The Jackdaw. Luke DelaneyЧитать онлайн книгу.
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