small positive was that, if this killer was intent on increasingly horrific attacks, then maybe his focus on not getting caught would falter to a corresponding degree. So, the more ornate each murder became, perhaps the more likely he was to make a mistake.
So far, the killer’s targets had been home alone when hestruck, at 1 a.m. each Sunday morning. Glenis Ward because her husband had died four years before, and Jess Anderton because her public-serving spouse was away more often than he was at home. The only time the killer had needed to
engineer
the situation was in the case of Tess Underwood, whose partner had been asleep beside her on the night she died. A phone call from a security firm at half-past midnight had informed Terry Underwood that the alarm at his business, an upmarket jewellery shop fifteen miles away, was going off. As key holder, Mr Underwood had gone to turn it off, returning home ninety minutes later to find his wife beaten to an unrecognizable mess. Subsequent investigation had traced the kid who had triggered the alarm, but his only contact with the person who had commissioned this minor infringement had been via the internet: taking instructions and finding out where the £20 note he had earned for his trouble could be found.
Making matters worse was the news Hawkins had received on the way to the airport. One of the sub-teams had traced Glenis Ward’s stepson, or at least the record of his death. For the last three months of his life, Gary Ward had lived rough, until the night six weeks ago when he’d overdosed on crystal meth. His decomposing remains had only just been identified, but the results were conclusive.
Meanwhile, early results from the forensics team working on Jessica Anderton’s murder had yielded no traces yet again, while officers trawling hours of CCTV from the Hampstead area early on Sunday morning had discovered nothing of interest. And even though the list of Tasersseized by border control had finally come through, it was huge. Uniform was already working through it although, unsurprisingly, a lot of the people who’d ordered the illegal weapons had already moved on.
But, as a fresh wave of people began to spill through the airport’s arrivals gate, something told Hawkins their luck was about to improve.
‘Time to get the car, please, John,’ she said, as Charles Anderton emerged out of the crowd.
19.
‘Thank you, Alan.’
Charles Anderton shook hands with the security officer, who let them into the small office in a staff-only area of Gatwick airport, and then disappeared.
Anderton motioned to one of the shabby wooden chairs there, and Hawkins sat down, trying to block out an aroma of burnt dust and detergents.
Anderton closed the door, removed his grey overcoat, and laid it carefully beside his luggage. Then he took the seat opposite her.
‘Alan’s a friend,’ he said, as if recognizing Hawkins’ unease. ‘I get him tickets to see Spurs play from time to time. In return, he looks out for me whenever I use his airport.’
Hawkins nodded, glancing over at the shelves on the far wall, where a security radio lay beside a curling sandwich.
Anderton sat bolt upright, his hands clasped on the small table between them.
‘Thank you for agreeing to my proposal, Detective.’
‘I’m afraid there are no guarantees,’ she said. ‘I’ll do what I can, but we don’t have much time.’
Anderton looked tired, even more so than he had two days ago. He wore the expression of a man who’d lostalmost everything, and was now being forced to press flush on the rest.
During their telephone conversation the night before, he had offered Hawkins two choices.
If she followed procedure and took him in for formal questioning, he would withhold what he knew for as long as possible. Such a delay would not benefit either party, simultaneously increasing the likelihood of further deaths, and setting the media free to destroy Anderton’s reputation and
So far, the killer’s targets had been home alone when hestruck, at 1 a.m. each Sunday morning. Glenis Ward because her husband had died four years before, and Jess Anderton because her public-serving spouse was away more often than he was at home. The only time the killer had needed to
engineer
the situation was in the case of Tess Underwood, whose partner had been asleep beside her on the night she died. A phone call from a security firm at half-past midnight had informed Terry Underwood that the alarm at his business, an upmarket jewellery shop fifteen miles away, was going off. As key holder, Mr Underwood had gone to turn it off, returning home ninety minutes later to find his wife beaten to an unrecognizable mess. Subsequent investigation had traced the kid who had triggered the alarm, but his only contact with the person who had commissioned this minor infringement had been via the internet: taking instructions and finding out where the £20 note he had earned for his trouble could be found.
Making matters worse was the news Hawkins had received on the way to the airport. One of the sub-teams had traced Glenis Ward’s stepson, or at least the record of his death. For the last three months of his life, Gary Ward had lived rough, until the night six weeks ago when he’d overdosed on crystal meth. His decomposing remains had only just been identified, but the results were conclusive.
Meanwhile, early results from the forensics team working on Jessica Anderton’s murder had yielded no traces yet again, while officers trawling hours of CCTV from the Hampstead area early on Sunday morning had discovered nothing of interest. And even though the list of Tasersseized by border control had finally come through, it was huge. Uniform was already working through it although, unsurprisingly, a lot of the people who’d ordered the illegal weapons had already moved on.
But, as a fresh wave of people began to spill through the airport’s arrivals gate, something told Hawkins their luck was about to improve.
‘Time to get the car, please, John,’ she said, as Charles Anderton emerged out of the crowd.
19.
‘Thank you, Alan.’
Charles Anderton shook hands with the security officer, who let them into the small office in a staff-only area of Gatwick airport, and then disappeared.
Anderton motioned to one of the shabby wooden chairs there, and Hawkins sat down, trying to block out an aroma of burnt dust and detergents.
Anderton closed the door, removed his grey overcoat, and laid it carefully beside his luggage. Then he took the seat opposite her.
‘Alan’s a friend,’ he said, as if recognizing Hawkins’ unease. ‘I get him tickets to see Spurs play from time to time. In return, he looks out for me whenever I use his airport.’
Hawkins nodded, glancing over at the shelves on the far wall, where a security radio lay beside a curling sandwich.
Anderton sat bolt upright, his hands clasped on the small table between them.
‘Thank you for agreeing to my proposal, Detective.’
‘I’m afraid there are no guarantees,’ she said. ‘I’ll do what I can, but we don’t have much time.’
Anderton looked tired, even more so than he had two days ago. He wore the expression of a man who’d lostalmost everything, and was now being forced to press flush on the rest.
During their telephone conversation the night before, he had offered Hawkins two choices.
If she followed procedure and took him in for formal questioning, he would withhold what he knew for as long as possible. Such a delay would not benefit either party, simultaneously increasing the likelihood of further deaths, and setting the media free to destroy Anderton’s reputation and
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