The Jackdaw. Luke Delaney

      ‘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