Cold Killing: A Novel (11 page)

“Sorry, sir. I’m driving and I need to show you this file. You’ll want to see it.”

“Okay,” he conceded. “Dave and I will meet you back at Peckham as soon as we can. Traveling time from Islington.”

“I’ll be there.”

“Developments?” Donnelly asked over his shoulder.

“Possibly. We need to get back to the office and meet Sally. The surveillance boys can handle this on their own.”

Their car pulled into the heavy North London traffic and slipped away seemingly unnoticed.

S
ean leaned against the window frame. Sally sat on a standard-issue police station chair, wooden and rickety. Donnelly also chose to stand.

Sally rested a cardboard folder in her lap. She reminded Sean of a schoolteacher about to read a story. “I dug this out of Method Index’s files earlier today,” she told them. “We entered the details of our murder into the system, looking for any similar crimes or methods. Eventually it threw up this character.”

Sally opened the folder and pulled out a criminal records file. “This is for a guy called Stefan Korsakov.” She passed the printout to Sean, who quickly scanned the list of convictions. It didn’t take long.

“Why? The man’s only got one conviction. For fraud. And that was almost ten years ago.” Sean was puzzled. He shook his head and passed the printout to Donnelly.

Sally continued: “Conviction, yes, but Method Index doesn’t only go on convictions. Here—” Sally pulled a thick bunch of papers from the folder. Sean recognized the old-style forms. “Stefan Korsakov was accused of raping a seventeen-year-old boy back in 1996. The victim had a slight learning difficulty. Nothing serious apparently, but it made him a little naive.

“Korsakov approached the boy while he was riding his bike around Richmond Park. He befriended him, gave him a can of beer laced with a stronger alcohol, then dragged him into a secluded area of the park, tied him up, gagged him, and sexually abused him in just about every way possible, climaxing with the actual rape.

“But the fact that this was a violent assault by a predatory older male wasn’t the only similarity. He used a stiletto knife to threaten the boy.”

“Similar to the weapon used on our victim,” Sean said.

“Well, well,” Donnelly added.

Sally wasn’t finished. “But Korsakov’s luck ran out. He spent too long with the boy. A constable from the Parks Police was sneaking through the woods looking for flashers. Apparently they’d had a rash of them in the park. He came across more than he bargained for. The file says the constable initially thought it was a bit of al fresco gross indecency between consenting males. Then he saw the bindings around the boy’s wrists.

“Korsakov sees the constable and makes a break for it, but the game is over and he gets nicked before he’s gone fifty feet. The arrest was made by Parks Police. CID at Richmond inherited the job. According to the investigating officer’s notes on the case, he came to the conclusion it was a planned attack: Korsakov had the laced beer with him. CID suspected he had previously targeted the boy, specifically because he had learning difficulties.

“This is the bit you’ll like. The investigating detective noted how Korsakov had a heightened state of awareness of forensic evidence.”

“Well, our boy certainly has that,” Donnelly said.

“He wore a condom throughout the assault. He also wore a pair of leather gloves that were brand-new and he was wearing a waterproof jacket and trousers. He had an empty bin liner in his pocket.”

Sean understood waterproofs were usually made of tightly woven nylon and could be as effective as a forensics suit in preventing forensic evidence transferring from the suspect to the victim and vice versa.

Sally went on: “I’ve saved the best till last. When Korsakov was stripped and examined back at the nick, they discovered he’d shaved all his pubic hair off. He later claimed he’d had a dose of pubic crabs and had had to shave it all off.”

“Shaved his pubes off,” Donnelly said. “Now that’s dedication.”

“But he wasn’t convicted?” Sean asked.

“No,” Sally answered. “He wasn’t convicted of the rape. He was, however, convicted of serious fraud. His home was searched as part of the investigation and they found a shitload of papers relating to a pensions company he’d established. The investigating detectives took a dislike to him . . .”

“I can’t think why,” Donnelly chipped in.

“ . . . so they decided to stir up as much trouble as they could. Phoned around to people who’d signed up with his pension company. Made some inquiries as to where he’d invested their money. Turned out the whole thing was a con. There was no pension company—or at least, not a real one. The money was going toward keeping Korsakov in the lifestyle he’d become accustomed to. Nice house, BMW and a Range Rover, villa in Umbria . . .

“He’s a con man. A good one. An excellent forger of documents too. He forged clients’ signatures and increased their payments without them even knowing. He’d also forged himself numerous official documents. Passports. Driving licenses. All for different countries. There appears to be no end to his talents.

“He’d stolen more than two million pounds. Mainly from the elderly. He was finally convicted after a three-month trial and sentenced to four years’ custody. The money was never recovered. Released from Wandsworth prison on twenty-third December 1999.

“Since his release he’s not been heard of. No arrests or convictions. Nothing.”

“Why wasn’t he convicted of raping the boy?” Sean asked. “Seemed straightforward.”

“The boy withdrew the allegation. His parents thought it would be best for him not to go through the courts. They were worried about the press finding out. Making the boy’s life a public freak show. So he walks on the rape, but the investigating officers do their best to screw him anyway and he goes down on the fraud charges.”

Sean spoke again. “Offenders who commit this sort of crime don’t strike once then never again. No matter what the risks, he would have reoffended. He couldn’t have remained dormant for so long.”

“Agreed,” Sally said. “Which means he’s either dead, left the country, found God and changed his ways, or . . .” She stopped short.

“Or?” Sean encouraged.

“Or he’s become someone else. Used his forgery and fraud skills to create a new identity for himself. A new life.”

“What’s Korsakov look like?” Sean asked, a seed of an idea germinating in his mind.

“I don’t know,” Sally replied. “There’s no photograph on file. Only a description.”

“Which is?” Sean asked.

Sally checked the file. “Male, white. Back in ninety-six he was twenty-five years old, slim, athletic build; short light brown hair; and no identifiable marks, scars, or tattoos.”

Sean and Donnelly exchanged glances. “Sound like anyone we know?” Donnelly asked.

Sean shook his head. “I know what you’re thinking, but they can’t be the same person. This guy’s got a conviction, so his prints are on file. Hellier has no prints on file, so he can’t have been convicted of anything; otherwise his prints would be too, no matter what name he’d been convicted under.”

Donnelly knew Sean was right. “Shame.”

“However,” Sean added, “it won’t hurt our case to look into it. Sally, you stay with it. First thing in the morning, start finding out all you can about Korsakov. See what Richmond has on him and track down the original investigating officer.”

Sean turned to Donnelly. “Have you still got that snapshot of Hellier that I took?”

“Aye,” Donnelly answered and pulled the photograph from his jacket pocket, handing it to Sean, who in turn handed it to Sally.

“If you do track the investigating officer down, show him this,” Sean told her. “See if he recognizes him.”

“I thought you said it couldn’t possibly be Hellier?” Donnelly argued.

“No harm in double-checking. Kill the possibility off once and for all.” Sean turned to Sally. “Once you’ve done that, concentrate on this Korsakov character until you’re happy you’ve got enough to eliminate him as a viable suspect.”

“And if I can’t eliminate him?”

“You will,” Sean assured her. “You will.”

H
ellier only ventured out twice all day—once to the local shop for the Sunday papers and then later for an afternoon stroll with his family around the leafy suburban streets. Both his children held on to their mother’s hands as Hellier walked a few paces behind.

He couldn’t have made it easier for the surveillance team to follow him. He thought he had spotted some of them. Hard to tell, best to stay paranoid for the time being. Always assume the worst. That way he would never be caught cold.

Now he sat in his cream-and-steel kitchen watching his wife clear up after the evening meal. He pushed his half-eaten food away and sipped on a glass of Pauillac de Latour.

“No appetite?” Elizabeth asked, smiling. Hellier didn’t hear. “Not hungry tonight, darling?” She raised her voice slightly.

“Sorry, no,” Hellier answered. “That was delicious, but just not feeling too hungry.” He was with her only in body. His mind was outside with the surveillance team in the streets around his house, circling him as a pack of hyenas would an isolated lion.

“Worried about something?” Elizabeth asked.

“No. Why would I be?” Hellier didn’t like being questioned by anybody.

“What about this identity fraud thing the police were looking into?”

“That was nothing,” Hellier insisted. “Like I told you, it was all a mistake. The police made a mistake, surprise, surprise.”

“Of course,” she said, backing down.

“You did tell them I was at home all night, didn’t you?” Hellier asked without apparent concern.

“I said exactly what you told me to.”

“Good.” But Hellier could tell she needed more. “Look, I was at a very sensitive meeting that night. The company wanted me to meet some potential clients, very important clients, but they were a little worried about their backgrounds. Beware Africans bearing large amounts of cash, as we say these days. They wanted me to check them out, that’s all, see if their wealth could be obviously identified as ill-gotten gains. If so, we wouldn’t touch them. All the same, we can’t afford to have the police sniffing around our affairs—it would be very bad for business. Our clients expect complete confidentiality and privacy. I couldn’t tell the police the truth. I’m sorry I dragged you into it, darling, but I really had no choice.”

Elizabeth seemed happy with that. Even if she didn’t entirely believe him, the explanation itself was at least believable. “You should have told me that straightaway, dear. I would have understood. But I’d watch out for that DI Corrigan,” she warned him. “He didn’t come across as the usual PC Plod. There was something unnerving about him. Some sort of animal cunning.”

Hellier felt rage suddenly swelling in his chest, his temples throbbing, his body trembling involuntarily, but the expression on his face never changed from calm and content. He couldn’t stand to hear his adversary being complimented. Even if his wife had meant it as an insult, it gave Corrigan more credibility in his eyes, even suggested he should somehow fear him. His fists clenched under the table as he imagined Elizabeth’s smashed and bleeding face, his own knuckles bleeding, shredded on her teeth.

He waited until the rage had swept over him and died, like a passing hurricane, before rising from the table. He kissed her softly on the cheek. “I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me, darling,” he said. “I need to do a little work. The price we have to pay.”

Hellier headed for his study. He went through the ritual of recovering the key to his safe and then opening it. He flicked through the small address book he’d pulled from inside and found what he was looking for. He called the number.

“Hello?” the voice answered.

“You’d better call off your fucking dogs,” Hellier hissed.

“That’s not possible. I haven’t got that sort of influence.” The voice sounded matter-of-fact. Hellier didn’t like that.

“Listen to me, you fucking moron. As much as it amuses me having these incompetents trying to follow me, they might just stumble across something we’d both rather they didn’t. So you’d better think of something, and soon.”

“I’ve already done more than I should,” the voice protested. “I’ve stuck my neck out. I can’t do anything else. I won’t.”

“Wrong again. I hope you’re not going to make a habit of slipping up. I think you know how costly your mistake could be.”

Hellier didn’t wait for a reply. He hung up. He heard his wife call out. She wanted to know if he wanted coffee.

CHAPTER 11

I
was late for work today. No matter. I went to my corner office, in an old building in Central London. I have a lovely view of the street below. I like to watch people walking past. The office is all mine. I’m wealthy, but I hate this job. I shouldn’t have to work. Everybody else works, and I’m far from being like everybody else. I shouldn’t have to work, but it is necessary for my illusion.

I sit in my leather chair and absorb a couple of tabloid papers while slurping on a skinny caffè latte. Two sugars. The papers are full of the usual garbage. Famine threatens millions in some African country. Flooding threatens millions in some Asian country. The usual appeals for money and clothes. Some rock star on the television, suddenly remorseful about his wealth and fame, screaming about how guilty we should all feel.

Why can’t everyone understand? These people have been selected by Nature to die. Stop interfering. Nature knows best. You keep them alive now, so in a year’s time they die of a disease instead, or you cure the disease and they die of starvation. So you rid the world of starvation and they kill each other by the tens of thousands in tribal wars. These do-gooders are ignorant fools trying to buy a ticket into heaven. Let us leave these millions to Nature—let them fucking die.

I am Nature itself. I do what I was born to do and I don’t feel guilty. I have freed myself from the shackles of compassion and mercy. Some of you are simply meant to die by my hand and so you will. Who am I to argue with Nature? Who are you to? Nothing can stand in the way of Nature’s design.

But I’m no sick case locked in a bed, sitting alone every night slashing my chest with razor blades while masturbating to violent pornography. Not me. I’m no self-destructive psychiatric case just waiting or hoping to be caught. Neither am I seeking fame or notoriety. I don’t even want to be infamous. You’ll not see me sending the police clues, playing a game, phoning them up with tasty morsels of information. None of that interests me. I’ll give them nothing.

And even if they do catch up with me, they’ll never prove a thing.

My third visit was the most satisfying experience of my life. A development. A further sign of my growing strength and power.

In a way it is merciful. A newborn killer can make a terrible mess of things. Prolong the victim’s agony. An efficient killer is exactly that. Efficient. I grow more efficient with each kill. That’s not to say I don’t like to have a little fun every now and then.

Besides, I have to make a mess sometimes, to keep the police guessing. Can’t stick to the same method of dispatching the chosen few. That would make it all too easy. They’re already sniffing around very close to home, not that that concerns me.

I rented a car. A big fat Vauxhall, with a big fat boot to match. I parked the car in a parking lot overnight, this time in the shopping center at Brent Cross in North London. I bought a new raincoat from the same shopping center, along with new plastic-soled shoes. I bought a nylon T-shirt and a new pair of black Nike training pants, all of which I stored in the hired car until I needed them.

I was all set. I returned to the lot early the following evening. The shops were still open. I took the clothes from the boot of the car and changed into them in a public toilet. I returned to the car and quickly covered the real number plates with false ones. I had been careful to park in a CCTV blind spot.

All went smoothly and I drove south toward King’s Cross railway station, a modern monstrosity of a building. I drove against the flow of traffic and arrived there around 8
P.M.
It wasn’t quite dark yet, so I parked the car in a side street. It was free to park at this time of night. That was important. I couldn’t risk a parking ticket or the unwanted attention of a bored policeman.

I left the car and walked toward the West End, along Euston Road. From my research I knew there was a Burger King close to St. Pancras station. Despite the excited tightness in my belly I felt a little hungry, so decided to grab a bite to eat. It was as good a way as any to kill an hour and let the night grow dark. Wait until winter comes, I thought. Sixteen hours of darkness a day. What fun we’ll have then.

I ate my Whopper with cheese, chewed a few fries, and slurped a diet 7UP. I amused myself watching the people milling around me, unaware that they were dancing so close to death. Young foreign students mainly, being served by life’s losers.

My attention became focused on three young Spanish girls. They picked at their food and giggled. They were attracting the attention of a group of dark-skinned youths. I didn’t think the youths were Spanish—probably Italian or, worse, Albanian. Probably more interested in stealing the girls’ handbags than their virginity.

I would have liked to tie up the giggling girls. Spend plenty of time with them. Watch their tears of pain and fear flow, hear their stifled squeals of agony and humiliation as I had my fun with them one by one. Then I’d make them watch and see my power as I slit their throats. A twisted, bloody tribute to the beauty of violent death.

I had to calm myself. My imagination was overexciting me and the tightness in my belly was becoming painful. I had my subject for the night. It had been arranged. Carefully planned. I had to guard against acting on impulse. The Spanish girls would live. Someone else would not.

When the time came, I left the restaurant. On the way out I walked close to the Spanish girls. I breathed them in deeply. They smelled sweet. Like bubble gum. One of them glanced at me and smiled. I smiled back. Her friends noticed and all three returned to a giggling scrum. Some other time, perhaps.

I’d been agitated by the girls. My heart beat faster than normal. I was on the point of being desperate. I’d prayed my chosen subject would be where she should be. I walked faster than I should have. Had anyone noticed me? Thought me a little out of place? On reflection, I didn’t think so.

I reached my chosen vantage point, at the far west tip of King’s Cross station. I was so excited I almost wandered into the range of some CCTV cameras attached to the side of the station wall. I managed to stop myself. I looked across the five lanes of Euston Road traffic and focused on the small, brightly lit café. I could see straight inside. It was typical of the cafés around the station. A real shithole. The owner sold poisonous food and child prostitutes.

The game machines by the front door were a sign. A beacon to the young homeless. Runaways from the north and Midlands often made it no farther from the railway station than this café. From here, they would be farmed out to various pimps across London. That would then be their life. Prostitution, crime, drugs, and early death.

Other hunters visited this place. It was like an African watering hole. Most hunting illicit underage sex. Some, very occasionally, hunting to kill, but none quite like me.

She was right where she should be. Pumping money into a fruit machine. A lost cause chasing a lost cause. She must have been between fourteen and sixteen, about five foot three; long dirty-blond hair; white skin, beautiful like marble. Slim. Half my size.

I’d been watching the place off and on for a couple of weeks. Nothing took my fancy, but I persevered. After a few days she appeared, knapsack in hand. From the first moment I saw her, she was mine.

I hadn’t been any closer to her yet than this. I hadn’t heard her speak, so I didn’t know where she was from. I didn’t know the color of her eyes yet either. I hoped they were brown. Brown eyes set against that marble skin would be stunning. I needed to see her blood on that skin. I started getting an erection. I took some deep breaths and calmed myself down.

During the times I’d watched her, she hadn’t been taken away by anyone. I didn’t think she’d succumbed to the inevitable life of prostitution yet. Good. The more innocent they are, the greater my pleasure is. Is there anything sweeter than violated innocence?

I kept watch. Waiting for her to make a deadly mistake. No one noticed me. There were thousands of people around the station. For once the weather forecast had been accurate and it was drizzling, hence my raincoat seemed perfectly normal, even at this time of year.

She did it several times a night. Walked out of the café and around into a side street, close to where I’d parked the car. At first I wondered what she was doing. Urinating? Giving clients fumbling oral sex? Then I saw her. She was going for a cigarette. She didn’t want to share it with the other runaway fuckers. And why should she? They say smoking is bad for your health. If only she knew.

I patiently watched her. Still excited, but less agitated now. I had more control over myself. I could wait. It was only a matter of time.

My patience was rewarded. I saw her speaking to the other youths huddled around the machine. She was making her excuse to leave. The others didn’t seem interested. She stepped out of the café, looking up and down the street. She knew she was mere prey. She was nervous about moving away from the safety of the herd. She disappeared into the side street. I crossed the road by the crosswalk. The light rain made the yellow, red, and green lights of the street dance on the shiny road and the vehicles that passed.

The girl was out of view now, but I could smell her. Feel her. I moved in closer. Drawn to her. I had the police identification in my coat pocket. My hand rested on it. Ready. In the other pocket I had a small carving knife in case she tried to run or squeal. I’d bought the knife months ago and hidden it in my study at home. It was a common brand. Very good for slicing tomatoes, or so the sales assistant had told me.

I saw her clearly enough. Standing in the doorway of a derelict shop, smoking her cigarette. She watched me walking in her direction. I sensed her caution, but no real fear yet. Nothing that would make her take flight. I was careful not to look at her as I approached. I used my peripheral vision to watch her. I got to about five meters away from her. If she’d run then, she might have lived. Any longer and she couldn’t have gotten away. I am strong. I am fast. Much stronger and faster than I look. I exercise a lot. Secretly.

I drew level and turned to face her. She was trapped by railings on either side of the doorway. With the survival instincts of a wild animal, she spoke immediately: “Come near me and I’ll fucking scream. I’ll scream rape and I’ll tell the coppers you touched us up.” She had a Newcastle accent.

I smiled at her. I thought about pulling out the knife and slaughtering her right there. There was no one around. I stuck to the plan instead. I pulled out the police badge and showed it to her. Casually.

“Oh fuck,” she whispered.

“Name and age?” I asked. She huffed, like a spoiled teenager being asked to make her bed by weak-willed parents. “Name and age? I haven’t got all night to waste fucking around with you,” I lied.

“Heather Freeman.” She finally looked me in the eyes. Hers were blue. Never mind. “And I’m seventeen.”

I laughed. “I don’t think so, Heather. Your parents reported you missing over a week ago. You’re underage, and that means you’re coming with me,” I lied again.

“Where to?” she asked. She sounded slightly panicked, but not scared. She certainly wasn’t scared of me.

“The police station. And then we’ll call your parents. See if they can come and pick you up.”

She argued a little more and I told her she had no choice for now but to come with me. I needed to get her moving while the road was still quiet. I took hold of her upper arm and gripped firmly. She winced.

“You’re hurting me arm,” she complained in her northeastern accent.

“Can’t have you running off again, can we?” I explained. She huffed; her skin was as soft as warm water under my fingers. She would bruise easily. I relaxed my grip somewhat. I didn’t want to leave an impression of my hand in her soft skin. “Come on. My car’s around the corner.”

“Haven’t you got anything better to do than hassle me?” she asked, her accent increasingly annoying.

“Saving you from yourself, young lady,” I answered. “These streets are no place for someone like you. There’s a lot of bad people out there.”

She huffed again.

We reached my rented car without incident. No one had seen us. I’d checked the route several times before. It wasn’t overlooked by any residential buildings. No matter how busy King’s Cross and the Euston Road were, the side streets were more often than not deserted of life. Just the occasional vermin looking for a whore.

I stood her by the boot of the car, so she was slightly side on to me. I opened the boot, which was already lined with plastic sheets. I’d bought them a few weeks ago from Homebase. You use them for decorating.

Fear flashed into her body. It electrified her every muscle, her every nerve. Her eyes widened and her pupils dilated. “What’s this for?” She was almost pleading.

I smashed my right fist into her jaw, careful to avoid her mouth. I didn’t want to leave my skin on her teeth. She spun around on the spot and began to fall. I caught her as she did. She was limp. Moaning quietly.

With almost no effort I threw her into the boot of the big sedan. I picked up the roll of gaffer’s tape, another purchase from Homebase, and neatly bound her wrists behind her back. I also bound her ankles and knees, and gagged her pretty mouth. I looked around calmly. Still no one in sight. I stroked the pale skin around her neck. God, I wanted to slice it open right there. I slammed the boot shut before I lost control. All in good time, I told myself. All in good time.

I drove east along the Pentonville Road. Through wealthy Islington, immigrant-swamped Shoreditch, decaying Mile End, and immediately forgettable Plaistow. Finally I reached my chosen destination. A large piece of wasteland in South Hornchurch, not far from the Dagenham Ford factory. A suitably grim and dark place for little Heather Freeman to meet her end.

I drove along the clean tarmac road to a small brick building in the middle of the waste ground and parked close. I put on a pair of rubber gloves and made sure my coat was fully buttoned. When I opened the boot, she was lying on her side. Tears ran down her face and across the tape over her mouth. Her wet eyes shone like the purest diamonds. I wondered if she had ever looked more beautiful. She was too terrified to manage much more than a whimper.