The Advent Killer by Alastair Gunn Read Free Book Online

the papers were full of nothing but.
    The
Mirror
’s centre pages were headed DEATH LOTTERY CLAIMS THIRD VICTIM , above photographs of all the victims’ prettiest sides.
    Glenis Ward had probably never been referred to as a stunner – certainly not in the last thirty years – but one industrious researcher had dredged the Ward family albumto produce a black and white shot of twenty-four-year-old Glenis wearing the runner-up sash in the Miss Butlin’s Ramsgate pageant. What a second Tuesday in July 1973 that must have been.
    Stop it.
    Adjacent was a picture of the second victim, Tess Underwood. At forty-eight, Tess’ relative youth and mildly more glamorous appearance afforded her a slightly larger photo. But what had obviously been one of those make-up-with-a-trowel-and-soft-focus beauty shoots couldn’t compete with the image occupying at least 80 per cent of the remaining space.
    The tabloids rarely required an excuse to print pictures of women who looked even half as good as Jess Anderton, and now that she was both involved and unable to object, they were making red-top hay.
    Unfortunately, the papers hadn’t been able to link the three women, either. Instead, the
Mirror
had gone for the random-target theory, printing a map of where the killer had struck already, along with supposedly helpful tips on how to reduce your chances of becoming a mark. Somehow their suggestions of self-imposed curfews, locking doors and joining the Neighbourhood Watch seemed of even less use than bracing yourself before being run over.
    Hawkins turned the page.
    The next spread was covered with images of the Andertons under the headline DOWNING STREET’S SHATTERED FAIRYTALE . There were shots of Charles and Jessica on their wedding day, with the prime minister, and at the Beckhams’ most recent party. But the mainpicture of Charles Anderton leaving his office had been taken yesterday morning, shortly after Hawkins’ visit.
    Anderton had returned earlier in the day to his constituency home direct from a convention in Bath. He apparently hadn’t been back to Hampstead or attempted to ring his wife since Saturday afternoon.
    Hawkins had literally bumped into him on his way out of the door. He’d had a face so white that it was obvious her news was going to be no more than confirmation. A man didn’t make Culture Secretary without being well connected, and if the press had already known his wife was dead, it was no surprise that word had reached Anderton. But it hadn’t made her task any easier.
    His pallid physiognomy had remained the same from the moment she’d arrived, along with a Community Support officer, officially to inform Anderton of his wife’s demise and to provide personal assurance that the Met would bring her killer to justice.
    As soon as they had shaken hands, it had been obvious that the politician’s renowned charisma had died, at least temporarily, along with his wife. He seemed to have shrunk inside his tailored suit, his silver hair had started to look grey, and the creases of his face that usually spoke of great wisdom had only wanted to talk about the fact that he was approaching sixty.
    Hawkins felt guilty now that her decision to break the news personally had been motivated by hope that he might be responsible for Jessica’s murder.
    It was the first time she had ever seen a politician cry.

8.
     
    As Hawkins stood in the exit of St James’ Park tube station, contemplating the short walk along a soaking Broadway, she wondered why she’d granted Paul custody of their only car without a fight. Admittedly, the fact that he had stronger relationships with most of their mutual friends meant she’d found less need for social commuting since their split, but that wasn’t exactly a plus-point in itself.
    Not having her own transport was making an already overloaded schedule almost unmanageable. She’d been at the office before seven that morning, cramming half a day’s worth of paperwork into three quarters