A Killing Mind. Luke Delaney

can stop. Not even the police.’

      ‘All right,’ Birkby interrupted. ‘That sort of talk’s only going to make people more afraid.’

      ‘People couldn’t be more afraid,’ Archie told her. ‘We don’t have safe places to go. We don’t have doors we can lock. We’re easy prey, man. Easy prey.’

      ‘I understand your fears,’ Sally explained, ‘but there’s no evil out there – just a man. A man who pretty soon we’ll catch. Until then, everybody needs to be extra vigilant and look out for each other. Keep your eyes open for any strangers who don’t fit in, anyone acting suspiciously and make sure you report it.’

      ‘Have there been?’ Cahill asked. ‘Have there been any strangers hanging around?’

      ‘There are always strangers in the West End,’ Archie told her.

      ‘Any that concerned you?’ Cahill pressed. The two men merely shrugged and looked at the ground.

      ‘Anyone you can think of who we should be speaking to?’ Sally asked. ‘Someone who knew William better than most.’

      ‘Yeah, sure,’ Archie answered without hesitation. ‘You should speak with Jonnie. He and Will did stuff together, you know.’

      ‘You got a surname?’ Cahill asked.

      ‘Dunno,’ Archie answered, scratching his head through the multiple layers. ‘Everyone just calls him Jonnie.’

      ‘Freyland,’ Tom suddenly blurted out. ‘His surname is Freyland, but I ain’t seen him around for a couple of days. Not since that shit happened to Will.’

      ‘Is that unusual?’ Sally asked.

      Tom shrugged and looked into the sky. ‘I guess.’

      Sally and Cahill exchanged knowing glances. ‘Then I think we’d better find him,’ Sally said, pulling several business cards from her coat pocket and handing them out to her audience of three – giving extra cards to Archie. ‘Spread those around for me,’ she told him. ‘If anyone thinks they know something or knows where we can find Jonnie, get them to call me. Understand?’

      ‘OK,’ Archie answered unenthusiastically.

      ‘I’m trying to do the right thing for Will,’ she explained, finally making eye contact with him. ‘I only hope you are too.’

      Sean and Donnelly arrived at what used to be the old Metropolitan Police Cadet school. The place had long since been taken over by various support services and police units, including the Murder Investigation Teams for North London. They drove on to the parade ground that was only ever used now for passing out ceremonies for recruits who’d successfully made it through the famous Training School in Hendon and parked. Both men had strong memories of marching around the hallowed ground, watched by proud friends and family.

      ‘Fucking hate this place,’ Donnelly moaned. ‘Reminds me of training school.’

      ‘Didn’t like it here?’ Sean asked.

      ‘You joking?’ Donnelly sneered. ‘All that polishing shoes, starched shirts and short hair. All that yes, sir, no, sir bullshit. Fucking couldn’t wait to get out.’

      ‘I kind of liked it,’ Sean told him. ‘Didn’t at first – found the discipline and petty rules tough, but I got over it. Enjoyed it in the end.’

      ‘How the hell did you manage that?’

      ‘I embraced it,’ Sean answered. ‘Made sure my shoes were the shiniest, my uniform the best pressed. Got fitter and faster than anyone else. Stopped fighting the system. I took a break from all the shit of the world outside and focused on doing the little things well.’

      ‘All the shit of the world?’ Donnelly mocked him. ‘You must have had a fucking shit childhood if Hendon was an escape.’

      Donnelly had no idea how close to the bone his remark was. Sean felt himself tense at the mere mention of his childhood, ugly memories of his abusive father invading his mind like a marauding horde, all those hours he’d endured, locked in his father’s bedroom while his mother pretended not to know what was happening. Quickly he fought to rebuild the walls that kept the darkness and demons at bay and allowed him to live almost like any other person. He swallowed the anger he felt towards Donnelly for having mentioned his childhood, albeit without knowing what it meant to him. ‘It’s a state of mind, that’s all,’ he answered. ‘Like most things.’

      ‘Not sure about that,’ Donnelly replied and heaved himself out of the car. Sean gave himself a few seconds to let the last remnants of his childhood memories fade away before following suit. They headed across the parade ground towards the low-rise building where the North London MITs had their offices. Once inside, they searched the corridors until they found the team they were looking for.

      Sean stopped the first person he came across: ‘I’m looking for DCI Morris.’

      The young male detective glanced at Sean’s warrant card, which now hung flapped over his jacket’s breast pocket. ‘She’s in her office,’ he answered, pointing to an area partitioned off with Perspex, much like the office Sean occupied at the Yard. ‘I think she’s in.’

      Sean thanked him and headed across the main office.

      ‘Look at the size of this place,’ Donnelly complained jealously. ‘If we can get out the Yard, maybe we can get a decent-sized office too.’

      ‘You want to travel from Swanley to Hendon every day?’ Sean asked.

      ‘No, but there must be a police building somewhere south of the river we can use.’

      ‘You want to go back to Peckham?’

      ‘I was thinking Bromley,’ Donnelly answered as they reached the open door to the office.

      Sean took a look inside and saw a woman in her early forties sitting at her desk. He knocked on the frame.

      ‘Yes?’ she said, eyeing them with a degree of suspicion.

      ‘DCI Morris?’ Sean asked.

      ‘Yes,’ she repeated herself and brushed her short, almost black hair from the side of her attractive, but stern-looking face. He guessed she was on accelerated promotion – just passing through on her way to better and bigger things. At least she’d have added heading up a Murder Investigation Team to her CV.

      ‘DI Sean Corrigan,’ he told her. ‘SIU.’ He let Donnelly speak for himself.

      ‘DS Dave Donnelly – from the same.’

      ‘I know who you are,’ she replied, looking directly at Sean to let him know she was addressing him and only him. ‘I’ve seen your face in the newspapers – after you caught the Jackdaw.’

      ‘We didn’t catch him,’ Donnelly jumped in. ‘I killed him.’

      ‘Yes,’ she stuttered slightly. ‘I remember.’

      ‘That was quite a while ago,’ Sean told her, keen to move on. ‘I haven’t been in any newspapers since then.’

      ‘I have a good memory for faces,’ she explained. ‘I take it you’re here about the Tanya Richards murder,’ she got down to business. ‘In which case you’d better come in and take a seat.’ They accepted her invitation and sat in the chairs on the opposite side of her desk while she leaned back and watched their every move until they were settled. ‘I’m not happy about losing the investigation,’ she told them frankly. ‘It was an interesting job – a bit different from the normal rubbish. It had potential.’

      Potential, Sean thought. She meant potential to get her noticed. ‘As soon as it became apparent it was linked to another murder it became a matter for the SIU. A murder series would stretch a local MIT too much,’ he told her. ‘Believe me – I know. These things are best investigated by a central unit.’

      ‘We