The Advent Killer Read Online Free PDF Page A

the way. Connor moved across and began talking to his friend from SOC, while Barclay went outside to start doorstepping the neighbours for contact details. Hopefully one of them would know the whereabouts of the victim’s husband. So far their attempts to contact the politician had failed. His mobile was unobtainable; his Westminster office unmanned. At least they should be able to get an answer now that business hours had resumed. If the couple’s affectionate public image was genuine, he’d bedistraught, so they needed to find him before news of his wife’s death leaked through other channels. Or before he had too great a head-start.
    Hawkins thanked Pritchard, watching him retreat towards a huddle of his colleagues in the far corner. She recognized some of them, like the scientific support officer whose name escaped her, and Pete Munford, one of their regular crime scene photographers. A third man was probably the new public relations official.
    Pritchard positioned himself on the far side of the group and glanced over at her.
    Hawkins’ anti-contamination suit was two sizes too large and hardly flattering, but at least it would prevent Pritchard from indulging his regular habit of staring at her legs. She smiled to herself, resisting the urge to go over and expose his lecherous tendencies in front of his peers. Instead, she turned and walked over to the tall bay window, staring down at an ever-expanding crowd of hacks, neighbours and passers-by drawn like flies to dog shit by the SOCO van blocking the road. She glanced at the sky, annoyed that for the first time that day the downpour had stopped.
    Nothing like a bit of rain to dampen people’s enthusiasm for rubber-necking.
    Amid the onlookers, Hawkins picked out Frank Todd and Amala Yasir as they moved slowly from face to face:
Did you know the occupants; were you witness to any unusual events here?
    The trick was to gather information without imparting any in return, but those in the crowd who didn’t already know who lived there soon would.
    And suddenly the nerves were there again.
    Hawkins’ mind jumped back to her first appearance in a primary school play, watching the audience from the wings, waiting for her cue. She’d just been able to make out faces in the front row, among them her parents: Dad beaming from ear to ear; Mum stoic, so often short of anything that resembled a compliment. Yet she knew, deep down, it was her mother she wanted to impress the most. And she was still having trouble with
that
line.
    Hawkins shook her head, evicting the memory. There was no time.
    She remembered Kirby-Jones’ words from two weeks before: ‘… good opportunity to make a name for yourself on this one, Hawkins. As senior investigating officer, you’ll be responsible for getting results. Can your team handle it? Can you?’
    Lawrence Kirby-Jones had several dog-eared speeches about equality and developing those he deemed credible. Others might have been fooled, but Hawkins knew a closet misogynist when she saw one. If this investigation wasn’t a resounding success, his report would say: ‘Secondment fluffed. Do not promote beyond DI level again.’
    What annoyed her most was that Kirby-Jones must have known the lack of available resources when he’d offered her the case, but only when the fan had been truly coated had
she
been informed. So far, the investigation had gone from suspected suicide, to murder, to multiple homicide; and now they were looking at a
savoir-faire
serial killer with the apparent ability to butcher half of London, and scare the other half to death, completely unimpeded by anything the Met tried to do about it.
    Her first case as SIO was turning out to be a real banana skin, especially as she was lumbered with a makeshift team. Her four current subordinates included a trainee, and someone from the Irish Flying Squad who apparently hadn’t been deemed good enough until the situation became desperate.
    Until then, Hawkins had believed that