the Family Liaison Officer.’

‘And that’s it?’ she asked. ‘Paul is murdered – a brief visit from the police and we’re supposed to just get on with our lives?’

‘No,’ Sean warned her. ‘I’m sorry, but this is just the beginning. It won’t be over until we find the man who did this.’

Mrs Elkins looked to the ceiling before taking a more conciliatory tone. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve been unreasonable. It’s just I can’t believe this has actually happened. It all seems so impossible.’

‘No need to apologize,’ Sean assured her, getting to his feet. ‘You’ve suffered a terrible shock. Best thing I can do for you now is find the man who did this.’ He pulled a business card out and placed it on the table in front of her. ‘Call me if you need anything – any time. Don’t get up. We’ll see ourselves out.’

Donnelly pushed himself off the sofa and followed Sean out of the room towards the front door, with Mendham following close behind. ‘Any idea when you’ll get your Family Liaison Officer here? I don’t fancy being stuck here long,’ he asked.

‘They’ll be here when they’re here,’ Sean reprimanded him.

‘Cheer up, son,’ Donnelly told him. ‘It’s not all car chases and kicking down doors. Sometimes we have to earn our meagre wages.’

‘You won’t be here too long,’ Sean assured him as he opened the front door and walked into the street without turning to see Mendham’s frustrated gestures at being abandoned.

‘What now?’ Donnelly asked.

‘You said there were witnesses,’ Sean reminded him. ‘We might as well speak to them seeing as how we’re already here.’

‘Aye,’ Donnelly agreed. ‘So which one do you want to see − the housekeeper or the yummy mummy?’

‘I’ll take the mum.’

‘That figures. Name’s Angela Haitink. Number eighteen.’

‘Thanks,’ Sean told him and headed off without saying more. A few seconds later he was standing on the steps of a five-storey white Georgian house with a black door so shiny it made his reflection vibrate when he used the ornate chrome knocker.

Interviewing witnesses was never something he’d enjoyed. He always milked them for everything and anything they were worth, but he found their inaccuracies and hesitancy frustrating and annoying. He reminded himself not to treat Angela Haitink as a suspect. After almost a minute the door was answered by a tall, slim woman in her mid-thirties, with short blonde hair in a ponytail, wearing a designer tracksuit and trainers that he guessed would cost him a week’s wages. Her similarity to the mothers of the children taken by Douglas Allen reminded him of the impending trial he’d almost forgotten about in the fury of a new case.

‘Yes,’ she asked, her accent exactly what he expected. ‘Can I help you with something?’ She looked him up and down as if he was an unwanted salesman.

He opened his warrant card and waited for a change in her expression that never came. ‘Angela Haitink?’ he asked. She nodded yes. ‘Detective Inspector Corrigan. I’m investigating the murder of Paul Elkins. I understand you witnessed his abduction?’

She glanced at her sports watch, her expression finally changing to one of concern. ‘Do we have to do this right now? I’m afraid I’m running a little late.’

He swallowed his resentment. ‘It is rather important,’ he told her. ‘A man has been killed. One of your neighbours.’

She looked up and down the street before speaking again. ‘Of course. I’m sorry. Please come in.’ She stepped aside and allowed him to enter, heading for the kitchen after closing the door – Sean following, taking in the opulent surroundings. ‘It was a terrible thing,’ she told him without sounding genuinely concerned. ‘We’re all in a state of shock. I even knew the poor man, for God’s sake.’

‘You knew him?’

‘Well, I mean I said hello to him occasionally and I think my husband knew him a little better, but really – in a street like this. I just assumed he was being robbed, but then he bundled him into the back of a white van and drove away with him … I mean – my God.’

‘So you called 999?’

‘I had to – I mean, I had to do something.’

‘You did the right thing,’ he encouraged her, reminding himself to go softly.

‘I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. That’s when I phoned the police, but by the time they got here he was long gone and then I saw the news and found out that he’d been murdered – live on the Internet. Terrible. Just terrible.’

‘Which is why I need you to remember everything you saw,’ he told her as warmly as he could, ‘to help us catch the man who did this as quickly as possible.’

‘Of course. But I wouldn’t want anyone to find out I’ve spoken to the police. I mean, what if the killer found out? He could come after me.’

‘He won’t,’ Sean tried to reassure her, resisting the temptation to roll his eyes. ‘We don’t think organized crime’s involved here. This one’s not the type to go after witnesses.’

‘You don’t think?’

‘No. I don’t. But we can keep your identity secret, even if you end up giving evidence in court.’ He could have kicked himself as soon as he said it.

‘In court?’ she almost shouted. ‘I don’t think I could give evidence in court.’

How he missed southeast London. He would have arrested her for obstructing an investigation by now and dragged her back to Peckham nick to be interviewed there. ‘It’ll probably never come to it,’ he lied, ‘but you do need to tell me what you saw.’ She appeared unconvinced. ‘I’m sorry,’ he eventually told her. ‘You really have no choice, but there’s nothing to worry about.’ Still she said nothing, as if she was still considering the options she didn’t have. ‘Why don’t you start by showing me where you were when you saw Mr Elkins being attacked?’

‘I was in my bedroom,’ she told him, but made no move towards it.

Why were people always so much more bashful about showing their bedrooms than any other room? he wondered – as if it was the one room that betrayed our personal life more than any other.

‘Don’t worry,’ he tried to joke. ‘If it’s in a mess I promise not to tell anyone.’

‘No it’s not that,’ she stumbled a little. ‘Please. Follow me. It’s on the second floor.’

She led him to the stairs and up to the second-floor master bedroom that looked about the size of Sean’s entire ground floor. He followed her to the window that overlooked the street below and they both peered down on the quiet road.

‘It’s usually like this,’ she told him. ‘Quiet and private.’

‘So did you notice the white van parked up before the attack? It must have stood out a little.’

‘I did notice it,’ she admitted, ‘but it didn’t bother me. There’s always tradesmen of one type or another in the street.’

‘Did you notice how long it was there for?’

‘I … I really couldn’t say.’

‘When did you first notice it?’

‘Again, I’m … I’m not sure.’

‘Well, what were you doing?’

‘Goodness. So many questions.’

He realized he was moving too quickly and tried to back off a little. ‘What I mean is … try and think back to what you were doing the first time you saw the van. What drew your attention to it?’

‘Nothing particularly … just, nothing.’

‘Were you here – by this window?’

‘No. No I don’t think I was, actually.’

‘Then where? Outside? Inside?’

Her eyes began to flicker with recollection. ‘Neither. I was neither.’

‘Excuse me?’ he asked, his turn to be confused.

‘I was at the front door, which was open for some reason.’ He let her think for a few seconds. ‘I remember. I’d just taken delivery of a parcel, something I’d ordered online, some new sheets for the children’s beds, so that would have been almost exactly five. Yeah, definitely, because Marie, our nanny, had already picked the kids up from school and was giving them tea when the parcel arrived.’

‘Good,’ Sean told her. ‘Was there anybody by the van or in it?’

‘No,’ she told him flatly. ‘Definitely no one by it and if there was someone in it, which I’m sure there was now, I couldn’t see. It had those darkened, tinted windows.’

‘Was the window down maybe?’

‘No. I don’t think so.’

‘Perhaps it was down slightly,’ he suggested, ‘to let smoke from a cigarette out, or maybe you heard a radio playing inside.’

‘No. No. Nothing. It was lifeless.’

‘So when was the next time you saw it?’

‘When the poor man was being dragged into it.’

‘And when was that?’

‘Just before I called the police – seconds before.’

Sean recalled the time the case file said the 999 call was made at – just after six pm. ‘What did you see? Tell me everything you saw.’

‘Well, I was here, close to the window, checking the housekeeper had cleaned properly, she doesn’t always, and some movement outside, on the other side of the street, caught my eye.’

‘That’s where the van was?’ Sean interrupted. ‘On the other side of the street?’

‘Yes,’ she told him, ‘otherwise I probably wouldn’t have noticed anything.’

‘Go on.’

‘So I looked out of the window and saw one man almost lying on the floor while this other man wearing a ski-mask was leaning over him, beating him about the head with this little black bat thing.’

‘How many times?’

‘I don’t know. Several.’ An amateur, Sean reminded himself. ‘Then he picked him off the ground and literally dragged him to the white van and bundled him in the back. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Anyway, I grabbed the phone,’ she pointed to the one next to her bed, ‘and phoned the police. By the time someone answered he, the man with the ski-mask over his face, was still at the back of his van. He was there for quite a while actually, and then while I was talking to the police on the phone he closed the doors, ran around to the driver’s side, got in, started the van and drove away as calm as you like.’

‘Could you see what he was doing at the back of the van?’

‘No. Sorry. I was at the wrong angle to see.’

‘But he was there for a while?’

‘Yes.’

What the hell were you doing, my friend? You abduct a man from a London street in broad daylight. Then you mess around at the back of your van for several minutes. Why would you do that? Why take the risk?

‘Did he restrain him at all?’ Sean asked. ‘Tie him up or use handcuffs – anything like that?’

‘No. He just hit him over the head and dragged him to the van.’

A fully grown man, unrestrained in the back of a van, could make a hell of a noise. Did you really risk driving across London with him thrashing around? I don’t think so. So is that what you were doing at the back of the van – restraining him, or drugging him? He had a flash back to the Thomas Keller case – a rapist and murder who used chloroform to overpower his victims. You must have been. You must have been. This was all so carefully planned – victim selection and research, the room you prepared for his murder – you would have planned how to restrain them too – you must have.

‘You all right, Inspector?’ Angela Haitink’s voice brought him back.

‘What?’ He remembered she was there. ‘Yeah. Fine. I was just thinking something through.’ He quickly re-gathered his thoughts. ‘And then he just calmly drove away?’

‘Well, yes.’

‘At speed, engine revving, tyres squealing?’

‘No. Nothing. Just pulled out and drove away. I gave the police the number plate. Can’t you find him from that?’

‘Maybe. If we get lucky. But he planned everything else, so my guess is it’s unlikely he used his own van. Probably used a stolen one or one with false plates. We’re looking into it. Thanks for your time, Mrs Haitink.’

‘Is that it?’ she asked.

‘We’ll be in touch,’ he told her and headed for the bedroom door. ‘We’ll need a full written statement in due course. I’ll send one of my team around at a time that suits you.’

‘I’m sorry I couldn’t have been more help.’

‘You’ve helped plenty,’ he reassured her. ‘In fact, more than you probably realize.’

3

Geoff Jackson stood in front of the huge whiteboard and surveyed the collection of seasoned crime correspondents gathered in the conference room laughing and joking with each other, half nursing unlit cigarettes. Unbeknown to them, Jackson was already considering their individual talents and assigning them tasks. He’d virtually grown up in the business, getting a first-class degree in Journalism Studies, then straight to work for a local paper in Swanley, Kent, before rising quickly through the ranks to become the crime editor of the most-read newspaper in Britain.

Jackson was good. Really good. He knew many of his colleagues on the broadsheets looked down on him working for a red-top rag, but he didn’t give a damn. He could take their jobs any time he wanted, but they’d never be able to take his. He had an almost predatory instinct for a story and let nothing stand in the way of getting it. How he got it – that was his business. The public just wanted the story, with all the unpleasant details, and he was the man to get it for them.

‘All right, you lot,’ he bellowed across the room. ‘Everyone shut the fuck up and listen.’ The room fell almost instantly quiet and serious. ‘Do any of you pricks know why we’re here?’

‘To get the smoking ban lifted,’ someone called out, causing calls of approval and much laughter.

‘Very fucking funny,’ Jackson told the comedian. ‘You’ve just volunteered to be the official tea boy.’ More laughter until Jackson killed it, turning and writing on the board in letters almost big enough to fill it:

THE YOUR VIEW KILLER

‘Drop your other stories,’ he told them. ‘From now on this is the only story. I want to look into the victim’s background. I want to know everything about him. How rich was he? How did he live? Did he have any secrets, or vices? Was he liked, or disliked? Everything. And let’s find out what the public are thinking. Do they agree with what the killer’s doing, or do they think he’s just another sicko? Let’s speak to them and find out and get an online poll going so people can tell us if they’re for him or against him. And get hold of your sources and see if any of them know anything. Someone must have heard something on the criminal grapevine, so find out what. I’ll email you all your assignments within the next hour, so let’s get on with it.’

‘You reckon he’ll kill again, then?’ one of the journos asked.

‘I bloody hope so,’ Jackson answered deadpan, causing muted laughter amongst his audience. ‘Not much of a story if he doesn’t, is it?’ He looked away from them, checking his iPhone for messages. The journos took their cue and started to file out of the room, leaving Jackson alone to think.

He was happy enough with the meeting, but knew he needed more. The Your View Killer was gold dust, but he still needed to make it different – the public were growing immune to press coverage of protracted cases, preferring to get quick updates from the Internet or the multitude of twenty-four-hour news shows on television. He needed something – something no one else had. He pulled up a chair and sat staring out of the window, waiting for that magical moment when an undeniably brilliant idea popped into his head. He didn’t have to wait long. A smile spread across his face at the sheer audacity of the idea and he jumped out of his chair in celebration.

‘Yes. Fucking yes.’ He pumped his fists in front of him. ‘Interview the bastard. Just him and me. Sensational, Geoff my old son – fucking sensational, but how? How am I gonna get one on one with this joker?’

And even if I do, how am I going to keep the police off my back?

Sean and Donnelly arrived back at the Yard and headed towards their offices, but Sean froze in his tracks when he saw Anna sitting in his. Featherstone had warned him she’d be attached to the investigation, but the sight of her so close still made his stomach tighten and his head feel suddenly cloudy, if only for a few seconds.

‘You all right?’ Donnelly asked. ‘Look like you’ve just been made Addis’s new bag carrier.’ He followed Sean’s eyeline until he saw Anna. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Well, you did tell me she was going to be with us again.’

‘I know,’ Sean answered, still looking decidedly uncomfortable.

‘Jesus,’ Donnelly told him. ‘She’s not that bad.’

‘No,’ Sean agreed. ‘No she’s not.’

‘Aye, aye,’ Donnelly teased. ‘I’ll leave you to it then.’

Sean watched Donnelly head toward his office and Sally, before following suit and walking the short distance to his own. Anna still hadn’t seen him when he reached the office door.

‘Hello,’ was all he could think of to say, but at least it made her look up from her file.

‘Sean,’ she smiled. ‘Not too much of a shock seeing me here I hope?’

‘No. Superintendent Featherstone told me you’d be with us. It’s good to see you again.’

‘Thank you, although I sense a but in there somewhere.’

‘No. Not really. Just I’m not sure this particular case warrants your input. Your expertise.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning I don’t see a psychiatric angle here – not particularly, anyway.’

‘You have an offender who’s killed someone live on the Internet. I would have thought a psychiatric evaluation would be just what you needed.’

‘This one’s no Thomas Keller, Anna – no tortured childhood and history of abuse. He’s pissed off and he wants revenge. Nice, straightforward, old-fashioned motivation.’

‘That simple?’

‘Why not?’

‘Because he shares his revenge with the world. How does that fit into his motivation?’

‘Because,’ Sean tried to explain, ‘he sees the majority of the public as fellow victims – victims of the system that he believes protects the rich and powerful – no matter what they do. He wants to be their … spiritual leader.’

She looked him up and down before continuing. ‘You may well be right, but it’s a little soon to be settling on one theory and one theory alone – don’t you think?’

‘I’m not settling on anything,’ he told her, sounding frustrated. ‘I’m just leaning towards what the evidence supports.’

‘Of course,’ she agreed, ‘and I hear you found the victim’s body in the Thames.’

‘Correct.’

‘So he took the time and effort to remove the body from the scene – meaning he may well offend again.’

‘Really? I hadn’t considered that yet,’ he lied.

‘Yes you have. You know this isn’t going to be his only crime, so why don’t you just tell me why you don’t want me involved in the investigation?’

He studied her for a few seconds, trying to give himself some thinking time so that the next thing out of his mouth wouldn’t be harmful and wounding to them both. Finally he held up his hands and allowed himself a slight smile. ‘You know what, I’m sorry,’ he told her and meant it. ‘It is good to see you again. I’m sure we’ll catch this one quicker with you than without you.’

‘It’s good to see you too.’ She took the olive branch.

He pushed himself away from her and walked quickly from his office and into Sally and Donnelly’s.

‘Time to brief the team,’ he told them. ‘Care to join me?’ He turned without waiting for the answer and headed to the whiteboard that had a smiling photograph of Paul Elkins attached to it, with some details and notes scribbled all around it. As soon as Sally and Donnelly entered the main office he began.

‘All right everybody, listen up,’ he called across the room. Within a few seconds everyone had stopped talking or typing – calls put on hold or phones hung up. ‘You’ve all seen the murder that was shown live on Your View some time yesterday evening and by now you all know it was genuine – not some staged publicity stunt or sick joke. We recovered the victim’s body from the Thames earlier today. We haven’t had the body officially identified yet, but I’ve seen it and can tell you it’s the body of Paul Elkins.’ Nobody argued.

‘What we know so far is the victim was wealthy. Very wealthy. He worked for a bank in the City and lived in Chelsea, with his wife and two kids. He was abducted by a solitary male late yesterday afternoon – in broad daylight from his own street as he made his way home. He was bundled into a white panel van and driven away. Two witnesses saw the abduction and one provided a registration number.’

‘I’ve got an update on the vehicle,’ Sally interrupted.

‘Go on,’ Sean told her.

‘It’s been checked out by the local CID who cover the address of the registered keeper. Turns out it belongs to a painter and decorator in Guildford who reported having his number plates nicked a couple of weeks ago. The locals say it checks out. Dead end, I’m afraid.’

‘Not quite,’ Sean explained. ‘Put out a national circulation – anyone reports having their number plates nicked off their van we want to know about it immediately.’

‘No problem,’ Sally agreed.

‘Some time later the victim pops up on Your View, with our masked killer who gives anyone who cares to listen a lecture on the wrongs of being overly wealthy and in particular gives it to the bankers and the banking system. He encourages people to vote online as to whether they think Elkins is guilty of greed, corruption, God knows what. The vote goes against Elkins and he’s murdered – we all know how. So … ideas.’

‘Check with his company and wife to see if he had any death threats or other threats. Emails, letters, phone calls,’ Sally suggested.

‘Yeah. Good,’ Sean agreed. ‘Anything else?’

‘Check if anyone’s been seen acting suspiciously outside his home or work,’ DC Alan Jesson offered. ‘Maybe there’s a record of someone causing trouble or some other incidents.’

‘Fine,’ Sean told him. ‘Check it out.’

‘Check the rope around the victim’s neck,’ DC Maggie O’Neil joined in. ‘It might be a rare type.’

‘Unfortunately the killer didn’t leave us the rope,’ Sean told her. ‘He removed it from the body before he dumped it, but I’ll have Dr Canning check the marks around the victim’s neck anyway. He may be able to recreate the rope’s pattern and then yes, we might be able to tell if it’s exotic. Anything else?’ he asked the room.

‘Search the area where the body was found for the scene – this white room he used for the killing,’ DC Ashley Goodwin added.

‘Could be anywhere,’ Sean dismissed it. ‘We don’t have anything specific enough to target an area, but we can circulate a request Met-wide asking everyone to keep their eyes open. Get that out to surrounding forces too, will you, Ash? I don’t think he went outside the southeast.’ Goodwin nodded.

‘This white room,’ DC Fiona Cahill interrupted, ‘looks pretty unusual. If he’d prepared it in advance someone else might have seen it – a builder, a caretaker. Maybe it’s been seen by someone and the suspect doesn’t even know.’

‘Worth a chance,’ Sean agreed. ‘Get that out to the media as an appeal for assistance. Anyone thinks they might have seen anything like it to get in touch. Anyone else got anything?’ The room was silent, the detectives looking at one another, but no one spoke. ‘All right,’ Sean told them. ‘Dave, find me someone who’s a bit of a whizz with computers and the Internet and all that stuff. We’re gonna need a bit of help with this one.’

‘Where from?’ Donnelly asked.

‘I don’t care,’ Sean told him. ‘Anywhere. Try the Cyber Crime Unit. They must have someone they can spare.’

‘If we look outside the Met I might be able to find you a real expert,’ Donnelly argued.

‘And wipe out our unit’s budget for the entire year?’ Sean complained, ‘I don’t think so. Let’s make do with someone who’s homegrown and knows what they’re doing and keep a little money for a rainy day.’

‘Fair enough,’ Donnelly agreed.

‘And we’re going to need to monitor Your View around the clock,’ Sean continued. ‘Dave, you sort out a shift pattern so someone’s always got it covered.’ Donnelly nodded he understood. ‘OK, that’s it for now,’ but the meeting didn’t disperse as quickly as he expected, telling him something was wrong. ‘Problem?’ he asked them as a group.

‘This could be a complicated investigation,’ Donnelly spoke for them.

‘So?’ Sean queried.

‘So how’re we supposed to investigate it properly when Douglas Allen’s trial’s about to kick off at the Bailey?’

‘Don’t hang around at court,’ Sean told them. ‘Keep your mobiles on and the CPS will call you when and if you’re needed to give evidence. Go to court – give your evidence and get back here.’

‘They’ll want us there,’ Donnelly reminded him, ‘for the exhibits alone.’

‘We’ll manage,’ Sean insisted, holding his hands up, palms out, to let everyone know it wasn’t up for further discussion. ‘We don’t have any other choice but to manage, so let’s get on with it.’ There were a few moans and groans as the meeting finally broke up, but Sean knew they’d be fine. They just needed to become immersed in the new investigation – move on from the last case. It would do them all good to have Douglas Allen out of their heads. He just wished he could get Anna out of his.

Assistant Commissioner Addis stood looking out of his office window on the top floor of New Scotland Yard, over the vast city he had ambitions to be the next Commissioner of – so long as he could outmanoeuvre his rivals. They had their high-profile marches to police, getting their faces all over the TV news, but he had Special Investigations, ensuring he’d be overseeing every prominent murder, abduction or anything else he deemed fit to assign Corrigan and his team. So long as he kept a tight control over media access to information and press conferences, the TV and paperboys would have to come begging to him or miss out on the story. If they kept him nicely in the eye of the public and politicians, he’d keep them up to speed on the hunt for the Your View Killer.

He just needed Corrigan to do what he seemed able to do better than anyone else and get a quick result without blowing up and turning his trump card into a liability. That was why he wanted to keep a close watch on things – a tight rein. He was pleased with himself for integrating Anna into the team, but would she remember where her loyalties lay? And would Corrigan’s team become suspicious of her and start feeding her misinformation? He knew detectives could be a cunning lot – suspicious and instinctive. Anna would be no match for them if they sensed she was there for any other reason than to observe and advise. Maybe it was time he had someone even closer to Corrigan on the unit – someone who was already in place and trusted. Maybe only another detective could be completely relied on to provide him with what he needed.

The landline phone ringing on his desk broke into his thoughts and he turned and strode across the office, grabbing the phone as he sat in his large leather chair, back straight, head high.

‘Assistant Commissioner Addis speaking.’

‘Assistant Commissioner,’ the voice began. ‘My name is Nick Poole – I’m the CEO of Your View.’ Addis’s eyebrows arched high on his brow.

‘And what can I do for you, Mr Poole?’

‘Well, as you’re no doubt aware, in the light of our site being used by what I can only describe as a sick and evil individual, we gave a lot of consideration to temporarily closing it down.’

‘And then decided not to,’ Addis cut in, fully aware of the situation.

‘It’s just we felt it improper to be dictated to by this individual and hugely unfair to our other users, the vast majority of whom are responsible, decent people.’

‘Quite,’ Addis agreed, losing patience. ‘So why are we having this conversation?’

‘Because,’ Poole continued, ‘we’ve met with our technical people and they tell us it would be possible to close the site practically the second this lunatic appears on Your View – should he try to use it again.’

Addis sank back in his chair to consider the offer for a few seconds before leaning forward again. ‘No,’ he told Addis. ‘We’d rather see what we’re dealing with, and tracing the source of the broadcast could be our best chance of finding him quickly. No. Should there be another broadcast – let it run.’

‘I’m not sure,’ Poole complained. ‘People might start accusing us of being complicit. We’ve already had a lot of complaints about the one he’s already broadcast. I’m, shall we say, very uncomfortable with giving this person a platform to preach from – let alone to commit more serious crimes on.’

‘My call,’ Addis told him. ‘Tell your complainants you’re acting on instructions given to you by the police. Absolve yourself of the responsibility if you like, but if he uses Your View again, we want to be able to monitor it. Understand?’

‘OK, but it’s your call.’

‘Of course it is,’ Addis told him and hung up. ‘It’s always my call.’

Sean and Sally arrived at the offices of Fairfield’s Bank in Leadenhall Street in the heart of the City of London. It was getting late, but the Acting CEO had agreed to stay and see them. His boss had been murdered live on the Internet – what else could he do? An elegant woman met them in reception and told them her name, although Sean forgot it immediately, his mind wandering to the meeting ahead. They rose high through the tall building in the elevator until they reached the top floor and were led to a large but simple office where a slim man in his late forties rose from his chair to greet them, pushing back his longish, sandy blond hair with his left hand while holding out his right. He wore a dark blue pinstripe suit, the jacket of which hung over the back of his chair. His bold red tie and braces contrasted sharply with his pale blue and white striped shirt.

‘Simon Damant,’ he told them, eagerly shaking their hands in turn, as if he’d been desperately awaiting their arrival. ‘Acting CEO.’

‘DI Sean Corrigan and this is my colleague, DS Sally Jones,’ Sean replied. ‘We spoke briefly on the phone.’

‘Yes, yes. Of course. Please. Take a seat.’

‘Thanks for waiting around for us,’ Sean continued, pulling up a chair.

‘Really, don’t mention it. Least I could do, frankly. Christ, poor Paul. He was a good guy. Didn’t deserve what happened. God, I hope you catch the bastard.’ Damant’s accent fitted the rest of him perfectly.

‘We will,’ Sean assured him.

‘Glad to hear it,’ Damant told him, spreading his arms wide in an expression of openness. ‘Well, what do you want to know?’

‘Did Mr Elkins have any, to put it bluntly, obvious enemies?’ Sean dived straight in.

‘Not really,’ Damant explained. ‘There are always rivals once you reach his level of seniority. You don’t get to his position in this business without making a few enemies along the way, but Jesus, somebody who’d do something like this – no chance. Professional rivalry – that’s all we’re talking about here. The papers and TV stations are saying he was taken and killed by some sort of vengeance-seeking lunatic. Someone who blames the banking sector for all the ills of the world. Is that what you think?’

‘We’re keeping an open mind,’ Sean told him. ‘What about anyone else threatening him or the company? Anything like that going on?’

‘Well, there’s always the anti-capitalist nutters and the anarchist groups, of course, and since the banking crisis we get the occasional disgruntled member of the public phoning up to have a go or writing poison pen letters, but nothing particularly personal to Paul. Some of the letters might have been addressed to him, but only because he was the CEO.’

‘Have there been any incidents here at your offices?’ Sally asked. ‘Anyone making trouble, threatening anyone, anything like that?’

‘Not inside,’ Damant answered, ‘but we’ve had the occasional small group protests outside – you know, marching up and down with daft placards, usually stirred up by left-wing agitators and trouble-makers, but again, nothing you could describe as personal to Paul.’

‘What about everyday folk?’ Sean asked. ‘People who lost their life savings and homes?’

Damant moved uncomfortably in his chair. ‘Sometimes,’ he admitted. ‘Little groups of the disaffected. Paul always felt sorry for them. He took no pleasure in their plight. Like I said, he was a good guy and a bit of a philanthropist too – gave a lot of his wealth away to good causes, but never sought to gain out of it. Just did it because he thought it was the right thing to do. Maybe if he’d made more of a thing about it this nutter wouldn’t have targeted him. Christ, the whole thing’s just unbelievable.’

‘What about within the company?’ Sean asked. ‘Did Paul have to sack anyone lately – make anyone redundant who took it badly?’

‘No. No,’ Damant replied. ‘Paul was too senior to personally take care of things like that, unless the person being sacked or made redundant were also very senior, and that hasn’t happened for a very long time.’

‘How long?’ Sally asked.

‘So long ago I can’t remember. Even then I’d imagine they were happy to take redundancy and go. Our redundancy packages are very generous, believe me.’

‘I’m sure they are,’ Sean agreed, losing interest in what seemed another dead end. ‘Does your company keep records of any threatening or malicious calls or letters you receive?’

‘We do. Our internal security people take care of that sort of thing.’

‘We’ll need copies of everything and any records of calls received too,’ Sean told him. ‘There may be something in them we can use.’

‘Of course. No problem. I’ll get security to get those ready for you right away.’

‘Thanks,’ Sean told him. ‘It’s appreciated.’

‘Don’t thank me,’ Damant insisted. ‘Just catch the bastard – before he grabs another one of us.’

The Your View Killer stalked around the white room making sure everything was ready for his next trial. The victim had been selected and his plans for their abduction well prepared and even rehearsed – to a point.

He wore the same black work overalls, black leather gloves and even the ski-mask, even though he was alone and the broadcasting equipment was disconnected. There was no one to recognize him, but he wouldn’t make the mistake of becoming lazy and leaving his fingerprints or a strand of hair carrying his DNA in the wrong place for the police to find once they discovered the white room, as surely one day they would – one day long after he, the Your View Killer, had already disappeared forever. A smile spread across his lips at the irony of the situation – one day soon he’d practically have to give the police the very things that could damn him. And when that day happened it would be a sign that everything was progressing just as he’d planned.

Sean had arrived home late, but early enough to help his wife Kate prepare supper for both of them. They sat at the kitchen table, Kate doing most of the talking and the eating, while Sean pretended to be listening as he concentrated on his wine and thought about the new case. Kate had a lot to get off her chest and talked away happily about the children and her work as a casualty doctor at Guy’s Hospital, but eventually she looked at him long enough to notice he wasn’t truly with her.

‘You OK?’ she asked.

‘Sorry?’ he replied when he realized he was expected to respond.

‘Are you OK?’ Kate repeated.

‘Yeah. Sorry. New case.’

‘A new case?’ she inquired. ‘What is it?’

Sean rubbed his temples and considered his answer, but Kate had already worked it out. ‘Don’t tell me – it’s the one that’s been all over the news – the so-called Your View Killer.’ Sean didn’t reply. ‘It is, isn’t it?’

‘Same as any other murder investigation,’ he lied. ‘Just because it’s on the telly doesn’t make it any more difficult than if no one had heard about it.’

‘Well that’s not true, is it?’ she argued. ‘The more high profile the case the more pressure you’ll be under to solve it, and the more pressure you’re under, the grumpier you’ll get.’

‘I can handle it,’ he tried to reassure her, but he knew he didn’t sound convincing.

‘I know you can handle it,’ she answered, ‘but only if you push everything else away so you can think of nothing but the case – including me. Including the kids.’

‘That’s not true.’

‘Isn’t it? You sure?’

‘I do the best I can. Hopefully we’ll get this sorted quickly and then you won’t have to worry about it.’

‘Until the next high-profile case they dump on you.’

‘We’re Special Investigations only now – they’re all going to be high profile. On the plus side there should be less of them – maybe less than one a year.’

‘You hope, or maybe you don’t.’ He didn’t answer. ‘Anyway, what’s this one about? The people at work seem convinced he’s some latter-day Robin Hood, come to make the rich and corrupt pay for their greed. There’s not a lot of sympathy out there for the victim.’

‘People are quick to judge, but I guess that’s the whole point,’ Sean told her.

‘What d’you mean?’

‘The killer – that’s what he does. Tells people to judge, although they only have a fragment of the facts. And they’re all too willing to go along with it, even if it means a man ends up losing his life.’

‘I don’t think people believed it was for real,’ Kate argued.

‘Did some of the people you work with vote?’ he questioned her.

‘Why?’ she asked, a little suspicious of her husband’s reason for asking. ‘Are they in trouble if they did?’

‘Maybe. Probably not – if they thought it was a hoax. But anyone voting in the future could be guilty of conspiracy to murder.’

‘You can’t arrest everybody,’ Kate said. ‘You can’t arrest tens of thousands of people, maybe hundreds of thousands.’

‘We might have to make a few arrests – scare people away from voting.’

‘I’d better not say anything else,’ she half joked. ‘Wouldn’t want to get anyone at work arrested. We’re short-staffed as it is.’

‘Don’t worry,’ he told her. ‘I promise not to arrest any of your work colleagues, or friends, or whatever you call them.’

Kate rolled her brown eyes, making the golden skin of her forehead wrinkle. ‘Gee, thanks,’ she replied, getting to her feet and beginning to clear the table. ‘Speaking of friends, don’t forget we’re going out for dinner with ours this week.’

‘We are?’

‘Yes. We are. It’s in the calendar on the computer, if you ever bothered to check it.’

He watched her head to the sink, her long, curly black hair tied back in a ponytail. He tried to remember the last time he’d seen her dressed for a night out, but couldn’t. ‘Who we going out with?’

‘James and Kerry, Chris and Sally and Leon and Sophie.’

‘So what you’re saying is we’re going out with your friends?’

Kate looked over her slim shoulder as she paused with a soapy dish in hand. ‘Feel free to arrange a night out with your friends any time you like. I’d love to finally meet some of them – properly.’ She went back to washing the dishes.

‘Not a great idea,’ Sean told her. ‘They’d just get pissed and talk job all night.’

‘Sounds great. I’ll look forward to it.’

‘Ha, ha,’ Sean mocked, getting to his feet and heading for the stairs.

‘Oi,’ Kate called after him. ‘A hand with the cleaning up would be nice.’

‘I’m knackered,’ he complained, ‘and I need to get back to the office super early tomorrow before anyone notices I’m not there.’

‘Fine,’ Kate relented. ‘Just remember – dinner – this week.’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ he answered, but he’d already forgotten about it, too tired to care, his mind blissfully still. The case hadn’t got into him yet – hadn’t taken him over completely. He wondered whether it was because he too lacked empathy with the victim. If it had been a woman or a child killed in the same way but for different reasons he wouldn’t have felt as he did. He would have already been consumed by the overpowering urge to keep going until the killer had been caught – he doubted he would have even come home for the evening. Early days, he told himself as he climbed the stairs to bed. It’ll get to you soon enough.

4

Sean arrived at work the next morning early enough to be the first one in the office and was glad of it. He walked slowly across the main room, casting an eye over the tip that was supposed to be the nerve centre of their investigations. Discarded items of clothing hung on chairs and over computer screens, abandoned polystyrene cups of cold, stale coffee littered almost every work surface, while the wastepaper bins overflowed with crisp packets, chocolate wrappers and plastic sandwich boxes. The large brown paper confidential waste sacks that filled every corner fared no better. He shook his head in displeasure and retreated into the sanctuary of his own reasonably ordered and tidy office.

He slumped in his chair and peeled the lid off the black coffee he’d picked up from a nearby café − the grey filth they sold in the canteen at the Yard was wholly undrinkable. Next he placed his own personal laptop next to the coffee and started it into life. Once it was ready he pulled up the video of Paul Elkins’s murder and began to watch and listen: the victim taped to the chair, confused and terrified while the killer periodically stalked in front of the cameras, not even his eyes visible as he spoke in that eerie electronic voice – preaching more than appealing.

Sean pressed pause for a second, giving his mind time to absorb what he had seen so far, to analyse it, to pick up on some small thing they’d all missed. His eyes seemed to flicker as he studied the screen before pressing play again, only to pause it a few seconds later, the image of the killer staring out at him.

‘Confident bastard, aren’t you?’ he whispered. ‘Is that why you’re doing this, because it makes you feel confident – makes you feel good again? Gives you back the pride that they took away from you?’ He clicked on play and watched for a few more minutes, the killer’s organized and self-assured demeanour never changing as he explained the rules of the ‘trial’ to the watching ‘jury’.

He paused again and stared at the dark figure standing straight and purposeful. ‘What are you like when you’re not being this thing? What are you like when you’re just yourself? Are you meek and mild – a broken man too defeated to even stand up for yourself, your wife, your children? Did they beat the fight out of you – took your business, your house, your job? But when you put the ski-mask on, when you hear yourself speaking in that unrecognizable voice, does it give you your self-esteem back? Does it make you feel powerful? And why kill him the way you did? It was slow and painful. Was it the only way you knew how, or did you want it to be like that? Did you want him to suffer – want to make him pay?’

A knock on his open door shattered his concentration and he looked up to see Donnelly standing there with a small man in his thirties he didn’t recognize. Sean looked him up and down, taking note of his skinny arms and legs and little pot belly, spectacles balancing on the end of his nose, receding blond hair uncombed and unstyled.

‘Who the hell is this?’ he asked Donnelly, never looking away from the man who was now flushed red.

‘This,’ Donnelly explained, ‘is Detective Constable Bob Bishop.’

‘Where the hell did you find him? And more to the point, what are you doing with him?’ Bishop looked from Donnelly to Sean and back again, following the conversation anxiously.

‘I abducted him from the Cyber Crime Unit,’ Donnelly continued. ‘The DI there’s an old friend of mine. He said we could have him.’ Still neither of them bothered to address Bishop. Sean shook his head in mock disbelief. ‘What?’ Donnelly played along. ‘You said get an Internet expert.’

‘Is that what he is?’ Sean continued to stare at the very uncomfortable-looking Bishop. ‘Is that what you are – an Internet expert?’

‘I know my way around the Web as well as anyone from the Cyber Unit,’ Bishop stuttered in his Birmingham accent.

‘See,’ Donnelly jumped in. ‘Like I said – an expert.’

‘You know why you’re here?’ Sean asked.

‘Something about the Your View Killer. DS Donnelly told me.’

‘It’s all about the Your View Killer,’ Sean told him. Bishop visibly swallowed hard. ‘Can he be traced? Can we trace him to wherever he’s broadcasting from?’

‘Yes,’ Bishop answered, ‘but it’s not like on the telly – it can take a while. But why d’you need me? Can’t you use one of your own team?’

‘Sure,’ Sean teased him, ‘because my team’s full of Internet and computer experts. The Commissioner lets me keep them locked in a room for whenever I might need them – along with thousands of pounds’ worth of tracking equipment for the once in a blue moon when I might need that too. Bishop, this is the Metropolitan Police: you don’t get given anything until you absolutely need it and then you beg, steal and borrow it before handing it back to wherever it is you got it from. And right now I need you.’

‘Well then, I guess I’m all yours,’ Bishop gave in.

‘Good. Can we trace it even when it’s not on?’ Sean pressed ahead with his queries.

‘No,’ Bishop told him. ‘We can only trace him when he’s connected to the Internet. Every time he’s connected we inch a little closer to his location, but he has to be connected.’

‘What if he changes computers or changes the location of his broadcasts? Donnelly asked.

‘If we’ve already got a hook into his computer we can trace him even if he changes location – although we’d have to go back a few steps, which would slow us down. But even without a hard modem we can trace his wireless fingerprint via the—’

‘Stop. Stop,’ Sean interrupted. ‘Save the technical jargon for someone who gives a shit. Now try that again in English.’

‘Well, like I said, once we’re into his er … computer, we’ve pretty much got him, but it’ll take time, depending on how long he stays online each time. If he ditches the computer we’re buggered, unless he’s using er … something that sends the signal on that he also used with the original computer.’ Sean and Donnelly looked at each other. ‘It’s like at home, right,’ Bishop explained. ‘Most people have more than one device that can access the Internet, but they’re all getting that access through one modem, right, so even if they ditch the device, we’re still into the source. Get it?’

‘I get it enough,’ Sean told him. ‘Dave, get him a desk in the main office and put him to work.’

‘He can share with me and Sally. There’s enough room. He wouldn’t survive in that shark pool.’

‘Fine,’ Sean agreed.

Bishop’s eyes darted around nervously. ‘Excuse me,’ he began. ‘I know my way around computers and stuff, but I’m not qualified to call myself an expert and you sound like you need an expert.’

Sean looked him in the eyes. ‘Do you know anyone better than you who also happens to be employed by the Metropolitan Police?’

‘Er … well no, but—’

‘I didn’t think so,’ Sean cut him off again. ‘Listen, you can speak to whoever you need to speak to for technical advice, go and see whoever you want to see, spend whatever you have to spend – but I need you to trace the location of where this madman’s broadcasting from. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, but it’s just that I was right in the middle—’

‘You may be our best chance to catch a killer, and if you do, it won’t be forgotten,’ Sean encouraged him. ‘Are you my man?’

Bishop finally straightened as a sparkle came to his eyes. ‘Yeah,’ he answered. ‘Yeah. I’m your man.’

‘Good,’ Sean told him as Donnelly led him away to the next-door office. Sean hadn’t finished shaking his head when he saw Anna enter the main office and start to approach him. He felt a pleasant vibration in his chest and his head became a little light. He pushed the feelings aside and quickly stood, pulling on his coat and gathering his belongings, stuffing them carelessly into his pockets.

Anna entered without knocking. ‘Going somewhere?’

‘Yes,’ was all he said, aiming for the door where he’d have to pass close to her.

‘Mind if I ask where?’

He sighed before answering. ‘If you must know, I’m meeting Dr Canning for the post-mortem.’

‘Can I tag along?’

‘No.’

‘Oh.’

Sean realized he was being unnecessarily blunt and reminded himself it wasn’t her fault he felt the way he did about her. Being close to her made him feel uncomfortable, vulnerable; but he didn’t want to hurt her either.

‘I’m sorry,’ he explained. ‘It’s just Dr Canning doesn’t like additional people coming to his post-mortems. He likes it to be just him and me. Post-mortem’s his call. He’s the pathologist.’

‘That’s OK,’ she told him. ‘I understand. I’d probably be the same.’

‘Look,’ Sean continued. ‘I’ll tell you all about it when I get back. I’d be interested in your opinion.’

‘I’d appreciate that,’ she told him as he slid past. ‘I’ll see you later then.’

He walked quickly through the main office without looking back and was gone.

Georgina Vaughan sat on the corner of her desk on the seventh floor of Glenhope Investments in the City of London. She kept a sharp eye out for her boss who often stalked the floor looking for employees who were engaging in social discourse rather than working. She shared her limited working space with two colleagues, Nick and Oscar, and when they weren’t being spied on there had only been one topic of conversation that morning – the Your View Killer.

She peeked over the top of Nick’s screen. ‘So who do you think he’s going to do next?’ she asked in little more than a whisper.

He checked they weren’t being watched before answering. ‘I don’t know. Could be anyone. Could be you.’

She gave a short laugh. ‘Me? I don’t think so. You heard what he said – he’s only after the big fish.’

‘You’re a senior project manager and a rising star,’ Oscar joined in. ‘Maybe he’ll consider you to be a big fish?’

Again she laughed. ‘I doubt it. Not yet anyway. I reckon he’ll only go for CEOs. Probably doesn’t even know what a project manager is. By the time I’m a CEO he’ll probably be dead of old age.’

‘You’re on the senior management fast-track scheme – what more do you want?’ Nick reminded her in his slightly effeminate voice that matched his petite build and whiskerless complexion.

‘I’m thirty-fucking-three, Nick. Does that sound like fast-track to you? This whole job’s beginning to feel like waiting for dead-man’s shoes.’

‘Then you’ll be happy to see him dispose of a few of them,’ Nick suggested.

‘Ha, ha,’ she mocked him.

‘The higher you climb the less positions there are,’ Oscar chipped in. ‘Besides, with this lunatic running around out there, who’d want to be a CEO of anything?’

‘I would,’ she almost snapped at him in her clipped accent, her long, wavy brown hair falling forwards. ‘I just need him to bump off another couple of hundred and I should be fine.’

‘I doubt there’ll be any more,’ Nick argued. ‘I heard he was killed by some Eastern European gang he’d been laundering money for. Apparently his rates were beginning to piss them off so …’ He spread his hands as if an explanation wasn’t necessary.

‘That’s bollocks,’ Georgina told him. ‘Eastern Europeans would have chopped him to pieces.’

‘An expert on these matters, are you?’ Oscar asked.

‘I’ve heard things,’ she told them, trying to sound mysterious.

‘More like seen things,’ Nick teased her, ‘on the telly.’ Both he and Oscar laughed at her.

‘Well one thing’s for certain,’ she silenced them, ‘none of us have anything to worry about, sitting here doing these shit jobs. Nothing to worry about at all.’

Sean parked in the ambulance bay at Guy’s Hospital, leaving the police vehicle log on the dashboard to prevent his car being towed away. He strode off through a part of the grounds rarely seen by most hospital employees, let alone the public, and made his way to the mortuary where he found Dr Canning already examining the body. Canning looked up to see who had entered his domain.

‘Good morning, Inspector.’

‘Morning, Doctor,’ Sean replied, no feeling in his voice. ‘Here we are again then.’

‘Quite,’ Canning agreed. ‘I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve already cleaned the victim up. There’s plenty of photographic documentation as to the body’s state when it first came out of the river. I’ve already examined it for anything unpleasant the river left behind.’

‘D’you find anything?’

‘Not particularly. The usual organic life forms and other debris. I’ve taken samples and plenty of swabs for you. If there’s anything deeper in his throat, stomach or lungs I won’t find it until I open the poor fellow up later today.’

Sean moved closer and scanned the body slowly from head to toe, the man’s face close to unrecognizable from the image in the photographs Sean had seen – his expression in death a tortured grimace, the vivid rope-burn ring around his neck a stark reminder of how he died. The rest of his body was relatively untouched except for some reddening around both his ankles and wrists – from where he’d been taped to the chair, Sean guessed. Other than that the river had left its mark, but nothing of note, the victim’s clothing having protected his dead body from too much exposure to other floating debris.

‘These other cuts and marks,’ Sean checked, ‘they caused by being in the river?’

‘Almost certainly,’ Canning assured him. ‘I had a quick look and found most of them to be post-mortem and none that would have contributed to his death even if he had been alive before being disposed of in the river.’

‘He was, wasn’t he?’ Sean interrupted.

‘Was what?’ Canning asked.

‘Disposed of. Like he was nothing. Something to be rid of. An annoyance.’

‘Not like the last unfortunate victim we saw together,’ Canning reminded him. ‘Quite the ritual of guilt.’

‘Best not to think of it too much,’ Sean told him, trying not to let the images of the small boy on Canning’s autopsy table invade his mind.

‘Trial on that one must be coming up soon. Had a letter from the CPS putting me on standby.’

‘We’re just waiting for our slot at the Bailey to be confirmed and then the trial begins,’ Sean informed him. ‘I’ll try to make sure they don’t keep you hanging around too long.’

‘Appreciated.’

‘Anyway.’ Sean pulled them back to the matter in hand. ‘Apart from the rather obvious cause of death, can you tell me anything else?’

‘Ah,’ Canning began. ‘The cause of death is not as straightforward as you may think.’

Sean’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t like surprises. ‘Meaning?’

‘Cause of death wasn’t hanging, it was strangulation.’

He had Sean’s interest. ‘I’m listening.’

‘Technically hanging is when someone falls from a height with a ligature around their neck, causing both a broken neck and fatal restriction of the blood supply. Death is more often than not instantaneous. Strangulation is the compression of the carotid arteries or jugular veins, causing cerebral ischaemia – which is the brain dying as a result of the lack of oxygen – while at the same time there is a compression of the larynx or trachea, causing asphyxia. Strangulation is a much more unpleasant way to leave this mortal coil than hanging. I’m afraid your victim was hoisted to a slow and painful death as opposed to being dropped to a relatively quick and painless one.’

‘Then he wanted him to suffer?’ Sean asked himself more than Canning.

‘I couldn’t say, Inspector. We both know that’s your domain, not mine. But I saw the Your View footage. The killer looked and sounded pretty angry at the world to me. The sort of person who would want to make others suffer.’

‘Maybe,’ Sean answered.

‘Keeping your options open, Inspector?’ Sean just shrugged. ‘Well, unfortunately the killer took the rope from around his neck before disposing of the body, so we don’t have that to work with, but from the video I could just about tell what sort of knot he used.’

‘Go on,’ Sean encouraged, glad to be discussing simple, tangible, physical evidence.

‘I’m pretty sure it was a poacher’s knot – used primarily in sailing.’

‘Sailing.’ Sean took the bait. ‘What type of sailing?’

‘All types of sailing,’ Canning replied. ‘Royal Navy, Merchant Navy, a yacht owner. Maybe he had a small dinghy as a child or a rowboat or … the possibilities are endless.’

‘I can’t see this one on a yacht,’ Sean told him, squeezing his eyes shut and rubbing them with a pinched thumb and index finger. ‘Not a great look for a man of the people – sailing around on a yacht.’

‘No. I don’t suppose it would be,’ Canning agreed, ‘but it’s definitely the sort of knot someone would use out of habit – without thinking about it.’

‘Or they learnt it specifically so they could use it on the victim,’ Sean suggested.

‘I suppose so,’ Canning agreed, ‘but there are easier knots to learn, so why pick this one?’

‘God only knows, but you’re probably right – he knew this knot, so he used it. He could be ex-navy – merchant or royal, or even an ex-docker. Plenty of them have lost their jobs in recent years.’

‘Doesn’t really narrow it down for you, does it?’

‘No, but it might help me know if I’m heading in the right direction later on.’ Sean thought for a few seconds before speaking again. ‘When you watched the video, what did you think?’

‘Like I said,’ Canning answered, ‘the killer struck me as being very angry. Angry at the world.’

‘In what way angry? What specifically was angry about him?’

‘His words,’ Canning told him. ‘His words were angry.’

Sean thought silently again. ‘You’re right, his words were angry, but …’ He stopped, unsure of his own thoughts.

‘But what?’ Canning encouraged.

‘But the killing seemed cold and impersonal. More like an execution. It was slow and the victim suffered unnecessarily. That could have been because the killer didn’t know what he was doing … and why would he, unless he’s killed before?’

‘Do you think he has – killed before?’

‘No,’ Sean answered quickly. ‘No I don’t.

‘So what’s troubling you, Inspector?’

‘He preached angry words, even acted aggressively, pointing into the camera, accusing the victim, yet the killing was cold. Emotionless.’

‘How would you expect an angry man to kill his victim?’ Canning asked.

‘A knife, a club or bat – something more frenzied and personal – something that let the anger out – true revenge. Not to just stand back and watch the man hang. If he’s as angry as he seems to be that couldn’t have satisfied him, couldn’t have given him the release he needed.’

‘Maybe he’s more sadistic than you considered?’ Canning offered. ‘Wanted to sit back and watch his victim suffer rather than being embroiled in an act of frenzied violence.’

‘Could be,’ Sean agreed, ‘but when I watch that video I can’t help but feel like I’m watching two different people – the preacher and the killer.’

‘Entirely possible,’ Canning told him. ‘The killer comes in and out of shot – appears and disappears from the screen – so you’d have to consider it.’

‘I am,’ Sean admitted. ‘But he could be two people in one man.’

‘Also possible,’ Canning agreed enthusiastically. ‘Another schizophrenic for you to decipher.’

‘Let’s hope not.’

‘Have you shared your thoughts with anyone else yet?’

‘No,’ Sean told him, Anna’s face suddenly burning in his mind as he wondered how long it would be before she saw in the video what he had seen. ‘Not yet. Best to keep it simple. Won’t change how we investigate it anyway. The killer’s told us he’s someone with an axe to grind against the rich and so far he hasn’t given me any reason to disbelieve him. I’ll play his game for now – let him think he’s in control.’

‘Why would you do that?’

‘Because the more confident he is, the sloppier he’ll get and that increases his chances of making mistakes, and that increases my chance of catching him quickly.’

‘I hope you’re right,’ Canning told him as he began to examine his surgical tools before selecting a scalpel, ‘because I should think a man capable of killing another human being in this way is probably capable of anything.’

DC Bob Bishop sat at the desk that they’d squeezed into the corner of Donnelly and Sally’s office. Sally hadn’t bothered to protest as she watched the two of them manoeuvre the desk into the already cramped room, shaking her head and tutting as they crashed around. He was deep in concentration as his fingers typed away on the relatively state-of-art laptop he’d commandeered from his regular unit. A heavy hand falling on his shoulder and a gruff Scottish voice made him jump with fright.

‘All right there, Bobby Boy?’ Donnelly asked before slumping down in his own chair, which creaked a little under his weight. ‘Cracked the case yet?’

‘Not exactly,’ Bishop replied in his Birmingham tones.

‘Why not?’ Donnelly asked, half teasing. ‘All you got to do is trace this psycho’s signal, right?’

‘It’s not that simple.’

‘Thought you were an expert, Bobby Boy.’

‘I told you before, I’m no expert and your killer knows what he’s doing too. He’s using a wireless mobile device and staying off any broadband connections. Looks like he’s put in a few levels of encryption as well.’ He turned away from Donnelly and resumed his frantic typing, but kept talking, to himself more than Donnelly. ‘Yeah, he’s a clever bastard, all right, but not as clever as he thinks he is. He may have slammed the front door shut, but he’s left the back door slightly ajar.’

‘So you can trace him?’ Donnelly reminded him he was there.

‘What? Oh, yeah. I can trace him. You see, I reckon he thinks that every time he turns his computer off he’s breaking the line, so to speak, destroying any connections that had existed and with it our chance to trace him. But he’s wrong,’ Bishop grinned.

‘Really,’ Donnelly half-heartedly asked, not remotely convinced.

‘Yeah. Very wrong. You see, all those little satellites floating round the world have already been working away to pinpoint his transmission location. Sure, when he stops they stop, but they don’t ever go back to square one. So the next time he transmits they’re already that much closer to finding him and therefore so are we. It’s only a matter of time.’

‘Unless he changes location,’ Donnelly reminded him.

‘Even if he changes location,’ Bishop explained, ‘although that would slow us down a bit, but DI Corrigan doesn’t seem to think that’s going to happen.’

‘No,’ Donnelly agreed. ‘No he doesn’t, and with good reason. Our man’s invested a lot of time in setting all this up, including the location he uses. I can’t see him having multiple sites. He may have Joe Public fooled he’s some sort of protector and avenger of the people, but to me he’s just another killer. Nothing more. Nothing less. You see, I don’t let them get in my head like DI Corrigan does. To me they’re all just losers waiting to be taken down and this one’s no different. Once he feels safe somewhere he’ll stick with it – mark my words.’

‘But DI Corrigan does?’ Bishop seized on something Donnelly had said.

‘Does what?’

‘Does allow them to get inside his head?’

‘Oh aye. Heard something, have you – the old detectives’ grapevine been at work?’

‘Just picking up on something you said,’ Bishop answered.

‘Bullshit,’ Donnelly challenged him. ‘Come on – what have you heard?’

‘Like, that he can predict them – tell what they’re going to do next.’

Donnelly laughed short and hard. ‘That’s fucking Mystic Meg you’re thinking of, Bobby Boy.’

‘Just saying what I heard.’

‘Well you heard wrong. I’ve seen him do some stuff I’ve never seen anyone else do, granted, but I’ve never seen him do that. Be nice if he could, mind – save us all a lot of grief. But just for the record, it’s more a case of him getting into the killers’ minds than them getting into his.’

‘What d’you mean?’ Bishop asked, confused.

Donnelly smiled a mischievous smile and leaned further back into his chair, hands behind his head. ‘You’ll see, Bobby Boy. You’ll see.’

Geoff Jackson spotted the woman he’d come to meet as soon as he entered one of the few surviving independent coffee shops in Soho. Joan Varady was, as usual, furiously typing on her iPhone and never once looked up as he approached her, or even when he sat down. Her small build and the simple haircut that framed her pretty but ageing face belied the powerful position she held in one of the world’s biggest publishing houses.

‘Late as usual,’ she accused him, still without looking up.

‘Sorry,’ Jackson apologized. ‘Busy, busy, busy. You know how it is.’

‘I do indeed,’ she told him in her educated, but not clipped, accent. ‘Which is why I don’t like hanging around waiting for journalists in coffee shops.’

‘Fair enough,’ Jackson agreed, ‘but you’ll realize it was time well spent, once you’ve heard what I have to say.’

Finally she looked up from her phone. ‘Well. I’m listening.’

‘I’ll assume you’ve heard all about this new killer – the one they’re calling the Your View Killer.’

‘Ah,’ Varady almost sighed. ‘I might have guessed it would be about him. I’ve seen some of your coverage in that rag of a paper you insist on working for.’

‘I didn’t know The World was your kind of a paper,’ he teased her.

‘Believe me,’ she assured him, ‘it isn’t.’

‘Whatever,’ he told her, bored with the jousting. ‘Fact is I’ve got exclusivity on the story – the inside track.’

‘Still got a couple of cops in your pocket – feeding you the low-down?’

‘Maybe. Or maybe I’ve got even more this time.’ Varady didn’t look impressed. ‘I can have the book written and ready to go within a week of the killer being caught, clean and no need for major editing. You could have it on the shelves within a couple of months while the story’s still hot. Feed the public while they’re still hungry for the grisly details.’

‘If you really want to feed the public grisly details you need to write the book about the celebrity paedophiles you broke,’ Varady told him.

‘No,’ he snapped at her a little. ‘That’ll never happen.’

‘Someone’s going to write it. Might as well be you.’

‘Forget it,’ he insisted. ‘Besides, this is the better and bigger story, and I’ve got exclusivity.’

‘That’s fine, but just because you have exclusivity with your paper doesn’t mean other journos at other papers, not to mention the television boys and girls, won’t be covering it. What can you offer that they can’t?’

Jackson spread his arms, inviting her to look at him with admiration. ‘What can I offer? The best, that’s what I can offer, and you know it.’

Varady looked him up and down before speaking. ‘OK, Geoff, you’re good – we all know it – but the last book got as much stick as it did praise. I had to work my arse off to keep it on the shelves. Did you really have to call that psycho “The Toy Taker”?’

‘Public need a handle, Joan – something not too difficult to remember. Something that identifies the story at a glance. Remember “The Crossbow Cannibal”? That was a beauty. Wish I’d thought of it.’

‘So what you going to call this one, or are you going to stick with “The Your View Killer”?’

‘Don’t know,’ Jackson mused. ‘Might do. Depends what else turns up. Might need something a little catchier. Something that makes him sound more man of the people than crazed killer.’

‘Well, whatever you call him, I’m still not sure,’ Varady told him. ‘I’ve no great desire to piss off the Met – again. They know some of their own are speaking to you and they were none too happy when you started sniffing around trying to find out personal details of that SIO, whatever his name was.’

‘Ahh,’ Jackson smiled. ‘Detective Inspector Sean Corrigan. He’s a slippery bastard, but I have to admit he’s more interesting than the usual plastic detective on accelerated promotion.’

‘Yeah, well just stay away from him would be my advice.’ Jackson grinned. ‘Oh no,’ Varady leaned back, ‘you’re not telling me he’s in charge of the Your View Killer investigation as well, are you?’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Jackson reassured her, but she was already packing her handbag and shaking her head. ‘Listen, Corrigan is gold dust. He’s the lead detective on the Special Investigations Unit. He’s gonna get all the juiciest cases across London – he’s like the bear that leads you to the honey every time. You want the hot crime story, follow Corrigan.’

‘I’m your fucking publisher,’ Varady reminded him, standing and stretching to her full five foot two inches, ‘not your bloody editor.’

‘You still need stories though, right? You can’t always rely on celebrity autobiographies.’

‘Not interested,’ she insisted and moved to leave, taking his publishing deal with her.

‘All right,’ he told her in a desperate last effort to get her to listen. ‘What if I told you I’m going to interview the killer?’

She looked him up and down for a second or two. ‘So what? Interviews with banged-up killers are nothing new. Still not interested.’

‘No,’ he told her, smiling again. ‘Not when he’s banged up – now, while he’s still on the loose. While he’s still committing his crimes.’

Varady sat down again. ‘Jesus. You’re joking, right?’

‘Would I joke about a thing like that?’

‘Think you can pull it off?’ she asked, her eyes narrowing.

‘Of course I can. Do I have your interest again? Ready to talk about a deal yet?’

‘You get the interviews and we’ll talk.’

Sean arrived back at the Yard and stuck his head into Sally and Donnelly’s office to ask them to join him and Anna next door for a catch up of the day’s progress – if there was any.

‘How did the PM go?’ Donnelly asked while he was still emptying his pockets and hanging up his raincoat.

‘No surprises yet,’ Sean told him. ‘Death seems to be by hanging, or strangulation to be precise.’

‘The difference being?’ Donnelly asked.

‘No broken neck to accompany the asphyxiation,’ Sean explained. ‘He hung until his brain died through lack of oxygen.’

‘Nice,’ Sally added.

‘Dr Canning reckons the killer used a knot used in boating or yachting. He recognized it from the video, so it would seem our man has some knowledge of boating or sailing.’

‘And he dumped the body in the river,’ Sally reminded them, ‘so possibly he has a boat or access to one. Something for us to work with.’

Sean frowned, concerned he’d failed to think of what Sally had suggested. The connection between the knot, the river and possible use of a boat should have obvious to him, but for some reason he’d missed it, as if his mind wasn’t fully focused on the investigation. He involuntarily glanced at Anna.

‘A good point well made,’ Donnelly told Sally. ‘He’s probably got some knackered little rowboat tied up under a tree somewhere.’

‘Well, if he has we need to find it,’ Sean told them. ‘How’s your man DC Bishop getting on with the Internet inquiries?’

‘Seems to be getting on all right, although if you want an explanation of what he’s doing you’re better off asking him yourself – all sounds like technical gobbledegook to me.’

‘I’ll spare myself the experience,’ Sean answered. ‘What about forensics?’

‘Nothing of note so far,’ Sally explained. ‘In fact, nothing at all from the abduction site and obviously we don’t know where the murder scene is so all we’re left with is the body and his clothing, which are currently in the hands of Dr Canning.’

‘All right,’ Sean told them, pushing his fingers through his short hair, ‘Dave, organize the door-to-door in the street he was abducted from and the surrounding ones too. Maybe we’re missing a witness or two. Sally, get a Met-wide request out asking for all derelict buildings to be checked – in fact, see if you can get that out to our surrounding forces as well. If the body washed up in Barnes then this kill room could easily be outside the Met area.’

‘Anything else?’ Sally asked.

‘No,’ Sean told them, looking and sounding disappointed. ‘Right now that’s all I’ve got … except for the electronic device he uses to change his voice,’ he suddenly remembered. ‘Get Paulo on the case,’ he told Donnelly. ‘He bought it somewhere or made it himself, but we might get lucky.’

‘OK,’ Donnelly agreed as he and Sally made their way from his office, leaving Sean alone with Anna. She motioned as if to speak, before the phone ringing on Sean’s desk stopped her.

Sean wearily answered it. ‘Hello.’

‘Sean. It’s Superintendent Featherstone.’

‘Guv’nor.’

‘Any progress?’ Featherstone asked. ‘Everyone would like to put this one to bed early.’

‘Me too.’

‘I bet – especially with that trial coming up. When’s that kick off, by the way?’

‘This week,’ Sean told him. ‘Probably.’

‘Fuck me,’ Featherstone cursed. ‘All the more reason to get this wrapped up sharpish.’

‘I’m trying,’ Sean answered, hiding his frustration, ‘but it’s a little early to expect a breakthrough with what’s essentially a stranger killing. I have no obvious suspect.’

‘I understand,’ Featherstone said, ‘but as you know, not everyone’s as patient as I am.’

‘Meaning Assistant Commissioner Addis?’

‘No need to mention names. Just make it look like we’re making progress. Understand?’

‘I understand,’ Sean assured him.

‘Good,’ Featherstone said, sounding like he was about to hang up before Sean stopped him.

‘One thing you can do for me.’

‘Go on.’

‘Get the enhanced images of the room he used out to the media with an appeal to the public. Someone might recognize it.’

‘No problem,’ Featherstone agreed and hung up.

‘Everything all right?’ Anna asked.

‘Yeah, fine. Why wouldn’t it be?’

‘You seem a little distant.’

Sean leaned back into his chair, puffed out his cheeks and decided just to come straight out with it. ‘I’m sorry. It’s having you around,’ he tried to explain. ‘It’s … distracting. I’m beginning to miss things. I can’t afford to miss things.’

‘Such as?’

‘The sailing knot and the river – I shouldn’t … wouldn’t have missed that.’

‘And you’re blaming me?’ Anna asked, though she didn’t sound accusing.

‘Not blaming you … it’s not your fault. It’s down to me, I know, but having you here all the time, seeing you all the time, is distracting. I try to not let it be, but I can’t.’

‘I thought we’d dealt with this,’ she told him.

‘Had we?’ he asked. ‘Really? We agreed it would have been the wrong thing to do, for both of us, but we didn’t … solve anything.’

‘I’m not a mystery to be solved, Sean, like one of your cases. Is that what’s distracting you – that I’m an unsolved case?’

He looked at her unsmilingly for a long while. ‘Yes,’ he answered honestly. ‘Yes it is. Perhaps it would have been better for both of us if we had, you know … got it out the way. We’re both grown-ups – we could have dealt with it.’

She moved closer so he could still hear her now quiet words. ‘No it wouldn’t. We both know it. We all need some things to anchor us in this life, otherwise we can begin to drift. Some of us would simply drift along until we hit land again, where we can rebuild, start over. But some of us would drift to dark places – places we might never find our way back from. You’re a danger junkie, Sean. You need it to stay alive, to be who you are. For you, living on the edge is a necessity, not a rarity. But you can’t live your private life like you live your professional one – it has to be stable or you might just fall off that edge you like to be on so much.’

His startling blue eyes sparkled and danced as he deciphered the meaning of her words and their implications, knowing that if she knew how deep into his past the darkness ran she might have even worked out that perhaps, secretly, for reasons even he didn’t understand, he wanted to destroy the only truly stable thing in his life. He carried the guilt that all the abused carried, making him doubt whether he even deserved to have a loving family. Maybe he did want to cast himself adrift, free from the responsibility of giving and receiving love – free to stop trying to control the darkness inside of him – to finally allow himself to spiral downwards until he crashed and burnt. If Anna truly knew his past, his childhood, then she might understand that for him every day he managed to appear normal was like another day for an alcoholic of not taking a drink. But the temptation, the thought of slipping into the warmth of who he perhaps really was, would never leave him.

‘You all right?’ Anna asked.

‘Yeah. Fine,’ he lied. ‘So what do we do now?’

‘We forget it ever happened and get on with our jobs.’

‘As simple as that?’

‘We have no other choice.’

‘No,’ he agreed, still troubled by his own thoughts. ‘I don’t suppose we do.’

‘Good,’ she told him. ‘Perhaps we can start with you telling me if you’ve had any new ideas, any insights as to what the killer may do next.’

‘Insights?’

‘Yes, Sean. Insights. It’s no secret between us that you have them. Remember?’

‘If you think I can tell you where and when he’s going to hit next then you’d be wrong.’

‘I know I would be. I don’t believe in psychics. Maybe you remember that too?’

‘Not really.’

‘But you must have some ideas. An imagination like yours doesn’t just stop working. It can’t.’

‘I know he’ll attack again,’ Sean admitted, ‘but so do you.’

‘In all probability, yes he will, for reasons we’ve already discussed, but perhaps there’s something else – something you haven’t told anybody else?’

‘Nothing solid,’ he told her. ‘Just loose ideas rattling around inside my head, nothing I can grasp hold of. Nothing that makes much sense.’

‘Try me.’

‘Look, I don’t want to overcomplicate something that’s already complicated enough. Last case we had I made my mind up too early and I was wrong. Evidence here says it’s a disgruntled member of the public getting some payback on the banks and that’s probably going to be exactly what he is, but …’

‘But what?’

‘But I want to keep an open mind. Just in case. I don’t want to get fooled again.’

‘You sure you don’t know something?’ Anna persisted. ‘I might be able to help. It is what I’m here for.’

‘Is it?’ Sean found himself asking, unsure of where his own suspicions had suddenly sprung from.

‘Of course,’ Anna told him. ‘Why else would I be here?’

He studied her hard before speaking, looking for the tiny telltale signs of a lie he’d seen thousands of times before. ‘Forget it,’ he finally answered. ‘I’m being an idiot. Forget everything. I’m glad you’re here. We’ll make it work.’

‘Good,’ she replied, ‘and thank you.’

‘Don’t thank me yet,’ he warned her, his friendly tone and slight smile hiding what his eyes had seen in her face. ‘Remember we’re only at the beginning. There’s plenty more to come from our boy yet. Of that, I’m certain.’

Georgina Vaughan pulled on her expensive training shoes, checked her iPhone was strapped to her bicep properly, selected the music she wanted to listen to, took a couple of deep breaths and then opened the door leading to the communal area of her flat in one of Parsons Green’s Victorian redbrick mansion blocks. She skipped down the three flights of wide stairs and exited the building into Favart Road. She enjoyed the spring sunshine on her face as she ran, turning into the King’s Road, dodging past the late afternoon commuters and shoppers until she was able to turn into Peterborough Road and jog towards a small park known as South Park. She never noticed the white panel van that pulled away from the kerb as she left her building, nor the same van overtaking her in the King’s Road as she headed towards the park where she always went running.

She was enjoying the relatively fresh air of the park, the steady pace of her feet moving to the rhythm of the music that deadened all other sounds, but she was aware the evening was growing late and the sun was moving quickly from the sky. She didn’t want to be in the park when darkness descended, so she picked up her pace, the solid tarmac of the park’s path turning to the loose gravel of the parking area as she approached the exit.

As she drew closer to the gates she began to feel strangely unnerved, eager to rejoin the streets outside where she’d be back amongst other people. She increased her speed, but the entrance seemed to grow further and further away.

She would have screamed if he’d given her a chance, but his hand hit her hard in the throat as he stepped out from behind the tree and grabbed her, pulling her behind it and slamming her against the rough trunk, her head banging hard and dislodging her headphones. For a second he released her throat and ripped her iPhone from her bicep. He threw it on the ground, smashing it with the heel of his black boot before he again gripped her around the throat hard enough to stop almost any sound escaping. For the first time he showed her the knife, no more than six inches in length including the handle, but lethal looking, bladed on one side, with teeth on the other. Her eyes grew wide with terror, her mind already assuming rape was the least she was about to suffer, until she heard the strange electronic voice that came from the box attached to his chest, his mouth moving only slightly behind the ski-mask, the mirrored sunglasses showing nothing but the reflection of her own fear.

‘I’m not here to hurt you. I’m not going to rape you,’ the mechanical voice explained as he moved the knife closer to her face, ‘but if you try to escape, struggle or make a sound I will kill you, here and now. Do you understand?’

She tried to speak, but he squeezed her throat tight and held the knife to his own hidden lips and shushed her, the voice distorter making it sound like the ocean.

‘No sound. Remember?’

She managed to nod as the tears began to roll down her face. Her brain scrambled to remember why this creature with the monstrous voice seemed so familiar, her mind rewinding back through conversations she’d had with colleagues and friends, back through news items she’d seen, until it reached the memory of watching the man being hanged live on the Internet – the Your View Killer.

Panic threatened to overwhelm her and make her pass out and she welcomed the promise of oblivion, but suddenly she was moving, being pushed and dragged across the loose gravel, her legs intermittently giving way, his strength obvious as he held her weight without breaking pace or breathing hard. And all the time the knife was held against her throat, its sharpness causing stinging cuts every time she slipped, until they reached a white panel van waiting in the car park. He slid the side door open and pushed her inside then took hold of her right arm and twisted it painfully behind her, making her call out in pain as he strapped her at the wrist into a leather buckled restraint. Within seconds he’d strapped her other wrist into an identical restraint. She twisted to look into the face she couldn’t see and spoke despite his demands.

‘Please,’ was all she could say. He just placed his finger to his lips and again made the sound of the ocean, grabbing her by the feet and pulling her legs straight before attaching further straps to her ankles. She was about to try one last time to plead with him to let her go, but the thick, sticky tape plastered across her mouth took the chance away. Daylight turned to blackness as a thick hood was pulled over her head.

‘Time to go,’ he told her and slid the panel door closed, leaving her strapped in the darkness of the back of the van with nothing but terror and the smell of her own urine seeping between her legs.

Sean sat quietly in his office trying to concentrate on the latest influx of information reports. Anna was only a few feet away, studying her own files when suddenly the calm was shattered as Bishop burst into the room, his eyes wild with excitement. He waited a second until both were looking at him before speaking in an almost frantic tone.

‘He’s back on. He’s back on Your View,’ he managed to tell them. ‘I’ve got it up on the laptop next door.’

Sean was already up and moving. ‘How long?’ he asked.

‘Seconds,’ Bishop answered. ‘My alert went off and there he was.’

Sean pushed past him, calling out to Donnelly and Sally who were in the main office checking on the other detectives. ‘Our man’s online,’ he told them. ‘Get in here now. Everyone else,’ he shouted across the office, ‘get Your View online any way you can.’ He turned back to Bishop as he entered Sally and Donnelly’s office. ‘What’s he doing?’

‘Nothing,’ Bishop answered, resuming his seat in front of the laptop with Sean now looking over his shoulder. ‘All we’re getting so far is this.’ He pointed to the screen where a woman dressed in exercise gear was tied to a heavy wooden chair with a hood over her head. Sean watched her wriggling and mumbling under the hood. By now Sally, Donnelly and Anna were also crammed into the room peering at the small screen. ‘The suspect hasn’t shown himself yet.’

‘Why?’ Sally asked.

‘Because he’s waiting,’ Sean told her.

‘For what?’ Donnelly asked.

‘For his audience to gather,’ Sean explained. ‘So the trial can begin.’ They all inadvertently cast their eyes to the on-screen view counter that showed the number of viewers growing rapidly as news of the Your View Killer’s latest appearance spread across the Internet and the digital world – live texts, emails, Twitter, Facebook all spreading the word like an electronic wildfire that played directly into the puppet-master’s hands.

‘Bastard took a woman,’ Donnelly said. ‘I never expected him to take a woman.’

‘Neither did I,’ Sean admitted.

‘Says more about you two than it does him,’ Sally told them. ‘Plenty of rich women out there too, you know.’

‘No,’ Sean explained. ‘It’s just this was as much about his wounded male pride as anything. That doesn’t tally with killing a woman.’

‘He hasn’t killed her yet,’ Anna pointed out. Before Sean could answer a dark figure appeared on the screen standing next to the hooded woman before the shot focused in solely on his hidden face.

‘That’s clever,’ Bishop told them. ‘He must have rigged something up so he can control the camera’s lens remotely.’

‘Or someone else is operating the camera,’ Sally pointed out.

‘Either way it’s different,’ Sean explained. ‘Why change the way he films it?’

‘Practising?’ Anna suggested. ‘Honing his art?’

The disturbing electronic voice began to speak.

‘I see you’ve gathered in greater numbers now, my brothers and sisters. Good. Only together can we defeat the greedy vultures who rule over us. Only together can we change our unfair and unjust society where hard-working people can be cast out of their jobs and homes to save the riches of the rich – the power of the powerful. Only together will we ever be listened to. Only through strength in numbers will we succeed where governments and unions have failed us – us, the common people.’

‘The speeches sound prepared,’ Sally observed. ‘Like he’s reading off an autocue.’

‘Maybe he is.’ Sean considered it was possible.

‘Oh he’s definitely a pissed-off lefty,’ Donnelly insisted.

‘Appears so,’ Sean agreed. ‘The second that hood comes off I want people trying to identify her.’

‘Will do,’ Donnelly told him and headed into the main office to assign the task.

‘And now the wealthy and powerful who own the British media have unwittingly brought us together in our tens of thousands with their coverage of these events. What do the fools call me – “The Your View Killer”. What could be a more ridiculous name? Naming me at all undermines the seriousness of what I’m trying to achieve, but if they help to bring us together, then so be it.’

‘He’s no idiot,’ Sally stated. ‘Sounds … educated.’

‘Doesn’t mean he’s not insane,’ Sean pointed out.

‘Not long ago I saw a jackdaw flying low in the sky, carrying something in its beak – its next meal, I assumed. Suddenly a huge crow appeared from nowhere and began to attack the jackdaw, stabbing at it with its sharp beak, grabbing at it with its talons, trying to take the very food from its mouth. But just when I was sure the jackdaw would lose its hard-fought prize, a hundred jackdaws rose from the trees and swept into the sky, communicating with each other in a thousand different sounds, mobbing the fat crow, barely letting its wings beat until they’d driven it from the sky. The fat crow was defeated by the might of the many and the determined. That is what we must be if we are to defeat the fat crows that infest our skies. We must become as the jackdaws are – then nothing can stop us.’

‘He’s completely mad,’ Sally offered as they watched the film return to a wider shot, the killer’s arm stretching out and ripping the hood his new victim’s head, making her turn away and squeeze her eyes tightly shut. ‘Christ,’ Sally spoke again. ‘She’s so young.’

‘What is she?’ Donnelly asked. ‘One of those young website millionaires you hear about?’

The man tore the tape from the woman’s mouth, making her scream out in pain.

‘You bastard. Please. Why are you doing this to me?’

‘I’m doing it for the people,’ he told her in the cold electronic voice. ‘This is for the people.’

Mark Hudson was happy to be alone in the bedroom of his council flat in Birmingham, glad his moronic mates weren’t around to spoil his enjoyment. This one was even better than the last – he’d taken a woman this time and a young, attractive one too. Hudson licked his lips at the thought of what the man might do to her. He wanted to see her humiliated before he killed her and he was sure his new hero would kill her – after he’d had a bit of fun. He and the Your View Killer were cut from the same stone, he was sure of it. He knew the man on his screen wouldn’t disappoint him.

‘Come on,’ he urged the man. ‘Fucking do her, man. Do her.’

‘Open your eyes.’

‘I don’t want to.’

‘Open your eyes or I’ll cut your eyelids off.’

‘Please, I haven’t done anything to you.’

‘Open your eyes.’

Hudson watched as the woman slowly opened her eyes and then tried to lean as far away as she could from the hooded man.

‘Yeah. Do as you’re told, bitch.’

‘You are Georgina Vaughan, yes?’

‘How … how d’you know my name?’

‘That’s not important. What are important are your crimes against the people.’

‘I haven’t committed any crimes against anyone.’

‘Wrong. You work for Glenhope Investments, correct?’

‘I’m just a project manager.’

‘The same Glenhope Investments that needed a government bail-out to stop it from going out of business, while at the same time continued to pay its employees grotesque bonuses.’

‘I don’t know anything about that.’

‘Liar. You’re a liar and a whore to money and wealth, and soon you will be judged for your crimes.’

‘You’re so dead,’ Hudson said out loud, an ugly smile on his face, eyes frenzied with excitement. ‘You’re dead, bitch.’

Gabriel Westbrook stood leaning over his desk as he watched the hooded man preaching to his audience on the screen – an audience the live viewer count put at over one hundred thousand and growing. He sensed little sympathy from the watching public for the plight of his fellow financial sector worker, imagining them as a mob, stalking through the City looking for more victims to lynch. Already he sensed an uneasiness spreading across the City. Nothing too serious yet, but people were beginning to talk and the talk wasn’t positive. Now, with a second victim taken, fears would increase and spread. Not a wholesale panic, but it didn’t take mass hysteria to cause serious financial problems – just a sustained shift in momentum. With the threat of more victims to come, some people would start to choose to take their holidays early, in the hope that by the time they returned the madman would have been caught. Others would take time off sick and many would no longer be comfortable working late – keen to hurry home in the hours of daylight. The streets of the City would hardly be deserted, but the country’s financial heart was like a giant old tanker relentlessly carving its way across oceans, driven by perpetual forward momentum. Were the balance to be tipped, no matter how slightly, momentum would be lost and it would be a long hard process before the huge financial institutions once again reached full speed ahead, by which time billions would have been lost. In a time when the sector was still recovering from its first self-made crisis, the effects would cause significant damage – maybe even more.

He wanted to turn off his computer, but somehow couldn’t.

‘I didn’t do anything.’

‘You are part of the organization that made our government steal the people’s money so you could survive – money that you were supposed to give back to the people, but didn’t. Instead you invested it in property, African gold mines, Australian mineral mines, the vast profits of which you shared amongst yourselves like pigs at the trough while decent, hard-working people lost their jobs, their houses and their life savings. And yet you say you’ve done nothing wrong.’

‘Jesus Christ,’ Westbrook shouted at his screen. ‘Someone needs to stop you – someone needs to shut you up, before you start a bloody civil war.’

‘You should watch this,’ Phil Taylor called out to his wife Cathy. ‘This man’s talking a lot of sense.’

‘I don’t want to listen to that lunatic,’ she called back to her husband who sat in the small office-cum-storage room.

‘Don’t you want to know what those bastards did with the money they stole from us?’

‘Stole from us?’ she questioned, continuing their inter-room conversation from the kitchen. ‘I was under the impression bad debtors put the business under. That and you overstretching.’

‘Yeah, well, if the banks had just lent me a bit more we would have been all right.’

‘Sure about that, are you?’ she doubted him.

‘Whatever,’ he mumbled quietly to himself, eager to get back to the hooded man on the screen.

‘Nothing wrong indeed.’

‘I swear. I haven’t.’

Taylor watched as the man walked behind the woman and rested his hands on her shoulders, making her squirm and twist as she tried to see what he was going to do.

‘I’m going to ask you a question now and I want you to answer it honestly. If you lie I will know and your punishment will be severe. Do you understand?’

‘No. No I don’t understand. I just want to go home.’

‘Answer the question honestly and perhaps you will.’

‘OK. OK, I’ll answer the question as honestly as I can.’

The man took a deep breath, the voice distorter making it sound like a rush of wind.

‘Have you received any bonuses since the banking crisis? A simple question.’

‘OK – yes, yes I have, but it’s not what you think.’

The man straightened and took another deep breath, as if he’d unearthed a great truth.

‘How much? How much each year?’

‘I can’t remember, exactly.’

‘Try. How much?’

‘About . . . about forty thousand pounds.’

‘Forty thousand pounds.’

‘But it was in shares. I couldn’t even spend them. They were just . . . just paper.’

‘And your salary, how much do you get paid each year?’

‘I told you – I’m not rich. I’m just a project manager.’

‘How much and don’t lie to me.’

She slumped in the chair.

‘About ninety thousand pounds.’

‘Ninety thousand pounds and forty thousand bonus, while others can barely feed their families. Shame on you. Shame on you.’

‘D’you hear that?’ Taylor called out. ‘Hundred and thirty grand a year for being a bloody project manager.’ His wife didn’t answer. ‘Greedy bitch,’ he whispered. ‘Bet you weren’t thinking about people like me when you were celebrating your fat City bonus. No – of course you weren’t. None of you were.’

Father Alex Jones had received the text message he’d been dreading informing him that the Your View Killer was back live on the Internet. He sat at the altar of his empty church in Dulwich and logged onto Your View on his old iPad and soon found the images he feared, but looked for anyway – the hooded man with the deeply unsettling distorted voice standing next to a terrified-looking young woman. He’d prayed as the man had preached, pleading with God to touch the man’s heart with mercy while begging for the woman’s safety, but so far neither prayer seemed to have been answered.

‘The people have heard enough. It’s time for them to judge. Time for them to decide whether they find you guilty or not guilty.’ The man’s face grew larger on the screen. ‘I know what they’re thinking – that they can stop me talking to the people. Think they can stop the people having their justice by shutting down this website. But if they do her fate will be more terrible than they can possibly imagine. The people will not be silenced. I will not be silenced.’

Father Jones dropped to his knees in front of the altar, pressed his hands together, closed his eyes and began to pray. ‘Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy Kingdom come …’

‘Get me someone from Your View on the line,’ Sean told anyone who was listening. ‘The more senior the better.’

‘D’you think they might be trying to pull the plug?’ Donnelly asked.

‘We can’t take the chance they are,’ Sean warned him.

‘I’m on it,’ Donnelly told him and grabbed the nearest phone as the others continued to watch the pictures coming from the small screen.

‘The people are beginning to vote. Soon we’ll know if this whore of wealth has been found guilty by you, the people. I have nothing else to say while we wait for the judgement.’

‘Jesus Christ,’ Sally exclaimed. ‘What must she be thinking – tied to that chair by this psychopath, waiting for a bunch of voyeurs to pass judgement?’

‘She’ll be thinking a lot of things,’ Sean told her. ‘None of them good. But wasting time worrying about that’s not going to bring us any closer to finding him, and stopping him. How you doing, Bob?’

‘Getting closer and closer. The longer he stays online the closer I’ll get.’

‘How close are you now?’ Sean asked impatiently.

‘He’s definitely transmitting from the southeast,’ Bishop told him. ‘If he keeps this up it’s only a matter of time before we have him.’

‘The southeast?’ Sean didn’t hide his disappointment. ‘Can’t you do better than that?’

‘Yes, but it’ll take time,’ Bishop explained. ‘We’re not just trying to track a mobile phone signal. This is far more complicated. But we’re linked into the Internet Crime Unit’s tracking software. We’ll get him soon enough.’

‘So long as he doesn’t ditch the computer he’s using, or move to another location,’ Sean reminded him. Bishop just shrugged, concentrating on the computer in front of him. Donnelly grabbed Sean’s attention, holding the corded phone out as far as he could for Sean to take.

‘Nick Poole on the phone, boss. CEO of Your View.’

Sean stepped towards him and took the phone. ‘DI Corrigan speaking. I assume you’re watching this.’

‘I am,’ Poole answered.

‘I’m just calling to make sure you have no intention of pulling the plug.’

‘Listen,’ Poole told him nervously, ‘I know I gave Assistant Commissioner Addis assurances that we wouldn’t take this whole terrible business offline, but this is getting too much. We can’t be dictated to by this lunatic. I don’t want to be a part of this any more.’

‘You heard what he said,’ Sean snapped down the phone. ‘You pull the plug – you seal her fate. Let it play out.’

‘And I can tell people you made us keep the site live?’ Poole asked. ‘We can tell the media it was the police’s idea?’

‘If you want to use my name to cover your arse then use it. Just don’t shut this down.’

There was a slight pause before Poole spoke again. ‘OK, but it’s your call. Your responsibility,’ Poole insisted.

‘Fine,’ Sean told him with barely disguised contempt and hung up.

‘Problem?’ Donnelly asked.

‘Not now,’ Sean answered and moved to better see the screen, the hooded man still standing silently next to his victim. ‘You any closer?’ he asked Bishop.

‘A little, but not much,’ he answered.

‘Quiet a second,’ Sally interrupted. ‘I think he’s about to say something.’ The group watched as the man moved out of camera shot.

‘Look at the voting count,’ Sally told them. ‘People are voting not guilty.’

‘Looks fifty–fifty to me,’ Donnelly disagreed.

‘Yeah, but with the first victim it was an overwhelming majority finding him guilty,’ Sally explained. ‘This is a split jury – so what does he do now?’

‘I think we’re about to find out,’ Sean silenced them as the hooded man came back into view.

‘The people have voted. It appears you cannot decide whether her guilt is clear. I am disappointed. Too many of you have allowed yourselves to be seduced by her femininity and false tears. But it’s not your fault. The rich and powerful have used their media empires and influence to brainwash many of you over decades and decades – pumping you full of the news they want you to hear as well as mind-destroying soap operas and reality shows to ensure your misplaced sentimentality.

‘However, your decision is your decision …’

‘He’s gonna let her go,’ Sally said, sounding desperate for it to be true.

‘but I cannot ignore the thousands who have seen through her disguise and recognized her guilt.’

‘No. No. I haven’t done anything. They see that.’

‘Brothers and sisters – this is no time for mercy. This is a war: a war we must win or forever be trodden under the foot of oppression, growing weaker and weaker as they grow ever more powerful and wealthy. We must be strong, must be prepared to act against our gentle nature and strike back when we are wronged.’

They watched as he again disappeared from camera shot before quickly returning and moving behind his victim, holding a set of hair clippers up for the cameras to see.

‘My God,’ Sally said through clenched teeth, ‘what’s he going to do to her?’ No one answered as they held their collective breath.

‘She has humiliated us – the people. Laughing at us as she climbs the corporate ladder to unimaginable riches – fucking us at every turn, her vanity her shield. Now let her feel the bitter sting of humiliation.’

The clippers buzzed as he grabbed her by her long ponytail and scythed it off in one motion, allowing her head to fall forward as it came away. Sean closed his eyes for a second at the sound of her sobbing, saddened by her humiliation but relieved she was suffering no worse. His relief turned rapidly to extreme anxiety as the hooded man grabbed what remained of her hair and yanked her head backwards, exposing her throat.

‘Shit,’ he muttered involuntarily, imagining the clippers being replaced with a razor-sharp knife sliding across her taut skin. Instead the man gripped her in a headlock and began to saw great chunks of hair from her scalp, leaving multiple cuts and grazes. Finally he stood aside, leaving the victim bowed in her chair, looking down at her own hair gathered at her feet.

‘Bastard,’ Sally said loudly, her eyes glassy and reddening. No one disagreed.

‘Humiliation enough? Perhaps. But hair will grow and her vanity will return.’

Once again he stepped out of view. ‘Christ, not more,’ Sally pleaded as the man returned holding a relatively small knife. He stood facing the victim, the knife disappearing from view, shielded by his own body as her pleas screamed from the computer’s tinny speakers.

‘Please, no. Please don’t kill me. Please.’

The screaming seemed to last for an age as his elbows and shoulders jerked side to side and up and down, until at last he stepped aside so the world could see Georgina Vaughan slumped in the chair, dead or unconscious, her running top and sports bra split up the middle revealing her small breasts. In the centre of her chest blood seeped from the eight-inch-tall dollar sign he’d carved into her skin. The camera focused in on the wound before pulling back to show a wider shot. The man faced the camera, breathing hard after his exertions, struggling to regain his breath.

‘Is she dead?’ Sally asked, her voice still shaking.

‘No,’ Sean answered without conviction. ‘I think she’s just passed out.’

‘Best thing for her,’ Donnelly added. ‘Fuck. That was hard to watch.’

‘We’ll be watching more if we don’t find him,’ Sean soberly reminded them.

‘Her pain and suffering were necessary. She will live, but this is war. If the rich and powerful fail to heed this warning, next time I will not be so merciful.’

Sean and the others were in a state of shock at what they’d witnessed as the man put a hood back over the victim’s head and walked from sight. A second later the link went dead.

‘He’s gone,’ Bishop broke their silence. ‘The link’s been cut.’

‘D’you get any closer?’ Sean asked.

‘A bit. He’s in the Metropolitan area or very close to it,’ Bishop explained. ‘Which means we have to find his signal in amongst millions of others. Best bet is he’s broadcasting from a rural area somewhere just outside London.’

‘Could he know we’re trying to trace him?’ Sean asked.

‘I would assume he’d assume we would be.’

‘That’s not what I meant,’ Sean explained. ‘I mean, could he somehow see how close we’re getting to him? Could he measure that somehow?’

Bishop sucked air in through his teeth like a mechanic presenting a large quote. ‘Well, he’d have to have some state-of-the-art software – very difficult-to-get-hold-of stuff – and then he’d have to know how to use it. It’s possible, but unlikely. We mainly use this stuff to track paedophiles grooming kids online. Those bastards know their business, but they still never seem to see us coming.’

‘I hope you’re right,’ Sean told him before turning to the others. ‘All right. We’re all feeling pretty shit right now and so will the rest of the team. I need you to get them out there doing whatever they can to find this fucker. Keep them busy. I want them to remember what they’ve seen, but not dwell on it. They’ve all got jobs to do. There’ll be witnesses we haven’t found yet and we need to intensify our efforts to find this van. Let’s have every white Renault Trafic van in London stopped and checked if we have to. If the driver seems even a little strange then have them arrested and held until we can take a look at them. And check on number plate thefts too. Anyone who’s reported having their number plate stolen within the last few months we need to know about it – all vehicles, not just vans. And this damn white room. Somebody somewhere might have recognized it. Let’s pump the public for information – let them know just because they might know where it isn’t doesn’t mean we do. Some people assume we know everything while others just don’t want to get involved. We need people to start coming forward with information. Maybe someone out there even knows who he is. Maybe they’re covering for him. Make sure we’re pricking their conscience. An anonymous phone call with a name could break this whole thing open.’

‘What about the equipment he uses to disguise his voice?’ Sally asked.

‘Looks homemade,’ Sean reminded her, ‘but he may have had to buy some of the component parts. If we’re lucky he’s not competent with electronics and paid someone to put it together for him, although I doubt it. Get Summers or Jesson to check it out from all angles anyway. Find out what shops sell this kind of stuff and start phoning around – see if someone remembers dealing with anyone they thought were a little off and check for CCTV. You never know your luck. As soon as I think of anything else I’ll let you know.’

Sally and Donnelly nodded and headed off into the main office to rally the team. Sean tapped Bishop on the shoulder. ‘And you just keep doing whatever it is you do.’ He felt a presence at the door and turned to see an ashen-faced Addis standing, staring at him.

‘A word, Inspector,’ Addis insisted. ‘Your office will do.’ Addis spun on his heels and led the way, Sean following without enthusiasm. ‘Take a seat if you like,’ Addis told him calmly, but menacingly. Sean took him up on his offer and slumped in his own chair behind his desk. Addis remained standing, looking at the door Sean had left open behind him. ‘You may want to close that,’ he told Sean, ‘unless you want your entire team to hear what I have to say.’

‘I have no secrets from them,’ Sean lied, hoping the open door might curb Addis’s words.

‘Really? Perhaps you should,’ Addis told him, moving on before Sean could ask what he meant. ‘I assume you’ve just watched the same footage on Your View as I had to watch. For God’s sake, Inspector – a young bloody woman this time – one even the public voted to spare. The media will crucify us over this and frankly I don’t blame them. Why don’t we have anyone in custody yet? Why is this madman still running around out there wreaking havoc across London?’

‘With all due respect,’ Sean cut in, ‘it’s only been a matter of days and this is only the second victim he’s taken. But we’re making progress. We’re getting closer and closer to tracing wherever it is he’s broadcasting from.’

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