by Luke Delaney
‘Where d’you get all that from?’ Sean asked, impressed.
‘I googled him,’ Donnelly answered with a wry smile. ‘Technology. Our greatest friend and our greatest enemy. Oh, and I called a pal of mine at Revenue and Customs − asked for a cheeky favour. As far as they’re concerned, he’s legit. Since being back in the UK he’s paid his tax on time and upfront, no problems.’
Sean looked disappointed, although he hadn’t really expected anything else. ‘With his taste in after-work pleasures you’d think he’d be a little bit shy about plastering his face all over the Internet,’ Sean suggested.
‘No photographs,’ Donnelly told him. ‘Lots of info, but no photographs.’
‘He’s a careful one,’ Sean said. ‘Just like whoever killed Graydon. Very careful.’
‘Plenty of people working in the financial sector have taken their mugshots off the Internet since the banking crisis.’
‘Yeah, but Hellier’s a financier, not a banker.’
‘Guv’nor,’ Donnelly reminded him, ‘we live in a country where seventy per cent of the population don’t know the difference between a paedophile and a paediatrician.’
Sean sighed. ‘A good point well made.’ He rubbed his eyes hard enough to make them water, before rummaging in his desk drawers for painkillers. ‘What about the others who were with him on the night he was killed?’ he asked without looking at Donnelly.
‘Most have come forward now or been traced,’ Donnelly answered, ‘but nothing interesting. One or two are known to police, but all for minor stuff. We’ve gathered a small mountain of forensics and fingerprints for comparisons, so you never know.’
‘Maybe, but I’m not feeling particularly lucky right now,’ Sean sighed. ‘What about our two missing persons?’ he asked. ‘What were their names again?’
‘Steven Paramore and the barman, Jonnie Dempsey. We’ve checked at the home addresses of both. Paramore’s mum says he hasn’t been home for a few days now and Jonnie’s flat mates are saying the same about him.’
‘Untraceable suspects,’ Sean complained. ‘That’s all I need.’
‘Maybe this’ll cheer you up.’ Donnelly grinned as he dumped the heavy pile of papers he’d been holding on Sean’s desk.
Sean spread his arms in protest. ‘What’s this?’
‘Witness statements so far, completed actions and other assorted shit that you ought to read. Superintendent Featherstone wants a full briefing in the morning.’
Sean sank deep into his chair, all thoughts of home comforts slipping further and further away. It was going to be another long evening alone, with only the image of Daniel Graydon’s defiled body for company.
Hours later Sean eventually arrived home exhausted but wide awake, the worst possible combination. He was in need of a strong drink, something that would instantly slow his mind and body without filling his bladder. If sleep came he didn’t want it chased away by having to get up to urinate.
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 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 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 gone eleven. What sort of mother would I be if they weren’t?’ She moved towards 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 semi-dark. ‘Don’t be long,’ she said. ‘I might fall asleep.’
Sean quietly entered Mandy’s room, the night light illuminating a small pyjama-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.
7
There 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 metres 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 migrants 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 metres back. She was too trapped in her own private hell to feel my presence. If she ever needed an awareness of what was around her, then she needed it now. It was the only thing that could save her.
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 for cash from Marks & Spencer in Oxford Street a few months ago and hadn’t worn it until then. It was a common enough coat. Nothing special. Deliberately so. I also wore brand-new plain leather-soled men’s shoes, and a pair of leather gloves nestled in the 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 centre 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 making 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 steep 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 metre wide, on the ground. Past that there was only soil and the 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 no footprints. It would appear as if she walked the last walk of her pitiful life alone.
About halfway down she began to recover her breath. Couldn’t have that, so I punched her in the stomach. I wonder if it hurt more because of her abortion. Anyway, that took the fight out of her.
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 towards 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 on to the line. She even managed to avoid tripping over the first rail. She made it all the way to 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 colour. I would do better next time.
It’s a shame I didn’t get to her before the abortion. That would have been a marked improvement.
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.’
8
Saturday morning
Sean 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 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, DNA and your statement. Once I have them, it’s only a matter of time before the web of lies begins to disintegrate.
Sean 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 one forty Sean and Donnelly saw Hellier striding along Buckingham Palace Road. He fitted 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 brief,’ 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.
Sean 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 pr
ecipitate Hellier’s arrest.
‘I don’t know how much your client has told you, Mr …’ Sean looked 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 towards 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 still spoke 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 offences 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.’
