This is entirely a work of fiction. Any references to real people, living or dead, real events, businesses, organizations and localities are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. All names, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and their resemblance, if any, to real-life counterparts is entirely coincidental.

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Ebook Edition © JANUARY 2015 ISBN: 9780007585809

Version: 2014-12-23

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Chapter One: December 2006

Two Weeks Later

Read an extract from The Jackdaw

About the Author

Also by Luke Delaney

About the Publisher

Chapter One
December 2006.

He drove through the pouring, relentless rain, scouring the back streets of Paddington and Marylebone, searching for the woman who would match the image burnt into his mind. Nothing else would satisfy him. But he’d been searching the area for almost an hour now and knew if he stayed much longer he risked drawing the attention of the police or a sharp-eyed civilian monitoring a council-controlled CCTV centre. He was running out of time and frustration was threatening to overtake him – the thought of not feeding the beast that lived inside him made his muscles tense and his head ache. It had been weeks since he last fed the great serpent and he couldn’t comprehend the idea of another day passing without devouring a soul. The beast grew weaker and weaker as he failed to feed it.

The weather meant there were fewer women than usual plying their trade on the night streets. So far he had only seen two, scuttling between shop doorways, trying to be seen while trying to stay dry. The first had been tall and blonde and the other had been black. Neither were worthy of the majestic creature that he had become.

As he moved the car slowly through the rain he saw a figure huddled in the shadows under the railway bridge that carried unknowing, unseeing passengers into nearby Paddington Station. He wiped the condensation from the inside of the windscreen and cruised under the arch of the bridge, straining to see into the darkness. She was standing smoking a cigarette, looking fearless and bored despite her slight build and vulnerability, her straight black hair helping the darkness conceal her face. Could she be the one – the perfect one he’d been searching for? He turned the car around and drove slowly back to the bridge, pulling up to the kerb and letting the passenger window down to signal he wanted to talk business. She emerged from her shadowy refuges continually looking left to right, no doubt checking for the police she was keen to avoid, although they were the only ones who could save her now.

As she peered in through the open window, speaking whilst chewing gum, her cigarette clamped between index and middle finger, he knew she wasn’t the perfect one, but she was close enough to satisfy the beast – at least as close as the others, if not more so. He felt excitement and anticipation rising in his entire body – his core temperature increasing as his groin tightened and his testicles writhed like the Great Snake itself. The heavy rain was already beginning to make the strands of her hair stick to her porcelain cheeks. Her deep brown eyes sparkled with life and hope, her youth not yet destroyed by a life on the street. She thrilled him.

‘Looking for some business, there?’ she asked with a smile, almost leaning in through the window now, moving slightly from side to side as she swayed her hips.

‘Get in,’ he told her. ‘Too wet out there. We can discuss business in the car – in the warm – in the dry.’ She chewed her gum, her eyes never leaving his as she assessed his threat risk. After a few seconds she flicked her cigarette away and climbed into the passenger seat and closed the door. As soon as it was shut he quickly pulled away from the kerb and drove into the night.

‘Taking a lot for granted, aren’t we?’ she said, smiling again. ‘We ain’t settled on a price, or anything else for that matter.’

‘Price is not important,’ he told her, his eyes never leaving the road ahead.

‘Oh yeah?’ she replied. ‘You a rich man then? This ain’t a rich man’s car.’

‘It’s not mine,’ he told her truthfully.

‘Really,’ she answered, quickly growing bored with the conversation. ‘You got somewhere we can go then? Your place?’

‘No,’ he replied blankly. ‘No place.’

She rolled her eyes in disappointment. ‘Pity. Would have been nice to have been out of this weather for a while.’

‘The car is warm enough – and dry,’ he reminded her.

‘Whatever,’ she answered dismissively. ‘I know a place we can go. We won’t be disturbed. Just keep driving straight.’ An uneasy silence settled in the car, a silence he was at peace with, his mind already in a different time – a time shortly ahead when he, the Great Snake, would reveal his true self to her. He would coil around her and crush her, devour her, taking her body and her soul – her pointless life finally given a purpose as he consumed her. ‘Don’t get too many like you around here,’ she broke the blissful silence.

‘Like me?’ he asked, for a fleeting moment afraid she’d been somehow able to see his true being, making him reach for the knife he kept in a shoulder holster under his leather jacket, before he reminded himself that someone as futile as she could never recognize what he was until he chose to reveal himself.

‘Yeah, you know,’ she said with a condescending smile. She looked him up and down as if the answer was obvious, and suddenly it was.

‘Ah,’ he replied. ‘I understand.’

‘Sometimes I get a call to go see some of your lot in hotel rooms, but you don’t see your type cruising much. I assumed it was a cultural thing,’ she told him.

‘What’s your name?’ he asked, ignoring her observations.

‘Cantara,’ she answered. ‘My mum heard it somewhere when she was expecting me and liked it, so that’s me. Turn left up here then drive to the end of the road and turn right. A nice quiet little spot.’

‘You talk a lot,’ he told her unsmilingly. ‘The others didn’t talk too much.’

‘The others?’ she asked. ‘So I’m not your first then?’

He turned his head slowly towards her, his face a granite sculpture. ‘No,’ he told her. ‘You’re not my first.’ He followed her directions into a lifeless road with closed businesses on one side and a boarded-up building site on the other. He turned the headlights off and let the car roll to a halt by the kerb. As soon as the car stopped Cantara moved to open the passenger door, but his hand came from nowhere and gripped her tightly around the bicep. Her head spun back to look at him and for the first time he sensed fear in her – could see her eyes registering danger – but he knew she wouldn’t try to escape. Like all the others she would risk her life to get the cash she needed to buy her next fix of whatever it was she was addicted to: crack, heroin, alcohol, gambling. ‘Going somewhere?’ he asked coldly.

She managed an unconvincing smile before answering. ‘The back, of course,’ she explained. ‘We can’t do it in the front, can we? I mean we could, but it’ll be easier in the back.’

He stared deep into her eyes before releasing his grip. ‘Okay. We’ll get in the back.’

‘Leave the engine on,’ she told him casually. ‘I don’t want to freeze my tits off.’ He half nodded and watched her climb from the car only to reappear within seconds in the back – the doors closing so quickly one after the other that he could almost detect only one slamming sound. ‘You coming or what?’ she tried to hurry him. ‘I ain’t got all night, you know.’ He took a long, silent breath to calm his surging, almost uncontrollable need to devour her. Soon – soon the Great Snake would be feeding on her young, delicate body.

He slipped from the driver’s seat and into the freezing cold night air, the contrast with the warm comfort of the car invigorating him even more – tensing and preparing the muscles in his body for the exertion that lay ahead. It was as if he could feel the Great Snake awakening – its scales shifting slightly on top of each other as it began to uncoil and flex its huge muscles – stretching its jaw in preparation for swallowing its victim whole. He enjoyed the moment for as long as he dared before opening the rear door and climbing in the back next to Cantara, who was already loosening her clothing. For a moment he could do nothing but stare at her – so close to perfection – her slim neck and pale skin, her straight black hair and brown eyes. And she was young too – no more than twenty-three or four. She was almost everything he had hoped for. His heart began to beat faster, pushing blood around his body, oxygenating the muscles of the Great Snake – swelling its head as it prepared to seize her in its powerful jaws, from which there would be no escape.

‘D’you mind if I just pull my knickers to one side?’ she asked, ‘or d’you want me to take them off? Either way, you’ll have to wear one of these.’ She showed him the condom already palmed in her hand. ‘Can’t be too careful these days.’

‘You don’t understand, do you?’ His words confused and scared her. ‘You don’t understand what is happening to you.’

‘Hey,’ she told him, nervously pulling her clothing tight against her chest, ‘if you just want to talk – get something off your mind, that’s fine by me, but you still got to pay.’

‘The Great Snake pays for nothing,’ he glared at her, inching closer. ‘He takes whatever he wants. And now, he’s going to take you.’

***

Detective Sergeant Sean Corrigan entered Streatham Police Station in south-east London and jumped the queue of customers waiting to plead their cases at the front desk, flashing the civilian receptionist his warrant card. ‘Can you tell me where the Dylan incident room is?’ he asked without introducing himself. The receptionist slid his practised hand under the counter to press the door-lock release button while he answered.

‘Through that door,’ he nodded, ‘then up the stairs and straight ahead on the first floor. It’s about halfway down the long corridor on your right. I think they’ve got a sign on the door or something.’

‘Thanks,’ Sean told him. He pushed through the now-open door and immediately entered the inner sanctum of a working police station, although without a lot of the noise and bustle he was used to. Most of the control and custody facilities had been moved away to Kennington and Brixton Police Stations since the Met introduced the borough policy for policing, leaving Streatham to be manned and run predominantly by constables and sergeants – those left behind feeling like a doomed patrol in some forgotten outpost, waiting for the ever-growing enemy forces that circled outside to finally wipe them out.

Sean climbed the stairs and walked along the narrow corridor, searching for the Heather Dylan Murder Enquiry Office. Since her death there had been four more victims, but as she was the first to die at the hands of the man the media had labelled The Reaper, the investigation would forever bear her name. Through her own violent death she had achieved infamy.

He spotted a couple of detectives spilling out from a door and assumed correctly it would lead to the incident room. This was not his usual stomping ground. Even as a fellow detective he was an outsider here – respect and trust would have to be earned. The investigation had already been running for almost a year and still no significant arrests had been made. His sudden appearance would be treated with great suspicion and he knew it. Don’t be a bull in a china shop, he warned himself. Take a little time. Keep your eyes and ears open and your mouth shut. He took a steadying breath and entered the office.

If he’d been expecting the room to fall silent and all heads to turn towards him then he’d have been disappointed. His entrance was met with complete indifference. Outside a police station a cop’s instinct was always to look at anyone and everyone who walked through the door, but inside was very different – as if outside rules didn’t apply here – as if it was safe ground.

Sean grabbed the attention of the first person who tried to walk past him – a female detective in her early thirties. ‘Excuse me,’ he asked, without telling her who he was. ‘Where can I find DI Ramsay?’

She looked him up and down for a second before jutting her chin towards a tallish, slim, athletic-looking man in his mid-forties with greying black hair and olive skin, wearing heavy-rimmed spectacles that enhanced his unarguably handsome features. ‘Over there,’ she told him.

Sean immediately picked out the man she meant from the small group of detectives who surrounded him and appeared to be hanging on his every word. ‘Thanks,’ Sean acknowledged her and headed towards Ramsay feeling calm and collected. He might be the outsider here, but he knew he had no small amount of power over the situation, and he enjoyed it – as if being assigned to the struggling investigation had given him an excuse not to try to fit in for once: if people didn’t like or understand him, it wouldn’t be his fault – it wouldn’t be because he could do things they could not, see things they could not, it would just be because he’d been parachuted into the middle of another Murder Investigation Team’s case. He didn’t expect to be accepted and he didn’t really care.

When he reached the huddle he stood silently and a little closer than the accepted norm until the group eventually stopped talking and turned towards him. Ramsay spoke first. ‘Can I help you with something?’

‘DI Ryan Ramsay?’ Sean asked, offering his hand and an assassin’s smile.

‘Yeah,’ Ramsay answered, looking him up and down with unconcealed suspicion. ‘That’s me. Can I do something for you?’

‘DS Sean Corrigan,’ Sean told him. ‘You’ve been expecting me.’

‘It was mentioned,’ Ramsay played it down. ‘You’d better step into my office.’ He turned on his heels and marched the short distance to a side office and through the open door. Sean followed him inside. Ramsay sat behind his cluttered desk and pointed to a chair. ‘Shut the door and take a seat.’ Sean closed the door, but remained standing. Again Ramsay looked him up and down. ‘Suit yourself. Now, let’s get one thing straight. I didn’t ask for you to be attached to this investigation and I don’t need you here to get this thing sorted. Understand?’

‘Detective Superintendent Middleton thought I would be of some use,’ Sean reminded him.

‘Harry Middleton, eh?’ Ramsay asked, although he already knew it was true. ‘Well you may have friends in high places, Corrigan, but that means fuck all here.’

‘I’m here to help,’ Sean smiled.

‘I know what people are saying about you,’ Ramsay tried to unsettle him, ‘that you supposedly single-handedly caught Oscar Stokes – somehow figured out he’d killed … Christ, what was the name of that woman off the TV again?’

‘Evans,’ Sean reminded him. ‘Sue Evans.’

‘Oh yeah,’ Ramsay agreed. ‘Never could remember her name. Anyway, just because you solve one high-profile case and impress the powers that be, don’t mean you can march in here and take over.’

‘I’ve no intention of taking over anything,’ Sean half lied. ‘I’m just here to look at things with a fresh pair of eyes. Sometimes that’s all we need to move forward. We’ve all got stuck on investigations before.’

‘Except you, apparently.’ Sean just shrugged. ‘Fine,’ Ramsay relented, getting to his feet and banging on the Perspex partition that made up one of the office walls. A few seconds later the door opened and a plain-looking, slim, white woman in her early thirties entered. At five foot nine inches she was almost as tall as Sean.

‘Yes, boss?’ she asked, still holding onto the door handle, as if she expected to be leaving any second.

‘DS Corrigan, meet DS Townsend,’ Ramsay told them, already looking down at the paperwork on his desk. ‘DS Townsend meet DS Corrigan. Bring him up to date on the investigation, will you Vicky? Apparently he’s here to solve it for us.’

‘Boss?’ Townsend asked, confused.

‘Just do it,’ Ramsay snapped.

‘Thank you,’ Sean faked civility and headed towards the open door before glancing back at Ramsay. ‘I’ll let you know what I think.’

‘You do that,’ Ramsay answered without looking up.

Sean followed Townsend into the Main Office, hoping that the unwritten code between detective sergeants would ensure at least some co-operation. ‘D’you mind telling me what that was all about?’ Townsend asked. ‘If you’re new to the MIT why’s the guv’nor already got the hump with you? You couldn’t have pissed him off already.’

‘I’m not new to MIT,’ Sean answered. ‘I’m just new to this MIT. Superintendent Middleton moved me over from the MIT at Peckham.’

‘And why would he do that?’ Townsend asked.

‘We didn’t have a lot on,’ Sean told her the partial truth. ‘Nothing the team couldn’t handle without me.’

‘Unlike us, you mean?’ Townsend pushed. ‘You here to spy on us?’ she asked him directly, her honesty making him smile.

‘No,’ he told her. ‘I’m here to help – to help you find whoever’s doing this and to stop him.’

Townsend studied him hard before speaking again. ‘Fair enough,’ was all she said. ‘Then we’d better get you up to running speed.’ She headed off towards the far end of the office where a half dozen whiteboards were lined up next to each other – each covered in numerous pictures of the five victims to date. Sean followed, wishing he could be totally alone in the office with the boards and their photographs – pictures of the women when they were alive, at various stages of their lives, side by side with images of them in death – some from the scenes where they were found and others of the post-mortems. The noise in the office was distracting and disorientating – preventing him from seeing what he needed to see, keeping him steadfastly held in an office full of detectives when he needed to travel in his mind to the times and places of the killings. The photographs were already trying to speak to him, but the noise around him wouldn’t let him hear. ‘What do you know so far?’ Townsend added her voice to the voices already inside his head.

‘Not too much,’ he assured her. ‘Only what I’ve seen on TV and what Superintendent Middleton’s told me. I don’t have any detailed knowledge.’

‘Okay,’ Townsend told him and swept her hand in the direction of the white boards. ‘We have five victims to date, the first victim, Heather Dylan, being killed almost a year ago now. A couple of months after her Lisa Sheeran was killed, then a few weeks later Norah Cardle, then Rebecca Shepard and finally the latest victim – Cantara Roper, whose body was found a little over five weeks ago. The oldest of the victims was thirty-three and the youngest was Norah Cardle, who was only twenty-one. All were low-level prostitutes – street-girls, not your upmarket call-girls, and all appeared to have had addictions of various types, hence their chosen occupation.’

‘And the fact they were still prepared to go out onto the streets, even after they knew someone was stalking and killing prostitutes,’ Sean added.

‘Certainly true of our last three victims,’ Townsend agreed. ‘The first couldn’t have seen it coming and even after her death the most popular theory was she’d pissed off some pimp who wanted to make an example of her. But once we had victim number two … there was little doubt what we were dealing with.’

‘The timings between each murder,’ Sean asked, ‘were they the same length of time?’

‘No,’ Townsend answered. ‘It’s varied between about four weeks and ten weeks.’

‘Then timing’s not part of his pattern,’ Sean mused.

‘So we figured,’ Townsend replied.

‘And locations?’

‘Apparently random,’ Townsend explained. ‘Anywhere you could find prostitutes plying their trade. He seems to have a preference for the areas around central London, although he has been as far out as Brixton and of course Streatham, which is why we inherited the whole shooting match: first victim was ours, so all that follow are too.’

Sean ignored her griping. ‘What were they like,’ he asked, ‘the places he picked them up from?’

‘We can’t be too sure,’ Townsend admitted. ‘Nobody knows where he took them from. Nobody saw them getting into any vehicles. Our man’s careful. Very careful. He’s a ghost.’

‘And CCTV?’ Sean asked.

‘None of the victims being picked up, if that’s what you mean. These girls were prostitutes, all of whom were working the night of their deaths. They’re hardly going to do their business in the glare of CCTV cameras.’

‘And he knew that,’ Sean spoke to himself more than her.

‘Probably,’ Townsend agreed.

‘But you know the areas they were working, right?’ Sean asked. ‘Working girls tend to stick to the same patch, or risk falling foul of someone else’s pimp.’

‘We do,’ Townsend told him and began to walk along the lines of photographs, pointing to each one in turn as she spoke. ‘Heather Dylan, worked Streatham Common. Lisa Sheeran, worked …’

Sean stopped her. ‘Go back,’ he insisted. ‘Tell me where the bodies were found as well.’

Townsend raised her eyebrows slightly. ‘Okay. Heather Dylan was found relatively close by in a wooded area on Tooting Common. Lisa Sheeran worked Shoreditch and was found in Tower Hamlets Cemetery. Norah Cardle worked the back streets of King’s Cross and was found in Caledonian Park in nearby Camden.’ She continued her damning procession along the boards and the images of the dead. ‘Rebecca Shepard worked around Water Lane in Brixton and was found in the woods in Brockwell Park and finally there’s Cantara Roper, who worked around Lisson Grove in Paddington. Her body was found where we believe she was killed – on a building site in Marylebone.’

‘Where you believe she was killed?’ Sean jumped on her use of the word. ‘You don’t know where they were killed?’

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