Reassured by what he had seen, he closed the computer down. There were other sets of cameras waiting to be activated, but now wasn’t the time. If his cameras were picked up on one of his early hits, he imagined the police would sweep all the other possible locations for hidden surveillance. If there was no electronic signal, they would be almost impossible to find. Or so Terry had told him. It would be nice to keep tabs on all his targets all the time, but he was willing to hold back in the interests of keeping ahead of the game.
This time, he took the precaution of carrying the briefcase upstairs with him. Now he had satisfied his curiosity, he was feeling sleepy again. The spy cameras were every bit as good as he had been promised. If he’d had any doubts about whether he could carry out his mission, they were all dispelled. Tomorrow, the next phase would begin.
Tomorrow there would be blood.
The Toyota didn’t look red under the sodium street lights. That was just as well, since the number plates belonged to a tan Nissan. All very confusing for a witness, or even someone trying to analyse a CCTV tape. Not that the driver expected them to be running surveillance of the sex workers’ beats. All that bleating about front-line cuts and budgets – what little money the cops had at their disposal these days was going where the taxpayers could see it. Neighbourhood patrols, turning up at burglaries instead of giving out a crime number over the phone, anti-social behaviour. Orders from on high to make it look good, keep the government on the right side of the voters.
It was total jackpot time for anyone below the Daily Mail parapet – people traffickers, white-collar fraudsters, prostitute killers. Most criminals were probably happy about that. But the Toyota’s driver was pissed off. He wanted to be paid attention to. If his exploits weren’t all over the papers and the TV, what was the point? He might as well not bother.
How could the cops not notice what was going on? Maybe he should start taking photos of his victims with his trademark front and centre. The media would be all over it soon enough if that sort of thing started landing on their desks. Then the cops would have to sit up and pay attention.
Fletcher drove slowly through Temple Fields, Bradfield’s main red-light district. The Vice squad had cleaned it up a lot in recent years, the gay community had annexed whole streets, and there was a lot less sex for sale out in the open than there used to be. The brasses worked inside, in saunas and massage parlours or out-and-out brothels. Or else they’d moved out to other parts of town, like the dual carriageway near the airport and round the back of the hospital building site.
The traffic on Campion Way was heavy, which suited him. It wasn’t usually this clogged so late at night. But some of the cars had yellow scarves hanging from the windows and Fletcher reckoned Bradfield Victoria must have had an evening kick-off. He vaguely remembered they were in the Europa League, which the guys down the pub derisively referred to as, ‘Thursday night, Channel 5. Not football as such.’ He didn’t understand the comment, but he grasped the fact that it was derogatory. He often didn’t really get what the guys in the pub or at work were on about, but he knew the best way to hide his true self was to conceal his bewilderment and act like he was one of the quiet ones who didn’t say much but took it all in. It had served him well over the years. Well enough to fool Margo for long enough to make her his. And once that had stopped working, well, he’d managed to deal with that without it coming back to haunt him, and never had to explain it away because nobody expected him to.
As the cars crawled up the dual carriageway, Fletcher studied every woman he passed who might be working the street. His search wasn’t random; he knew exactly what he was looking for. In his heart, he didn’t expect to get lucky here on the fringes of Temple Fields. He’d thought he would have to cast his net wider tonight.
But just when the traffic began to pick up speed, he saw what he was looking for. It was impossible to stop, so he took the next turning on the left, found a mildly illegal parking spot and doubled back. He wanted so badly to run it was like the pain you get when you need to pee. But the last thing he wanted was to draw attention to himself. So he walked briskly, hoping she would still be in sight when he rounded the corner.
And yes, there she was. Unmistakable, even though he was approaching her from behind. She was clearly working. He could tell by the way she walked; the swivel in the hips, the languid half-turn towards the traffic, the ridiculous heels that bunched her calves into tight knots.
He could feel the blood pounding in his head. His vision seemed to blur at the periphery, leaving her as the only clear element. He longed for her. He ached to take her away from the filth and the depravity that she was wallowing in. Didn’t she know how dangerous it was out on these streets?
‘Mine,’ he murmured softly as he slowed down to match his pace to hers. ‘Mine.’
24
Alvin Ambrose skimmed yet another report that took the search for Jacko Vance no further forward. DI Stuart Patterson dropped into the chair opposite and sighed. His expression reminded Ambrose of his younger daughter, Ariel, a child who appeared to be working up to taking ‘sulking’ as her specialist subject on Mastermind. ‘This is going bloody nowhere,’ Patterson said. ‘Why can’t you find him?’
You, Ambrose noted. Not we. Apparently even the tangential involvement of Carol Jordan in the case had increased his boss’s disengagement from what was going on with his team. ‘I’ve got twenty officers chasing down reported sightings on our patch alone. Other forces all over the country are doing the same. I’ve got another team going through CCTV footage, trying to track the taxi he escaped in. Plus officers talking to the prison staff. The Home Office has dispatched a specialist team to protect the ex-wife. We’re doing everything we can. If there’s anything you think we’ve not got covered, then tell me and I’ll action it.’
Patterson ignored the request. ‘We’re going to look like bloody bumpkins. Can’t even catch a one-armed man as familiar to half the country as Simon Cowell. Carol Jordan’s going to be laughing up her sleeve at us.’
Ambrose was shocked. He was used to a different Patterson, a man who wore his Christianity with subtlety, a man who wasn’t afraid of showing compassion. His bitterness at being passed over had stripped away all his admirable qualities. ‘Carol Jordan had a front-row seat the last time Vance went on the rampage. She’s not going to be doing any kind of laughing any time soon,’ he growled. He wasn’t even going to dignify his comment with the usual, ‘With respect, sir.’
Patterson glared at him. ‘I know that, Sergeant. All the more reason she’ll be on our case.’
Ambrose was spared having to reply by the arrival at his desk of a weary-looking uniformed constable clutching a bundle of paper. ‘I’ve got something on the taxi,’ he said, too tired for enthusiasm.
Patterson sat upright and beckoned the constable. ‘Let’s see it, then.’