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  Even so, his mind was occupied with whether the police had made any connections yet. Doubtful. While Brownlow’s release and subsequent death would likely get a fair run in the media, Peggy Markham’s death had been moved over swiftly, as had Toomey’s, and that hideous wife-bashing professor barely rated a mention. The others hadn’t yet been discovered – there had been a year or more between some of them – or hadn’t made the national news reports. But he wasn’t so naive as to believe no one had noticed.

  Well, he couldn’t worry about that now. He’d set his path and he was on a deadline. He had no intention of taking his foot off the accelerator now; who knew when his strength would fail him or the pain would overwhelm him, or when he might simply lack the ability to move around with such ease?

  He walked in the direction of Euston Road. He’d come by Underground to Harley Street, but he didn’t feel like a subterranean journey home. Instead he’d take the bus and watch London go by. It would take nearly half as long again, but there were no changes requiring a dash through the crush of people to another platform. He could wait for the number 29 bus that came on the hour, and then it would be a full hour between Warren Street and Wood Green stations. Perfect time to think and reflect on who might be next on the long list of people who deserved his attention.

  Given how cool the day was turning after a promising start, he was glad to see his bus lumbering up Euston Road. He was pleased it was a double-decker, as they seemed to be phasing in those articulated single-deckers on this route. Something about the lovely London double-deckers helped him to keep memories alive. He nodded for a middle-aged couple to go first and then held back again, bowing politely as a woman using a walking stick tried to hurry.

  ‘Don’t rush,’ he said, ‘I won’t let it leave without you.’ He winked.

  ‘Thank you, young man,’ she said and they both laughed. She had a couple of decades on him for sure, but he was still middle-aged.

  He stepped on board and used his Oyster card, smiled at the driver and found himself a window seat. Excellent. He tucked himself tight against the wall so he wouldn’t have to shift for a fellow passenger. The seat beside him was soon filled by a wide-hipped woman carrying two bags of groceries. He smiled in greeting and then looked away, satisfied now that he could get lost in his thoughts.

  Reaching beneath his coat to the inside pocket, he pulled out a list he’d been given the previous month. The list was adjusted regularly, making sure it was across all the new paroles and changed sentences. It was time to get a new one, now that life was moving towards May. The bulbs in his garden were heralding spring’s arrival, even if the temperature was yet to acknowledge it. He stared at the list that was kept to ten; as one disappeared in any calendar month, he replaced it. Right now, the fifth name – Davey Robbins – should be a priority. Rupert Brownlow would be at a funeral parlour by now, as Colin was sure the pathology team and the coroner were finished with him. He looked up briefly as they lurched to a halt and he saw someone carrying a bunch of sunny daffodils down Camden Street. His wife had loved daffodils and his garden had drifts of them. He thought, without regret, of those Brownlow had left behind; at last Rupert’s family could join the families of his victims in a lifetime of grief.

  He looked down at the list again. Davey Robbins. He must be twenty-three; strong, he guessed, after time in prison. Davey hadn’t done it tough, though. His barrister had argued for rehabilitation, suggesting he’d been coerced by the older and more threatening Don Patchett to rape that beautiful young woman. He remembered it clearly: Davey intermittently crying, admitting that his uncle had threatened him with violence, had said his fingers would be cut off if they didn’t do this.

  ‘He has learning difficulties, my lady; he was vulnerable and in awe of his elder who used coercion through fear. He was a victim . . .’ and all the other tried and true plaintive cries of defence counsel.

  Learning difficulties? My arse, he thought. Davey was a streetwise kid who had grown into a rat-cunning young adult and while, yes, his thug of an uncle had led the nephew from petty thieving to rape and a murder, it was obvious from the trial that Robbins possessed a sort of perky arrogance and knew exactly how to take a brief from his defence team.

  Eight months ago, when Davey Robbins had been released from Wakefield Prison to a halfway house for sex offenders in Yorkshire after serving only two years, he’d found his way onto Colin’s death list quickly. Research was well advanced: Davey was driven to and from a local farm where, with a group of Polish seasonal workers, he picked vegetables.

  His fellow pickers lived in caravans nearby, but Davey was returned each afternoon to the house that accommodated other young sex offenders whom authorities believed could be rehabilitated and released. These men were warm, well fed, allowed plenty of TV, even game consoles. They had table tennis and were allowed to cycle to a small grocer just over a kilometre away. They had access to computers and, according to his research, each was being tutored in something that could help them ‘on the outside’. He got to live again – to reinvent himself if he followed the rules. His victims, in the meantime, no longer had that wonderful life they once had.

  His dark friend brimming in his mind, he’d caught the train north and sleuthed out the muddy farm on the hilly slopes of Yorkshire where Davey now moved among more sheep than he did people in his daily grind. Through binoculars he’d picked out Davey in his beanie and overalls – easily the youngest and skinniest, but the lad looked healthy. He would have to factor that in to whatever trap he was going to lay to kill him, for Amy and for her grieving family.

  Heading towards Finsbury Park, the bus trundled up the slope of Camden Road before forking into Parkhurst Road, where the looming building of the famous women’s prison cast its shadow. He stared out as they passed the Holloway Prison, which had struck so much fear into women through the decades. Horrible place. He thought about some of its famous serial murder inmates of recent decades: Maxine Carr had been here briefly, Myra Hindley, Rose West . . . and who could forget Anne McEvoy?

  He was getting distracted, he realised. Focus on the list. Davey Robbins needed attending to. Forgiveness was not appropriate, and rehabilitation was offensive, given the lad had all his faculties. He might not have intended to kill that girl’s grandmother, but he certainly intended to rape young Amy once he’d broken into her home – and the jury had seen through him. Davey thought he’d won, though. Just five years’ prison, assured by his defence that he’d be likely out in three into the arms of carers, but he was out in eighteen months, albeit into the system that made mockery of justice. Couldn’t everyone see the heinousness in how the system worked?

  He was Justice. And he would bring justice to Amy and to her grandmother. Davey’s days were now numbered; he could count them on one hand. As the bus rumbled towards Manor House Station in North London, he made the final decision he’d been wavering over: Wednesday next week would be when Davey Robbins took his final breath . . . and another family could feel a sense of relief.

  6

  Few people in and around Hastings knew much about Bernie Beaton. None who looked at the slightly dishevelled little man could know that he’d once been one of Britain’s wealthiest music magnates, known simply as ‘Bard’, who used to pay more for a haircut than his fortnightly food bill of today. But his world had imploded with the arrival of the digital revolution in his playground, and given Bernie had not responded swiftly enough, it had only taken a few years for the fall. Coupled with the fact that he played hard and overgenerously with property, in casinos, in nightclubs, with his car dealers and his drug dealers, this sophisticate had once had the freedom of the city’s clubs and hotspots; restaurants could always find a table for him, and his jet-setting lifestyle was fodder for cheap gossip magazines. Now he lived in a tiny flat on the south coast, designed for old, needy residents. It was hardly flash, given this was sheltered housing, but it was a roof over his head and a more than reasonable one at that.

  To
day, Bernie’s schizophrenia from chemical abuse was under control with regular medication in the right dose, and he felt lucky to call himself a recovered druggie and alcoholic. Those twin towers of addiction had dominated his 1990s and by 2003 he had been wandering the streets, sleeping rough for two years straight. He’d finally awoken, pushing through the fog of his strange life, to find himself shivering and sweating, screaming for help in the addiction unit of the Whittington. It had taken another sixteen months but with all the right help and a kindly nurse referring him to a specific charity, Bernie had moved into his Beaufort Court flat. A long way from London, it was provided by the local council as part of a special program for recovering addicts, far from the glitzy, and sometimes ugly, lifestyle he’d once led.

  These days Bernie moved around his two small rooms and could admit to feeling at peace with his world. He led a group of recovering addicts in a weekly meeting at a local community hall, he called bingo on a Thursday morning for the local pensioners, and he had a Monday slot on community radio doing talkback about everything from the price of fish and chips to whether or not Hastings would get a faster train service through to London. Now and then on a weekend evening, he could be called upon to do a turn as MC for small bands performing locally. If really pressed, Bernie had a good set of tonsils and would join in some rousing karaoke at his local pub. But that was rare. For the most part Bernie was a shadow of the man he’d once been: gaunt, with a stubbled chin most of the time, known for his orange beanie and the MCC scarlet and yellow tie he wore as a belt to hold up patched jeans, but also for his good heart towards the addicts he was helping to rescue along with himself.

  Bernie had few memories of the time when he would have given a limb for a hit of something that could make him forget all he’d lost. The schizophrenia and panic attacks fed into the fog of those years, of him mostly out of control, often engaged in rants towards anyone who might listen and usually people shying away. The streets of North London had become dangerous for him too, and he’d had to learn how to become invisible, which he achieved effectively by casting off his impeccably tailored Savile Row suits to wear a drab ensemble from Oxfam, including second-hand shoes, pawning the few items of jewellery he’d hidden, letting his hair grow wild and, above all, not showering often. The resulting shabbiness and overpowering smell meant most people gave him the wide berth he wanted, even the louts who went looking for someone to pick on.

  There was one memory, though, that no hit of heroin could shake out of his mind. This vivid recollection had stuck with him despite the fact that his misted mind mostly forgot what it had seen. It was the memory of a woman. He knew her, had used her extremely high-priced services once or twice in his heyday and she hadn’t let him down . . . he had certainly got what he paid for. Peggy Markham’s girls were curated with astute care and thought for her special clients. Madam Peggy had few enemies, in his opinion, and so it was with confusion and horror that he had watched this woman – who had wealth that should have kept her safe – being propped up against a tree, wide-eyed and terrified, as a man brazenly plunged a needle into her neck. The stranger had not even waited to check on his deed; he had simply walked away, confident in his kill, melting into the wintry night.

  It was Bernie who had checked on her, using his remaining matches to illuminate the familiar features, which held some of the grimacing quality of her final moment as the drug had forced her heart to stop beating. Bernie knew better than to touch her, or the syringe still stuck in her neck, around which oozed a pinprick of her blood. He had retreated to his safe place to watch the commotion that ensued the following morning when the stiff cadaver of one of Britain’s wealthy criminals was found sprawled in Finsbury Park.

  The remains of his withered conscience had got the better of him, and two nights later he’d found himself shambling into Hornsey Police Station, when he knew there’d be fewer people around, especially police people.

  He waited patiently while two officers finished a conversation, from which he gathered that the night shift had just come on duty, as he’d hoped. Bernie recognised the detective who was speaking to the reception officer, whose name tag read ‘Phil’. He glanced at the clock on the wall, which was showing seven minutes past ten; his timing was perfect.

  ‘Crime reports all checked,’ the detective said, ‘and I’ve just put the phone down on the custody officer – no prisoners of interest to us. So we’re off to Tottenham then, Phil.’

  Bernie cleared his throat and they glanced his way. Phil gave him the once over. Bernie was well aware that with his unruly look he was the polar opposite of the fellow behind the counter in his crisply pressed, blue, pinstriped shirt with the Met logo sewn on the left breast.

  ‘How can I help you, sir?’ Phil said. The words were polite, but the tone sounded ever so slightly mocking.

  Bernie was used to it and he decided to be direct. ‘I wish to report a murder.’

  ‘Murder, is it?’ The reception officer whistled as he tried unsuccessfully not to grin at the detective.

  ‘Blimey. Bernie Beaton, what brings you here? You’re normally asleep by now, aren’t you? I’m Detective Sergeant Coombs, in case you don’t recall.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Bernie said, ignoring the sarcasm. ‘I’d like to make a witness statement, please.’ He was, by nature, helplessly polite, but he was making sure he observed all his best manners so they might take him seriously. He owed it to Peggy.

  Coombs grinned. ‘Have you taken your meds, Bernie?’ he asked loudly.

  Bernie was used to this, not just the increased volume as though he were deaf, but the sarcasm too. Most of the police considered him one of the crazies . . . and if he was honest, he couldn’t blame them. ‘I have.’

  ‘When was the last pill you took, Bernie?’ Phil asked, catching on.

  ‘This morning.’

  ‘And before that?’

  ‘Yesterday.’

  ‘Good. And you wish to report a murder?’

  ‘I do. I saw it happen two nights ago in Finsbury Park.’

  Phil sighed. ‘Who did you witness being killed?’

  They knew damn well who had been found. ‘Peggy Markham,’ he said simply. ‘I saw it happen.’

  Now he had their attention. DS Coombs turned back. ‘Bernie, are you sure, mate, or are you just amusing yourself with that imagination of yours? We’re on the nightshift here and always stretched. I’m about to head to Tottenham.’

  His colleague chimed in. ‘We cover the whole district from here, Mr Beaton. The whole of the boroughs of Haringey and Enfield. A big area, in other words.’

  Bernie nodded. ‘I understand. I won’t take up too much time. I just wish to do my civic duty and give a statement, that’s all.’

  ‘All right, Phil.’ The detective nodded at his colleague, but Bernie didn’t miss the wink. ‘Something for Lisa, I reckon.’ He also wasn’t deaf. ‘This should liven her evening up,’ Detective Coombs murmured. He turned back to Bernie. ‘You have ten minutes.’

  ‘I won’t even need that much,’ he admitted.

  Phil shrugged, picked up the phone receiver and dialled an extension. ‘Ah, DC Farrow, we have a witness statement to be taken.’ There was a pause. ‘Yes, Bernard Beaton. No, I know, but John said you should . . . ten minutes and then Tottenham. Yes.’ He put down the phone and cut Bernie a smile that didn’t feel at all welcoming. ‘She’ll be right out.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He shuffled away from the counter.

  ‘Mr Beaton?’ She came out of a side door, surprising him, but then he noted that his appearance took her by surprise too. He watched her slide a look to the snickering men behind the counter. ‘I’m DC Lisa Farrow. Would you follow me, please?’

  Bernie hoped she was older than she looked, which to him was about seventeen. Clearly they weren’t taking him seriously, or the DS would have listened to his story. Even so, he dutifully followed DC Farrow into a small interview room. As soon as they were seated, she was back up on her feet and rea
ching to open the door. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, managing to look horrified and apologetic at once.

  ‘It’s all right, I’m used to it,’ he said and saw her surprise deepen at hearing his cultured voice. ‘I sleep rough, and baths are hard to come by,’ he said, telling a small lie to cover his embarrassment and the real reason he didn’t bathe often.

  Sympathy chased away her initial disgust. ‘Can I get you a hot drink, Mr Beaton?’

  He hadn’t been shown such a kind gesture in a long while. ‘I was told there was no time,’ he replied, uncertain.

  ‘Always time for a quick cuppa.’ She smiled warmly.

  ‘Thank you, DC Farrow. Tea would be grand.’

  She blinked, surprised again by his polite manner.

  ‘Back in a tick.’ She disappeared for a couple of minutes, returning with a steaming plastic throwaway beaker of strong, dark tea. ‘Careful, don’t burn yourself,’ she said, pointing towards the double layer of plastic.

  ‘It’s fine,’ he said, sipping and giving a sigh of pleasure.

  ‘So, Mr Beaton, you say you witnessed a murder?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘All right. Why don’t you tell me everything you remember?’

  Bernie proceeded to recall the detail that was still imprinted like a short film in his memory. She made careful notes, nodding with encouragement. When he had nothing more to say and had swallowed the rest of his tea, she looked up, frowning.