Cold Killing: A Novel (15 page)

“I’m sorry, James. Looks like the media’s gotten hold of this.”

“What?” Hellier snapped. “You sure they’re here for me?”

“I’m afraid so. They’ve already asked me for a statement. They know you’ve been arrested on suspicion of murder.”

“That bastard Corrigan. He told them. He’s trying to destroy me.” Hellier’s words were venomous.

“Listen,” said Templeman, “you need to stay calm. I’ll speak to them, deny you’ve been arrested, tell them you’re helping the police with their inquiries. You stay in here until I’m finished, then I’ll bring the car around. And I also recommend you cover your face when we leave.”

“What?” Hellier’s voice was raised.

“Just in case there’s a photographer sneaking about. You can use my raincoat.”

“You want me to crawl out of here with that over my head, like some pedophile? You might as well tell them I’m guilty.”

“Please, James, try and stay calm.” Templeman almost had his hands on Hellier’s chest. “A name’s nothing if they don’t have a face to go with it.”

Hellier sounded cold. “Fine, but hear this. No one humiliates me without paying the price.”

“I wouldn’t be talking about revenge if I were you, James,” Templeman advised.

A look of disgust spread across Hellier’s face. He put his face close to Templeman’s. Templeman could smell a virile, animal stench on Hellier’s breath. “You do as I fucking tell you and get me out of here. I’m expected at the damn industry awards dinner tonight. There’ll be hell to pay if I’m not there. Sebastian’s already on my back.” Hellier stretched the stiffness out of his neck, the cracking noise making the lawyer shudder. He snatched Templeman’s coat from him and gave him a final order. “Get me a damn taxi.”

B
y the time Sally arrived back at the murder inquiry office, it was already early evening and she was keen to catch up on developments. The place was all but deserted, except for Sean, who sat alone in his office. Sally knocked on the door frame, making him look up. “Everything all right?” she asked.

“Wonderful,” Sean answered sarcastically.

“I take it Hellier didn’t confess then.”

“Correct.”

“And his fingerprint in the victim’s flat?”

“Said he’d lied earlier. He now admits to having been there on several occasions in the past.”

“That’s exactly what I’d say if I was in his position.”

“Me too,” Sean agreed. “We bailed him, pending further inquiries. Anyway, how did you get on with what’s-his-name?”

“Korsakov,” she reminded him. “I managed to track down one of the original investigating officers, which was interesting enough, but he couldn’t tell me much more than Method Index had. The intelligence record at Richmond was a bit thin, no photographs either.

“If you have no objections, I thought I’d have Korsakov’s prints compared to any recovered from the scene. You never know your luck.”

“Be my guest,” Sean told her. “The identification officer dealing with this is IDO Collins. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go home before my kids forget what I look like. You should go home too. Get some sleep.”

“I will,” she said, then hesitated. “If he’s guilty, we’ll get him sooner or later. It’ll only be a matter of time before we can prove it.”

“Of course we will,” Sean assured her. “We always do, in the end. By the way, speaking of Hellier, did you show your man the photograph?”

“I did.”

“And?”

“Meant nothing to him. Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Sean said. “It was a long shot anyway.”

J
arratt sat at home with his wife and daughters. An article on the local evening news program caught his eye. Somebody had been arrested for the murder of Daniel Graydon. That was the name DS Jones had mentioned. The name of the murder victim.

The reporter standing outside the Peckham police station had used the term “helping police with their inquiries.” Jarratt knew that meant he’d been arrested.

It was only a small item on the news. The death of a prostitute caused little stir in London these days. He listened to the reporter’s closing statement.

“Although the police have so far refused to comment, it is believed that the man helping with their inquiries is one James Hellier, a renowned accountant and partner with the respected firm of Butler and Mason, whose offices are in the exclusive Knightsbridge area of Central London.

“The solicitor representing the man believed to be Mr. Hellier claimed his client had nothing to hide and was happy to assist the police in every way possible, although he declined to confirm the man was indeed James Hellier.”

This was disastrous. Everything he feared most was becoming reality. Jarratt’s chest was close to exploding. He excused himself and went to the kitchen. He poured too much whiskey into the first glass he saw. His hands shook as he took large sips. He needed to calm down, get control of himself and the situation. He thought he might be about to have a heart attack. He knew what was coming next.

S
ean sat quietly staring at the television without really watching it. He’d chosen to sit on a chair instead of next to Kate on the sofa. She could feel his tension.

“Sean,” she called across to him. Nothing. She called again. “Sean.” He rolled his head to face her. “Do you want to talk about it?” she asked.

Sean puffed out his lips and exhaled. “Not really.”

“It might help to talk,” she persevered.

“It’s nothing,” he lied. “I thought I had our prime suspect today, but he wormed off the hook.”

“You’ll get him. Remember what you always tell me: it’s only a matter of time, no matter how difficult it may look at first.”

“Yeah, but this one bothers me. Every time I think I’ve got him cornered, he worms his way out. At first I thought he was just thinking on his feet, coming up with answers to fit the evidence against him as and when he had to, but now I’m not so sure. I think he has a strategy. The moment he knew we were onto him, he invented a story to lead us into a blind alley—and it’s my fault. I showed my hand too soon. I should never have let him know he was a suspect. I should never have gone to his office in the first place. I should have watched him. Watched and waited for him to lead us to the evidence. Now I have to play the game with him, and from what I’ve seen so far he’s a bloody good player. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was even enjoying it.”

Sean sprang from his chair and made for the kitchen. He grabbed a glass and filled it with water. Kate followed him. She’d seen him like this before, usually during difficult cases, but not always. It was better to get him to talk than allow him to dwell on matters. She wouldn’t let him slip away into the dark places his past could take him. “Don’t let it get on top of you,” she warned. To anyone else it would have been an innocent enough comment, but not to Sean.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked.

Kate realized her mistake. “Nothing. I only meant don’t let this case get too personal.”

“It’s always personal,” Sean told her. “For me, it’s always personal. It’s how I stop them.”

“I know, but you need to be careful. Don’t try and do everything alone.”

“Why?” Sean asked. “Afraid I’ll lose it?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Isn’t it?” he said, his voice calm.

She knew his past, about his childhood, his father. The beatings and abuse. Everything. Sean had always been honest with her about that. She understood that the rage and hate from his childhood were still inside him somewhere. How could they not be? But she knew he was nothing like his father, like the people he hunted. If she’d had any doubts, no matter how small, she would never have married him, let alone had his children. This was just Sean venting his frustrations. She’d dealt with it before and she knew she’d have to deal with it again.

“Don’t do this, Sean,” she pleaded. “I don’t deserve this.”

It was enough to make Sean pause. “I’m sorry,” he said. He sipped his water. “Do you ever think about it though? Aren’t you ever a little afraid I may become like him?”

Kate knew he was talking about his father. “No. Never. You realized you had this thing inside you, and you wanted to stop it, stop it before anyone got hurt, and you did.”

“With a lot of help,” he reminded her.

“None of it would have worked if you hadn’t wanted it to.”

“Christ,” Sean said, before taking another swig of water, “sometimes I feel like such a fucking stereotype: boy is abused by his father, the boy grows into a man only to become an abuser himself. From victim to offender. It’s all too fucking predictable.”

“But you didn’t,” she reminded him. “You grew up to be a cop. You use your past to help people, not to hurt them.” A silence fell between them. Kate moved toward him and held his face in her hands. “Your past is a curse, but it has left you with a gift. You can think like these people. You can recognize them when others see nothing. You can predict them.”

“Not this one,” Sean told her. “I can’t see through his eyes yet. I don’t know why, but I can’t. Whenever I try, it’s like someone pulling a screen across, blocking me.”

“It’ll come,” she assured him. “Give it time and it will come.”

There was a silence, then Sean spoke again. “Do you know what it’s like, being able to think like them?”

“No,” Kate answered. “I look at you when you’re like this and I thank God I can’t. Who would want that burden?”

“I can feel what they feel,” he said. “I can sense their excitement, their relief. Pain. Confusion.”

Kate stroked his hair, the way a mother would a child. “And you use it to stop them. To stop them hurting people.”

“Sometimes I feel like I’m too close. So close that I could slip into darkness any second.”

“Then perhaps you should see Dr. Richardson? It has been a while since you spoke to her.”

“No,” Sean said, snapping a little. “I’ll be fine. I’ll sort it out myself. I just need you to remind me now and then. To remind me who I really am.”

“You know who you are,” Kate reminded him. “Ever since you decided you were going to be a policeman. Ever since that moment, you’ve known exactly who you are.”

“I suppose so,” he answered unconvincingly.

“There’s something else though, isn’t there? You’ve got that look on your face you always get when something’s drilling a hole in your head. So what is it?”

“I saw something strange today,” he confessed.

“The jobs we do, we see strange things every day.”

He ignored her interruption. “Outside my office window, on the flat roof below, in amongst the ventilation outlets. It was a dead bird. At first I thought it was just another dead pigeon, but then I realized it was a magpie. I knew it was a magpie because other magpies kept landing next to it. I assumed they’d come to feed on its body, but I was wrong—they were bringing it gifts: twigs, small shiny stones, things to eat. I watched them for a while and then I realized, I realized what they were doing. They were mourning its death. Magpies mourn their dead. I never knew that.”

“And that upset you?” Kate asked.

“No. Not upset me, made me wonder, that’s all.”

“Wonder what?”

“We don’t judge them, do we? Magpies. When they’re feeding on roadkill or killing the chicks of other birds as they try to hide in their nests, we don’t judge them. We don’t judge them because, as far as we’re concerned, they’re only doing what’s in their nature to do. They’re just animals, after all. But that’s what I thought separated us from animals, the fact that we mourn our dead. Only now I know magpies do too. A murderous, heartless killer that mourns its dead.”

“Meaning?” Kate asked.

“Meaning maybe we’re not as different from the animals killing each other to survive as we’d like to think. Meaning maybe that’s what the men I hunt are doing. Killing because it’s in their nature to. They were born to do it, yet we pass judgment on them as if they were normal like you and . . .” He stopped before including himself.

“Whether it’s in their nature to do it or not, someone has to stop them, and right now that someone is you.”

“I know.”

Kate sighed. “I’m proud of what you do. I’m proud it’s you who goes after them. It scares me sometimes, but I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

Sean pushed his glass away. “Thank you,” he told her softly. “Thank you for putting up with me. Promise me one thing though.”

“What?” Kate asked.

“Don’t ever let me go. Don’t give up on me.”

Kate slipped her hands around the back of his neck and pulled him closer. “That’ll never happen,” she promised. “I love you. Just don’t push me away. Don’t ever push me away.”

S
ebastian Gibran sat at his table in the middle of the Criterion Restaurant in Piccadilly Circus, an exclusive, expensive, and cavernous former ballroom in the heart of the West End. Usually the reserve of the rich, the famous, and wannabes, tonight it was for the exclusive use of London’s financiers. The lights were dimmer than usual, but Gibran could still make out pretty much everyone in the place. As he absentmindedly joined in with small talk he searched the room for Hellier. He couldn’t see him and checked his watch again. Hellier was already late, appetizers had been served and eaten. Soon the various speeches would begin. He knew he wouldn’t be the only one who had noticed Hellier’s absence. His searching was disturbed by the restaurant manager appearing at his shoulder, leaning in to speak quietly in his ear.

“Excuse me, sir, but some gentlemen would like to see you in the private bar.” Gibran knew who the gentlemen were and he had a good idea why they wanted to see him. He nodded once to show the manager he understood while pushing his chair away to stand, throwing the napkin from his lap onto the table.

Gibran moved inconspicuously across the restaurant and up a short flight of stairs to the private bar, various security and waiting staff casually moving out of his way, as if they’d all been warned of his coming. Two gorillas in thousand-pound suits held the doors open for him as he entered the bar and was immediately ushered past the most senior people in the world of finance he’d ever seen assembled in one place to a corner where two aging men sat in large comfortable chairs, at a table made up for their exclusive use. The men had brown skin and silver hair; crystal-clear, sharp, intelligent eyes; and wore platinum watches vulgarly encrusted with diamonds. Gibran could imagine the cars they drove, the houses they lived in, and the call girls they would sleep with later that night. One had a glass of blood red wine on the table in front of him and the other a martini; the latter was smoking a fat Cuban cigar and nobody told him he couldn’t. Gibran recognized them as two of the owners of Butler and Mason. He’d seen them twice before and spoken with them only once.