The Jackdaw. Luke Delaney

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