The Advent Killer by Alastair Gunn Read Free Book Online Page B

hope for their ongoing battle to discover a link to 1 a.m.
    So far, research had produced no particular documented meaning linked to that time of day. Barclay had volunteered to look into whether the killer’s MO might have been ‘inspired’ by music. According to his very thorough report, there had been several music tracks or albums called ‘1 a.m.’ over the years, but he’d listened to them all, and none contained lyrics that pointed towards a potential motive. Apart from that, there seemed to be no film quotes, no Bible passages; no cultural references. The time, if it meant anything, had to be of personal significance to the killer, so they were unlikely to expose its meaning without first knowing who he was.
    Hawkins buttoned her jacket and stepped onto the unsheltered pavement, straight into a gust of wind that whipped a stinging spray of rainwater into her face. She cursed herself for having left her umbrella in the office, drawing startled looks from those around her. Ignoring them, she kept moving, trying to shelter behind the biggest man she found going in her direction, still trying to imagine an angle from which the current state of the case would sound positive to her boss.
    The good news was that the celebrity angle provided by Jessica Anderton’s death had heightened the wider public’s awareness of the potential danger. And greater alertness among the killer’s target group should at least reduce the chances of losing another one.
    Hawkins wiped away the rain dripping from her eyebrows and glanced up at New Scotland Yard. There were few more iconic symbols of modern policing, despite its modest origins as an office block.
    Nearing the famous rotating sign, she noticed a group of about thirty people huddled near it, fending off the rain with umbrellas. This in itself was no surprise: the Yard was five minutes on foot from Buckingham Palace, and most guides included it in their tourist walkabouts. But this group was not only larger than usual; it had seen her heading for the Yard’s entrance, and was now moving towards her.
    Why hadn’t she expected this? These people weren’t tourists. They were reporters.
    She batted away the first couple of Dictaphones, but within seconds she was surrounded.
    ‘Are you involved with the Jessica Anderton murder inquiry?’
    ‘Has anyone been arrested yet?’
    ‘Is any woman in London safe while this killer is free?’
    Her second mistake was to confirm that she was working on the case, by making some stupid comment about ‘… giving official statements when we’re ready.’ This only intensified the enthusiasm with which microphones were thrust into her face, and further blunted her progress.
    Finally, she managed to trip on the pavement and sprawl into the arms of one of the hacks, who leered down at her and commented on how friendly the Met were these days.
    By the time she had staggered across, fumbled herpass onto the electronic scanner and made it through the security doors, she was soaked, angry and shaken.
    She stood in the lobby, shivering, staring down anyone that dared to turn a gaze her way. And then she realized what she was doing, unconsciously. There was only one reason why anyone so dishevelled and embarrassed would remain in view of the reporters still laughing at her through the glass doors to her left.
    Her next appointment – for which she was now late – was with a boss who hated her even when she was on time.

9.
     
    The Yard’s maze of indistinguishable offices was always a headache, but as she read ‘117-c’ on what seemed like the millionth room sign, Hawkins wondered if a subconscious desire not to locate this one had delayed her even further.
    She tapped on the open, frosted-glass door. ‘Sorry I’m late, sir. It took me a while to find you.’
    ‘Have a seat, Hawkins.’ Lawrence Kirby-Jones didn’t turn. Instead he maintained his sentry-like stance, towering over a frightened-looking potted plant as he stared out of the