Cold Killing: A Novel (8 page)

Kate had waited up for him. He wished she hadn’t. He didn’t want to talk. He wanted a drink, a sandwich, and to watch some trash on TV. He passed the living room where his wife sat, speaking into the room as he headed for the kitchen. “It’s only me.”

After a few seconds Kate followed him into the kitchen. “You’re back late,” she said, her tone neutral.

“I’m sorry,” Sean replied, conscious that he seemed to be saying that more and more. “You know what it’s like when I get a new case—first few days are always a nightmare.”

“A nightmare for who?” Kate asked, her words more provocative than she had intended.

“I don’t know,” Sean answered. “For me? For you? For the guy who’s just had his skull smashed in, dead before his life’s even started? For his parents, who have to come to terms with the fact that their only child is gone and never coming back?”

An oppressive silence gripped the room. Kate took a breath. “Are you okay?”

Sean accepted the truce. “Yeah. Of course. I’m tired and grumpy, that’s all. Sorry. Are the kids asleep?”

“It’s after eleven. What sort of mother would I be if they weren’t?” She moved toward him. He had his back to her while he looked around for a glass. She put her arms around his waist. He was in good shape for a man in his late thirties. He had the physique of a middleweight boxer, a legacy from his teenage years. The sport had been one of the things that had kept him out of trouble while too many of his childhood friends turned to a life of crime. “I’m glad you’re home,” she said. He leaned back into her.

“I’m glad too. Sorry. I should have called. Must have lost track of time. How’s Mandy? Will she forgive me?”

“Well, she’s only three. You’ve plenty of time to make it up. But never mind little Miss Mandy. What about me? How are you going to make it up to me?”

Sean was smiling slightly. “I’ll buy you a bunch of flowers.”

“Not good enough, Detective Inspector. I was thinking of something a bit more immediate and a lot more fun.”

Kate led him to the stairs and made for their bedroom. As Sean’s foot reached the top step he heard a voice coming from Mandy’s room.

“Daddy.”

He looked apologetically at his wife. “I’d better stick my head in,” he whispered.

Kate slipped her shirt off, her brown skin shining in the semidarkness. “Don’t be long,” she said. “I might fall asleep.”

Sean quietly entered Mandy’s room, the night-light illuminating a small pajama-clad figure. She grinned uncontrollably when she saw him. “Daddy.”

“Hey, hey, sweetie. You’re supposed to be asleep,” Sean reminded her.

“I was waiting for you to come home, Daddy.”

“No, you mustn’t do that, because sometimes Daddy doesn’t get home until very late.”

“Why don’t you get home till late, Daddy?”

“Now is not the time to talk about it, honey. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

“Mummy says you’re catching bad men.”

“Does she?” Sean said, not meaning it to be a question.

“What have the bad men done, Daddy?”

“Nothing that you should be worried about,” he lied. “Go to sleep now. Daddy is here. Daddy is always here.”

Sean found himself stroking her hair. He watched her eyes flicker shut, but even when he knew she was asleep he couldn’t leave her. Kate would understand. He needed this—needed something to balance the horror of what he dealt with day in, day out. Needed something to suppress the darkness that always lurked just beneath the surface.

CHAPTER 7

T
here were three others before the little queer. I’ve already told you about the solicitor type I stabbed in the heart. That means there are two I’ve not mentioned.

The first was a young girl. Seventeen or eighteen. I’d parked forty meters from the entrance to an abortion clinic. I didn’t have to wait long. These places do a good trade.

This clinic was in Battersea. Quite far from where I live. It was a low-rise, modern sandstone building. Very discreet. It was not far from Battersea Rise. Close to Clapham Common. Nice in the summer. Lots of traffic though, and too many mahogany-skinned immigrants fleeing poverty, war, and starvation.

I knew exactly what I was waiting for, and then, there she was. It was a few weeks ago and wasn’t as warm as it is now. She hurried along the pavement. Collar turned up against the mild chill as well as to hide her face. She entered the clinic with her head bowed.

I waited for her. A couple of hours and there she came. Hurrying back along the pavement. I could smell her shame. Probably a Catholic. I hope so.

I caught up with her soon enough, keeping pace, about five meters back. She was too trapped in her own private hell to feel my presence.

I was close enough to see her properly now. She was slightly built. Good. And she was clearly crying. Good. She was also alone. What type of young girl would come here alone? Simple. One who hasn’t told anybody about her little problem. So Mummy and Daddy didn’t know yet. She was perfect. All she needed to do was keep walking in the direction we were heading. I’d already checked out several routes away from the clinic and most had possibilities. But there was a nice concealed railway line on this one, running under a bridge, hidden from the road above. Close to the scene of the Clapham railway disaster.

I was wearing a raincoat I’d bought, with cash, from Marks & Spencer on Oxford Street a few months ago and hadn’t worn until then. It was a common enough coat. Nothing special. Deliberately so. I also wore brand-new plain leather-soled men’s shoes and had a pair of leather gloves nestled in one coat pocket. A large bin liner was stuffed into the other pocket.

I had to get the next bit exactly right, or this would be over before it began. We approached the break in the roadside wall that led down to the railway. I put the gloves on. I had to move fast now. Anyone around and this was off.

I ran the short distance between us and punched her as hard as I could in the center of her back. I felt her spine give way to my fist. I heard the air rush from her lungs. She couldn’t make a sound. She dropped to her knees.

I grabbed her from behind and pulled her through the break in the wall. She was no match for me, but I couldn’t risk being caught by a flailing arm. If she had scratched me, I would have cut her fingers off and taken them with me rather than make a present of my skin, my DNA, for the police.

The way down to the railway lines was exactly what I’d been looking for. I discovered it a while ago when I was out scouting for good spots. The bank fell away steeply, but not so steeply as to stop you walking down. But the best bit was that up against the arch of the bridge there was a concrete ledge, a meter wide, on the ground. Past that there was only soil and dust. It meant I could make the girl walk on the soil, hence leaving her footprints, while I walked on the concrete in my plain shoes, leaving none. It would appear as if she’d walked the last walk of her pitiful life alone.

I dragged her to the bottom of the bridge arch and pushed her against the side of it. I stared into her eyes, hard. They were green and beautiful. She was terrified. The art I imagined was becoming reality. I decided she wouldn’t give me any trouble. I spoke gently.

“If you make a sound or fight or try and run, I will hurt you. Do you understand?” I was calm.

She frantically nodded her head. Then she squeaked out a few pathetic words. “Please. Don’t rape me. Please. I’ve just had an operation. Please. I won’t tell anyone. Please.”

“I won’t hurt you,” I promised. “I need you to stand there quietly for a few seconds.” I could hear the train lines begin to whistle and knew a fast train was approaching. I peeked around the corner and saw the train flying toward me. I’d timed this already. Once it passed the hut on the siding, I had five seconds before it hurtled past me.

I gripped the girl by her right arm with both my hands. Five. Four. Three. Two—and I swung her out from behind the bridge arch.

It was as if she jogged out onto the line. She even managed to avoid tripping over the first rail. She made it all the way between the tracks.

The train that hit her must have looked huge. I saw her stiffen just before it wiped her from the face of the planet. I wonder what she thought, if anything.

I didn’t wait to see where her body landed. I quickly turned and ran up the railway bank. I was well protected from anyone looking out of the train window. I’d had my fun, but ultimately the poetry was lacking. The violence was too mechanical. I hadn’t been able to see her eyes or hear her last breath as the train ripped the life from her. The work lacked feeling. No texture. No color. I would do better next time.

I wonder where the train was going.

As I drove away, I could hear the first sirens approaching. A few days later there was a sad little article in the
Evening Standard
about a girl who’d had an abortion then killed herself by jumping in front of a train. Apparently all parties had decided she couldn’t live with the guilt. The shame. She still had a receipt for the abortion in her pocket. The last line of the article read, “Police are not looking for anyone else in connection with her death.”

CHAPTER 8

Saturday

S
ean was in his car, on his way to the station, when his phone rang. The display showed no number. It made him cautious. He answered without giving his name. “Hello?”

“I need to speak with Detective Inspector Sean Corrigan.” He recognized the voice. It was Hellier.

“This is DI Corrigan.”

“We’ll do it your way, Inspector. I’ll meet you today. I’ll be at the Belgravia police station at two
P.M.
I expect absolute discretion.” Hellier hung up.

Fine, Sean thought. Pick any station you like, but come tomorrow I’ll have a set of your fingerprints, your DNA, and your statement. Once I have them, it’s only a matter of time before the web of lies begins to disintegrate.

S
ean and Donnelly sat in their Mondeo in Ebury Bridge Road, Belgravia. They had a good view of the front of the police station, but were far enough away not to be seen. Sean wanted to watch Hellier as he approached, wanted to see how he looked ahead of their meeting.

At 1:40 Sean and Donnelly saw Hellier striding along Buckingham Palace Road. He fit the affluent area perfectly. Sean focused the lens of the camera on Hellier’s face and pressed the button. “A little present for the surveillance boys,” he told Donnelly.

“When’s that starting, by the way?”

“As soon as Featherstone authorizes it. I put in a request first thing this morning.”

“Rather him than me,” Donnelly said, thinking of the reams of paperwork Detective Superintendent Featherstone would have to complete before surveillance could begin.

Hellier looked confident. He was with another man who carried a briefcase.

“I fucking knew he’d bring his lawyer,” said Sean.

“That’ll be one expensive mouthpiece,” Donnelly replied as they watched Hellier and his solicitor enter the station.

“We’ll give it a few minutes,” Sean said. “Let them get a bit pissed off. Then we’ll go see them. See if we can’t rattle his cage.”

“Aye,” Donnelly agreed.

“Any luck with criminal records?”

“No. Nothing on criminal records or the intelligence system. He appears clean.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Maybe he’s had an identity change,” Donnelly suggested.

“Wouldn’t surprise me. A set of his prints will soon answer that.”

“Shall we dance?”

“Why not?” They climbed from their car and headed after Hellier.

S
ean and Donnelly sat across the table from Hellier and his solicitor, Jonathon Templeman, in the witness interview room.

Templeman spoke first. “Inspector, my client has a right to know why he has been asked to come here today.”

Sean smiled. “You make it sound as if Mr. Hellier is a suspect.”

“It feels as if he’s being treated like one. Asked to come to a police station. Of course my client wishes to cooperate, but his rights must be respected. If he is a suspect, then he needs to be informed.”

“Mr. Hellier is not a suspect,” Sean told him. “That’s why we’re in the witness room, not an interview room. If Mr. Hellier was a suspect, he’d have been arrested by now.”

Sean knew the solicitor didn’t believe a word he was saying. He would have realized the police suspected his client was involved in the murder of Daniel Graydon and he would do all he could to protect Hellier, but he wouldn’t want to force Sean’s hand. Wouldn’t want to precipitate Hellier’s arrest.

“I don’t know how much your client has told you, Mr. . . . ,” Sean said, looking at the business card the solicitor had handed him, “ . . . Mr. Templeman, but from my initial conversation with Mr. Hellier I know he had sexual relations with a young man who was found murdered some days later.”

“My client’s sexual orientation is not an issue here,” Templeman intervened. “It’s no longer illegal to be gay, Inspector.” He was being deliberately provocative. He knew the best way to defend a client, whether they were guilty or not, was to be aggressive toward the investigating officers. Show no signs of cooperation. Never be civil. Always attack.

“Mr. Templeman,” Sean said, “I have no interest in Mr. Hellier’s sexuality. What I do care about is that a young man has been murdered. Mr. Hellier is an important witness. Possibly the best I have. I need a full witness statement and full forensic samples for elimination purposes. And his fingerprints.”

“A witness statement is out of the question,” Templeman said, still speaking for Hellier. “The body samples we agree to. We understand the need to eliminate my client from the investigation as quickly as possible.”

Donnelly joined in. “This isn’t a shoplifting we’re investigating. This is a murder inquiry. Mr. Hellier will give a full written statement and he’ll do it today.” His voice was calm.

“My client has not witnessed any offenses in relation to the death of Mr. Graydon. He can provide no useful information, therefore he will not be providing a witness statement. Such a statement would be of no use to the police, yet it could be both embarrassing and damaging to my client.”

“Embarrassing?” Donnelly said. “I don’t care how embarrassing it could be. Maybe you would like to meet the boy’s parents. You could explain to them how your client is more concerned about being embarrassed than he is about helping to find their son’s killer.”

“No statement.”

Sean knew Templeman meant it. “I’ll have Mr. Hellier summonsed to court to give evidence if necessary.”

“Then that’s what you’ll have to do, Inspector.”

“Fine,” Sean said. There was more than one way to skin a cat, but why wouldn’t Hellier make a statement? Sean didn’t believe the bullshit about public embarrassment. Hellier didn’t want to say anything the police could prove was a lie. Best to keep his mouth shut. Hide behind his expensive solicitor.

“So, no statement,” Sean said. “Samples, you agree to?” He was looking directly at Hellier, who remained dumb.

“I’ve already said we agree to body samples,” Templeman informed him.

“And fingerprints. For elimination purposes.” Sean waited for the answer, hoping he sounded casual enough.

“Why do you need my client’s fingerprints?” Templeman asked. “I thought Mr. Hellier had made it quite clear that he’d never been in the victim’s flat. Unless you found prints on the body, which is most unlikely, I don’t see why you would want my client’s fingerprints for elimination.”

Sean spoke quickly. A delay would have alerted Templeman and probably, maybe more so, Hellier. “Not on his body. On some cash we found in his pocket,” he lied. “Your client paid for sex. So unless he used a credit card, the cash could be Mr. Hellier’s. It’s already been chemically treated and we’ve been able to recover a number of prints. If the prints aren’t your client’s, then they could be the killer’s.”

“Very well,” Templeman said. “My client is prepared to provide a set of elimination prints.”

Hellier nodded his agreement to provide his fingerprints.

“Good.” Sean called a young detective constable into the room. “This is DC Zukov. He’ll take you to the surgeon’s room where a doctor will take your body samples, then he’ll take your prints. Understand?”

Hellier didn’t reply.

“I need a full set, Paulo,” Sean told DC Zukov. “Palms and fingertips too. And the side of his hands.”

Zukov nodded and looked at Hellier. “If you’d like to come this way, sir.”

Templeman and Hellier followed DC Zukov from the room. Donnelly made sure they were out of earshot.

“That was a bit of a porky-pie, boss. We don’t have any fingerprints on any cash that I know of. Could cause us problems if anyone discovers we tricked our suspect into giving his prints—like the Crown Prosecution Service, for example.”

Sean wasn’t concerned. “Fuck ’em. I’ll cross that bridge when and if I come to it. Right now, I want his prints in case we get lucky at the scene.”

“He seems pretty confident he’s never been inside Graydon’s flat,” Donnelly reminded him.

“Yeah, but we only need him to have made one mistake, just one mistake, and we’ll be able to put him in the flat, and then I’ll have him.”

“You’re sure it’s him, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know. The more I see him, the more I’m next to him, the more sure I am he’s hiding something. But it’s almost as if this is a game to him—as if he’s somehow enjoying it. I don’t know, but there’s something . . .” Sean didn’t finish his thought.

“Maybe you just really want it to be him?” Donnelly argued. “Maybe you just don’t like the smug bastard with his expensive attorney?”

“No,” Sean answered quietly, without looking at Donnelly. “I can feel his guilt.”

“Guilt, aye,” Donnelly agreed. “But guilt for the death of Daniel Graydon?”

“I don’t know,” Sean admitted, “but I’ve got a very strong feeling James Hellier and I are going to cross swords again, and soon.”