The Jackdaw. Luke Delaney

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