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Authors: Anne Cleeland
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underlying cases, and the DI on one.”
He crossed his arms and bowed his head, thinking. “I don’t see it,” he said finally.
“No, me neither.” DCI Drake was Acton’s equivalent in rank, but nothing like Acton—no one was, after all. Drake was rather full of himself and something of a Jack-the-lad; he’d been reprimanded more than once for having sexual liaisons with female staff. It was hard to imagine Drake bestirring himself enough to be a vigilante.
“How about someone under Drake’s command?” Acton asked thoughtfully.
“Good idea, I’ll get to that next; right now I’m finishing up court personnel.”
“Judges?”
“A variety,” she reported. “Colcombe was the one who turned up the most, but he’s dead, so if we think it’s the same vigilante for all of these murders, it can’t be him.”
Acton set down the juice container and walked closer to the windows, thinking aloud as he reviewed the street below. “Here’s a working theory: this vigilante was not certain, at the time, that these murderers had escaped justice. He waited until—with hindsight—it was irrefutable.”
“I suppose that would explain the lapse of time,” she agreed, although she wasn’t certain what “irrefutable” meant—Acton was going all House-of-Lords on her again. She held out a hand to him. “Come sit next to me, Michael; I don’t care if you’ve taken a tipple after havin’ to do your wretched class. It’s only me, remember?”
He bowed his head for a moment before taking her proffered hand. “Sorry. I didn’t want you to know.”
“Knocker.” To smooth out any awkwardness, she reviewed her notes and continued the discussion as though there hadn’t been any interruption as he seated himself next to her at the table. “So, if that is our workin’ theory, who is our vigilante? What type of person would wait so long to serve up justice?”
Acton leaned back in his chair and gazed out the windows again. “Ethnicity of the victims?”
“Mixed. Three black, two white, one Middle Eastern.”
He considered this in silence. “Is there a pattern as to the timing?”
“If there is, it’s not obvious. And he’s been changin’ the caliber of the weapon and the site of the entry wound to cover the fact it’s the same killer, but it’s always to the back of the head.”
He crossed his arms and lowered his chin to his chest. “So we have a vigilante who wishes to remain anonymous, meets them in an innocuous setting, and then takes them by surprise, with no confrontation.”
She paused, as this was an excellent point, particularly as she now knew what “innocuous” meant. Trust Acton to cut to the nub of it, and point out this rather odd aspect of the case. “Yes—he’s not someone who wants to let them know they are payin’ for their sins. He just kills them—no accusations or drama.” Avery strange vigilante, then. Much struck, she added, “And I suppose Munoz is right yet again; the fact that the murders are all in a park is important—because the settin’ is non-threatenin’.”
“Or he is comfortable in such a setting. The logistics are difficult, with the CCTV cameras, but he makes it work.” Nearly every public area in London was under the scrutiny of a security camera; the vigilante was careful to do the crimes at night and in an area where there was a seam in the coverage. The ERU video-reviewers had found nothing about the various people who’d been filmed walking to and from the kill sites to incite any interest; nothing stood out.
Thinking of all this, Doyle typed a summation note and recited aloud, “So he’s the type of person who’s done his homework; he’s somehow become certain of the victim’s guilt in an earlier, unsolved murder, and he arranges to dispense justice off-camera, with little evidence to show for it, and enough people in the area so that we cannot focus on anyone in particular.” She frowned. “It’s soundin’ more and more like
He crossed his arms and bowed his head, thinking. “I don’t see it,” he said finally.
“No, me neither.” DCI Drake was Acton’s equivalent in rank, but nothing like Acton—no one was, after all. Drake was rather full of himself and something of a Jack-the-lad; he’d been reprimanded more than once for having sexual liaisons with female staff. It was hard to imagine Drake bestirring himself enough to be a vigilante.
“How about someone under Drake’s command?” Acton asked thoughtfully.
“Good idea, I’ll get to that next; right now I’m finishing up court personnel.”
“Judges?”
“A variety,” she reported. “Colcombe was the one who turned up the most, but he’s dead, so if we think it’s the same vigilante for all of these murders, it can’t be him.”
Acton set down the juice container and walked closer to the windows, thinking aloud as he reviewed the street below. “Here’s a working theory: this vigilante was not certain, at the time, that these murderers had escaped justice. He waited until—with hindsight—it was irrefutable.”
“I suppose that would explain the lapse of time,” she agreed, although she wasn’t certain what “irrefutable” meant—Acton was going all House-of-Lords on her again. She held out a hand to him. “Come sit next to me, Michael; I don’t care if you’ve taken a tipple after havin’ to do your wretched class. It’s only me, remember?”
He bowed his head for a moment before taking her proffered hand. “Sorry. I didn’t want you to know.”
“Knocker.” To smooth out any awkwardness, she reviewed her notes and continued the discussion as though there hadn’t been any interruption as he seated himself next to her at the table. “So, if that is our workin’ theory, who is our vigilante? What type of person would wait so long to serve up justice?”
Acton leaned back in his chair and gazed out the windows again. “Ethnicity of the victims?”
“Mixed. Three black, two white, one Middle Eastern.”
He considered this in silence. “Is there a pattern as to the timing?”
“If there is, it’s not obvious. And he’s been changin’ the caliber of the weapon and the site of the entry wound to cover the fact it’s the same killer, but it’s always to the back of the head.”
He crossed his arms and lowered his chin to his chest. “So we have a vigilante who wishes to remain anonymous, meets them in an innocuous setting, and then takes them by surprise, with no confrontation.”
She paused, as this was an excellent point, particularly as she now knew what “innocuous” meant. Trust Acton to cut to the nub of it, and point out this rather odd aspect of the case. “Yes—he’s not someone who wants to let them know they are payin’ for their sins. He just kills them—no accusations or drama.” Avery strange vigilante, then. Much struck, she added, “And I suppose Munoz is right yet again; the fact that the murders are all in a park is important—because the settin’ is non-threatenin’.”
“Or he is comfortable in such a setting. The logistics are difficult, with the CCTV cameras, but he makes it work.” Nearly every public area in London was under the scrutiny of a security camera; the vigilante was careful to do the crimes at night and in an area where there was a seam in the coverage. The ERU video-reviewers had found nothing about the various people who’d been filmed walking to and from the kill sites to incite any interest; nothing stood out.
Thinking of all this, Doyle typed a summation note and recited aloud, “So he’s the type of person who’s done his homework; he’s somehow become certain of the victim’s guilt in an earlier, unsolved murder, and he arranges to dispense justice off-camera, with little evidence to show for it, and enough people in the area so that we cannot focus on anyone in particular.” She frowned. “It’s soundin’ more and more like
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